Power is curious. Unless continually moving, like a rolling stone, its blood coagulates and forms a crust through which its captive can see but not do, feel but not find.
When Power stagnates, it feeds off the flaneurs, we the ones who are continually underfoot. Ever moving, ever changing what we are and what’s around us, Power watches us until the time is right. Then, swiftly, it descends, jaw clenched tight in anticipation. Hoping. Wanting to transmute to look like us, be like us, obliterate us in physical form.
But to no avail. Because we are the makers of meaning; we are that hallow reference on your tongue; we are the content on a continent flooded with vacancies.
We ARE what it is NOT.
The last few months my father was alive, he was bedridden. First by choice, but then without it. He passed the time by reading magazines and scanning the Sports Section of the LA Times for news of his beloved Dodgers, or perhaps the Lakers. Depending on the season.
Then he stopped; he must have had his fill. No longer interested in much, he would stare at the ceiling for hours and then at his hands, which he would hold above him, repeat the same motions and shake his head in disbelief as if to say, “These are not my hands. Not MY hands.”
Palm up. Palm down. Palm up. Fist. Palm down.
There was a king who had twelve beautiful daughters. They slept in twelve beds all in one room; and when they went to bed, the doors were shut and locked up; but every morning their shoes were found to be quite worn through as if they had been danced in all night; and yet nobody could find out how it happened, or where they had been.
Then the king made it known to all the land, that if any person could discover the secret, and find out where it was that the princesses danced in the night, he should have the one he liked best for his wife, and should be king after his death; but whoever tried and did not succeed, after three days and nights, should be put to death.
[Click Here to continue reading “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” by the Brothers Grimm]
We are nothing if not creatures of habit. This is how we become stuck in a rut, running and humming as we do around the same variables. Which is why we require context.
Context: The part of a written or spoken statement that surrounds a word or passage and that often specifies meaning. OR The circumstances in which a particular event occurs: SITUATION.
Because those who suffer from this disease they call nostalgia want nothing more than to be surrounded, to muffle the daily grind in order to soothe and give one meaning. And meaning is fluid, a mixture of content that changes like shaken cans of paint decaying in the backseat of a forgotten ’49 Hudson.
So the question becomes: Can you change your vehicle?