Wednesday, May 05, 2010

Stratagem

We are meant to create. To decide. Our minds charged with fragmentation. We are the tools of the sculptor. We, the hands of clay. Like tiny nanobots, we crawl through the folds of reality confronting the Monster of endless possibilities. We must make decisions. Every decision devours a morsel of the Monster. Our lives literally cutting it down to size.

Unfortunately, we rarely make decisions anymore. We linger and consume. The Monster has invaded our psyches and folded us inside-out. We now consume ourselves. Sly. Devious. Its strategy is winning. Harbored in this metaphysical malaise, we have abandoned our course. Navigational override. How many days can I spend in bed, drinking coffee, and watching On-Demand Television? Season one consumed in a day. The night consumed by season two.

My consumption now consumes me. Even in this repetition of thought I have consumed more time and wasted space. Wasted paper. Digital paper. Composed on Word. The delete button would be too easy. I need to burn my things and head to France. Not France per se—as a matter of fact and necessity—but France because it’s new. I have never visited that land. Never breathed its air. Felts its sun. Stumbled in its moonlight. Loved its women and tasted their flesh. Never sipped its espresso. Never smelled its dust on a book scribbled with an alien scribble. Never ventured through its space. I’m too busy lingering. Lying on this bed. Lying to myself and the cosmos. I need to create a path by killing possibilities. This, I fear, is not a life, but a game of Othello on a scale beyond comprehension. Am I a soldier of the game who has refused its move? A smooth disc of conquest that never set a squadron in the field, nor the division of a battle know?

When shall I find myself in that Copenhagen cafĂ© with .73-cents to my name after purchasing that last morning coffee? Maybe bumming a cigarette, even though I’ve given up smoking. Then, in broken Spanish, because our native languages do not mix, discussing terms with the manager (he studied abroad; I bought a cd to impress an exchange student). Food for work? ...la comida, uh, trabajo... Motioning with my hands to symbolize: I will wash dishes. Symbolic motions supporting frail words like Atlas supporting a frail world. Have we always needed a father figure? A symbol of protection, strength, and providence? Where did it come from?

Was it the Monster’s invention? Did that thing of a million tentacles and eyes devise our need for Dad? For in father’s absence all except the most intrepid explorers are too frightened to go beyond the fence. Is that what I need to fight this battle—a father? Do I need a phantasm of security cloaking my eyes from the horrible truth? Is that why I cling to this bed—for the security of my blanket and its warmth. A shell within a shell. Walls and ceilings on the outside. Bed spreads and sheets insulating me on the inside. They do call it a comforter. I even wear pajamas. Soft ones that sooth my flesh. Another layer atop another. Skin to hold my billions of cells together. Else I might spin off my spinal axis and disintegrate—like a universe spiraling out of control. Did the Monster skin this universe like a small carp? Are we spiraling out or simply falling to pieces within its digestive tract—torn asunder by remorseless enzymes? What about cultures, geography, and municipal architecture? Layer on top of layer. A shell within a shell within a shell within a shell within a shell.

Nation. Culture. State. City. Suburb. Community. Block. Street. House. Blanket. Flesh.

How do I emerge? Have our cocoons turned against us? At what point did the cocoon decide to revolt. "Why serve this fragile, helpless thing inside," it must have thought.

“I am the protector,” said the cocoon, “I am the strength. I am the support. I am the bringer of change. I am master. I am Atlas.”

And, at this revelation, the cocoon evolved. It grew new layers of repression. Those layers soon needed sustenance. It started production of enzymes. We became food. The entire world benighted by the silenced screams of the butterflies, no more. Dinner for the leviathan.

Here, in bed, in my plain white tee and flannel pajama pants—my favorite asylum attire—dissolving in time, like baby lamb in boil. Chunks of meat spilling through time. I need to transform in order to evolve. Adapt. Destroy the cocoon. I must become a cancer. I must eat back. I must emerge. I must remain in motion—forever choosing and destroying possibility. I must defeat the monster. I must become and become again. I must eliminate all options. The board will be mine. But what color is my piece?