Forward. March.

Posted on April 21, 2010




v. moved, mov·ing, moves


1. To change in position from one point to another

2. To progress in sequence; go forward

3. To progress toward a particular state or condition

Moving in. Moving up. Moving over. To remain in motion.

To perpetuate movement.

Life is nothing if not a series of movements. We each travel a path.

Some feel this path is predetermined, and where it leads, they will follow.

They do not ask any questions, least of all, “Why?”

Some feel the path is being created on the fly. We are both the strategists plotting the route and the captain of the vessel traveling it. There is only us and the wind and the moment.

Plans are made and changed according to unanticipated roadblocks or sea squalls or fanciful whim, but are never definitive.

The only constant, the only promise, is movement.

And now here we are (where “here” is; still undetermined,) looking at this nonsensical sequence of events that comprise our existence and wondering how it all happened.

“Who is in charge of this chaos?”

“I want to speak to your supervisor!”

“I want answers!!!”

(“Please hold…”)

And now the Earth is shaking and exploding and vomiting the thousands of years of toxicity we have foisted upon it…

It is trying to purge the problem (we are the problem,) in order to create a solution.

To begin again. To move forward. With or without us.

But the masses are suddenly angry and frightened and engaged in a fight to the death. They arbitrarily hurl money and prayer and blame and platitudes at that which they do not understand, in order to regain control and create a sense of security surrounding the epic calamity that is life. They prefer a falsified sense of comprehension to an unverifiable truth.

They ignore the obvious to propagate their ignorance. It’s simpler.

The Girl is not implying that she is not guilty of this (she is) or that she is not fighting alongside her fellow men, but she does see a few key strategic differences with regard to the battle plan itself, which prevent her from offering alliance…

Where an overarching fear of melting into oblivion dictates that the masses “Keep Calm, and Carry On,” as they methodically create PowerPoint presentations and graphs and charts and statistics, The Girl observes from the sidelines.

“That doesn’t look fun,” she thinks.

And then she turns around. She faces away from them. She stares at nothing. She shuts her eyes and opens them quickly, repeating this pattern until she tires of it. She clicks her heels three times, but finds it trite, and so she clicks some more. She spins in her chair. She points her toes. She wonders what all of the hubbub is about. Life is pretty simple from where she sits.

She thinks about inviting the masses to join her. She wants them to peer through her lens, if only for short while. But then she ponders the noise and the inevitable protest and the overcrowding. She loathes overcrowding. She considers what might happen when she wants them to leave so that she can once again be alone in her spin-ny chair…she worries about the ones who won’t want to leave. The stragglers. There are always stragglers. She really loathes stragglers.

She knows she is selfish in certain regards, and now she embraces it and leaves them to their own devices.

The Girl considers her tactical defenses and is momentarily disquieted. She has few defenses, she realizes.  And then her anxiety is pacified. After all, “The best defense is a good offense.”

She says this aloud…as a mantra, of sorts. She considers herself acutely offensive.

She subtly smiles. She spins in her chair.

The Earth bubbles around The Girl, but she is unafraid. She is curious. Eager for Part Two.

“Sequels don’t always suck,” she reasons.

Still she wonders…

(She blames this wonderment on her innate humanity, which not for lack of trying, she has been unable to banish completely)

Still, she wonders… why The Earth must always be so boisterous in its upheavals and coup’s.

“Why must so many enemies be made in the name of progress?”

Maybe it is The Earth that needs a peek through her lens. A little perspective shift…

While she empathizes wholly with The Earth’s desire for advancement beyond its current situation and the innate need to discard that which troubles it, The Girl questions the validity of complete decimation as the ultimate solution.

She thinks on her own experience. She does this often.

She spins in her chair and then leans back far (so far, in fact, that she experiences a brief sizzle of excitement during a fleeting moment when the chair teeters perilously on its hind wheels and she fears that the thing might tip over completely and spill her out unto the floor with a loud Thud!)

But then the moment passes and she returns to vertical, considering the process of recovering or righting that which we perceive to be wrong in our lives.

She wonders whether we are actually evolving during these times, and learning lessons to take with us into future experiences or if we just crushing some piece of ourselves?

Is moving on always moving forward? Or is the whole process just a more acceptable method of building walls and layering fresh scar tissue upon our souls in the name of “preservation”?

When we dogmatically try to forget someone or something, we will.

Eventually, anyway.

But forgetting is dicey because then it’s all just gone…

Though we have cleansed our wounds and may no longer be susceptible to infection by a given assailant, is it not reasonable to assume that we’ve also succeeded in killing a great many good bacteria in the process?

“Penicillin,” she mutters.

One would be hard-pressed to find a more ardent advocate of passionate devastation than The Girl. Of this fact, she is well aware. And while she openly admits that at first blush the whole thing sounds very self-destructive and maddeningly cyclical; she believes that it also keeps her aflame.

Unlike the fighting masses and the belligerent Earth, The Girl is acutely conscious that without both awareness of and active participation in “The Spiral,” in some regards, one is avoiding life altogether.

“Balance,” she whispers, as places her hands on the uneven floorboards and kicks her legs mightily, resulting in a full inversion of her body. Her heels easily find the wall, which is behind her now, and she relaxes into the handstand as the blood rushes to her head. Her arms begin to shake at one point, but it is here that she remains. Because she knows that when she does right herself again, all will not be forgotten. She will be as she was, perhaps a bit flush and dizzy, possessing a slightly revised perspective on the events that led her to this space; but herself nonetheless.

And this pleases her. It is her way.

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