Saturday, March 1, 2014


I said to a colleague
Another new father
That I feel I am running on all eight cylinders
But I am only a six-cylinder engine at the best of times

The idea of the car as a metaphor for the man
One of which my cousins might approve
Is perhaps fitting

(I have said I am a father
And I spoke with another father
So the gendered reference is justified by the facts.)

The machine and the man are both constructed
Built out of pieces perhaps pre-assembled
And sometimes with flaws embedded in them
Places where the materials ought not to have passed quality control
But a lack of diligence allowed them to slip in.

They will fail under the strain.

Both are driven by others
The machine made to go at gestures and motions
The man made to move by something else
But to call that something else an inner driver suggests recursion.

If there is a fixed point around which all else moves
As has long been suggested
It is clearly beyond our reach
So much so that it might as well not be.

Such musings aside
Returning to the image of man as vehicle
If there is an inner driver
I have to wonder if that driver has a license
If that driver is not drunk
If that driver can see the obstacles coming
The potholes and hairpin turns
The pedestrians running out into the street without looking about themselves.

The suspension in this car seems not to be so good.

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