Tales from the Automatic Now

At every meaningful juncture, form fails. It fails to consider itself in all its inequities – then, a hand raises up form, breathes life into it, and we are delighted children once again.

Form has bad habits, even as it leaves an appreciable trail of wishes granted and smiling faces. Form can collect moss and assume the character of a doddering uncle. Or it can spin forever, almost forever, until the words for form create a kind of plastic sphere that enslaves it to a solitary, drained existence.

 

Spinning in a virtual vacuum, form shines bright and secure from other vacuums.

If form were a woman...well, form could never be a woman. Form is after all inane and likely doddering, and women are inclined toward the relevant, the purposeful – to potential - and the applicable. So form would be a man, and we all know what that means. We cannot walk away from what we know even if we try. There are too many of us watching – all those camera angles. No, well, now...I suppose form may not be a man after all.

But if form were a flower, or a moon, it would fall to one side or be lopsided, and I for one would make at least a nominal effort to lift its weary head. Or I would call up a friend who lives nearby and ask that they go over to check on form. Yes, I would make some kind of effort. Why would I do this. Why. Because I am who I am, I guess. Because I do not want anything to be lost on its own merits, because we cannot be sure what does not belong. I after all seek to belong. Always always always. And I have no excuse except the wanting.