Postcard 39

 

I am looking at a map of the world. Every inch is claimed and each infant opens eyes to a contract it will never sign. We can walk across borders but we cannot walk off -- an easy stroll into our own sovereign self. I am looking at the Earth/Sea from space -- from the pinnacle of humanity's breaching the breastworks of geology. When the carbon consumes and the biome is returned to the margins -- a chemical epoch -- will the great male/female tension be released? What other ways? 

I am looking at my two hands in front of me. I call them my hands as if I possessed them but I do not. My hands are the intrinsic me in each moment. If one were gone, I would be a different person -- no, I am each moment a different person. I would issue into the present along a different trajectory. I don't know if I look upon any part of myself more than my hands, or anything more at all. They are so often in and readily available to my field of vision. What measure of my desires comes through my eyes and my hands, I wonder. The clock I am looking at gives me an estimation of my perpetual rebirthing, as if I could count the sixty unit measure of myselves in each minute. That is a false perception. The clock is modeled upon the world I stand on, and at the same time, see from space. Its roundness bulges like the Earth; its arbitrary boundaries are analogous to those invisible grids upon the globe. All analogies are as false as borders. The Earth is not male, nor the sea female. The hands of the clock point up toward space: 

A blue face. Eyes winking.