‘The City, Alive’

A writing Excerpt:

From here, the City looks alive. It looks wild and more threatening than just alive–a beast.

The City across the valley, of yellowed grasses, autumnal leaves showing the seasonal progressions that the city appears immune from, although not biological–the City has its organs. One of those buildings are its lungs, expelling black smoke; the blue and white collared ‘depleted-oxygen cells’ enter in, exchanging one form of currency to produce another…
The city’s hundred tendrils snake out concrete bridges and asphalt roadways. Jettisoning pathways verge off into many various directions. There is a system behind all of this. Roadways leading off on toward other important cities, although appearing, perhaps, to a stranger as if it all were quite random; organic, not engineered. It is un-tamed, un-checked, the roadways are moving about in ‘no distinct’ direction. The freeways, that look like veins, feed into and out of the city beast–we’ve all observed this before–allocating motorized blood cells between large metallic organs. The heat waves make the city pulsate. Heaving outwardly, the hundred-headed organism breathes deeply and expands.
Amongst the heat waves this breathing entity expels energy like a blurred fog. Moving and shifting parts within itself, the breathing, energized, pulsating life-form slowly becomes aware of itself–and the product of man is now the master of him.
Transmutation, a metaphorical chemistry shows itself, manifesting on every level. Under the microscope some understand: a necessary Industry. Fevered giants grow at the thankless expense of lesser bodies. The City amongst the valley inspires something in me. The human hand is one of the most complex muscular structures within the physiology of the human body. Fingers are but those cells which remain, once the encoded genocide has ceased. It’s almost laughable, but true! We can hardly relate to this microscopic magnitude, but I wonder if death might be death, nonetheless. Death by design (the coordinated cell death), serves an important function when studied on the growth and development of the human hand–on this: the cellular level. During fetal development, these massive, coordinated deaths will form our fingers and hands, starting off as some fleshly pancake blurb; the end result is astounding. Has this fact ever inspired a man’s tear? No moisture shed for something so tiny–and with such astoundingly intricate and complex a future form.
We see not death here, in that there is no obvious ‘ending.’ Instead, we see it as an opposite, a new door opening; we see a swarm in which we recognize as important, and we see a school directed toward a particular avenue and we understand it is wrong to interfere. We know that the RNA will inform the cell clusters to eradicate thousands of healthy cells–merely doing what they had previously been told up until now–and now the fingers can form on schedule…
There is teething life, a rainforest diversity of life–in the city beast.
I see the city, alive. The motorized blood cells reduce men to a decision-making organelle. Their daily errands and chores are akin to the destinies of genetic RNA, within the soupy cytoplasm—as they build up their little worlds of regurgitated sequences, communication by him may-or-may-not be useful. If not, well, hopefully, you’ll at least read what truth he’s mustered, the suffering homeless, written on his cardboard sign in black felt pen, amongst his habitat of trash, alleyways, and maybe, depending on the town, a soup kitchen.
Down further, past the valley from which I view the city, we like to think that man is the master of what he’s created, but, from way up here, I can see only Red Fords, White Toyotas, and Blue Chevrolets; four-tired microscopic swimming paramecium, and the black marks of tires streaked upon manufactured ground. The men are hidden inside. I cannot even see them. Time, energy, all types of currency directed at that golden exchange–the ability for action. ATP energy cloaked in a language of culture, adenosine tri-phosphate with important men painted in green–mutually agreed worth notes. Daily expenditure of minor energy creates a promise for a potential tomorrow, and those, often toxic, uses.
Yet…I still hold a feeling of this image as beautiful. My mind-forms have these dystopian symbols of Living Death and notions of the benefits of mutation, ceaseless expansion and cancers, streaming morbidly as dark parallels to the human condition and the cellular condition. But for some reason…my heart is yet warmed. I feel a sort of nostalgic sense of ease and appreciation here for what nature has accomplished. It is, I suppose, the way that life has ALWAYS been. I wonder, sometimes, if I want to have any part of it. To either peacefully observe it from afar, staying upon this quiet, unaffected hill of observations, or do I want to exist within the world of action, once again, amongst it all? My mind races on and on, thoughts congest like the freeways below.
Heaving…this is an adequate word for describing the city; heaving, with a still-primal motion, the city-beast pulls in as many of those motorized human units as the roadways can fit, and in some places, often, much more…anxiety-ridden congestion. Up here, by the setting sun, I watch the living city as it exhales once again. The eternal ball of fire overhead is clearing, and the ball of pale blue emptiness makes its approach. The emerging Moon has always served as symbol of reflection—reflecting the light of the Sun—an opposing symbol of brilliant action.
To the common unit of the school, accidental genetic mistakes, mutations, are the unsung cause for all growth. These leaps, when supplying a possible advantage, are NOT rooted in-line with those programs, with which it has for its life been running—not which curriculums were standardized within the schools. Biologically, in terms of each and every step of evolution, improvements are made solely by mutations. We see individual cells acting as individual cells often do. Carving out currency, craving materials like some 21st century oxygen—the giants and their ants will do almost anything for it, when deprived of it. Even for just the fear that they ‘might’ be deprived of it, they become insured, paying heavily for that chance rainy day.
Death of the unnecessary and accidents in deciphering code are the ONLY means towards positive change… Think about this: accidents are the very building blocks on which life’s complexity comes about.
Cars exiting the city return home for momentary rest. It is silent here, at the top of the hill. From up here, all of those tiny micro-sounds are lost on the city. Those firing pistons, the screeching tires, clunking metal on carpet brake-pedals, fork-lift hydraulics, steam-heat chimneys, and here—just this wonderful, utter, silence. I listen patiently; here, there is only reflection and contemplation by the setting sun. Here, the Moon perpetually rises in my heart as I make my daily ode to Morpheus. Over the rolling hills of its background, I tell you the city is breathing! I wonder, as human beings often do, about that elusive and abstract notion: “Purpose.” Cosmic purpose, individual purpose—if there really is any. It’s the city, it would seem, that was meant to be.


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