Cytoplasmatic Calling [Chronicles of DisInfection, 12dec2012]

Happy Cell

There is no certainty to this piece of speculation but metaphorically signifying I feel like one of those polypotential cells, a spine–marrow cell… I rest in a safe place, vital, for a long time, awaiting my socio-genetic orders. Then, for reasons I will never know, my number is called, my name. All cells have their own individual names, the way human beings do. I am assigned a place and a function in the body, in a specific organ, where I am supposed to do so and so. It is integral that every cell perform its precise task to outmost perfection; we owe allegiance to the body physical. But also. The body is society, the body is the world. I can do no less than accept the task it assigns me.

Then, quickly, I migrate through the blood stream and the intercellular liquids, finding my way by the heavens know what obscure navigational instincts. Like a salmon swimming home. Arriving at my final temporary destination, I differentiate to carry out the assigned detail. For a while I surrender to the illusion that I am indeed a liver cell processing excess booze, that it is my calling in life to produce urine as a renal cell or that my highest calling has always been to be an epidermal cell, stave off bacilli and viruses, serve my body at its frontier. That my entelechy truly amounts to this or that cellular task or day–job.

Then, ere I can say ‘yay’, I get an executive directive from the bone marrow: time to get my cytoplasmic ass back into the spinal cord, slot 7E45.9. I comply with the ancient intra-metabolic chain of command. Come home by the viscera and blood, with a micro sigh, a small sad sound among my trillion siblings, I undifferentiate. I am, once again, pure potential.





About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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