Soul Machines

The shape of us, a dress form, a mannequin, a doll, volumetric proxies of bodies, locomotive containers of blood, of bone, of systems that sustain a self-perpetuating soul machine that itself is sustained with stories and lies and select sequences of language; codes, myths, a strange brew of memory and belief, versions of a thing called self, which is a projection of labels, half-invented, half-inherited, by a pair of gene swapper, quasi-selves, the mirror distortions who mix and make others; others that cannot escape becoming something similar, alternates, with extras, with slight variations, who tell themselves new stories so as to invent an identity out of scraps, out of what is seen and heard and learned from repeated exposures to pleasures, to pains, to what seems true and what seems false, to what appears good and what threatens, ever relying on feedback from a part of the self that the self cannot know, the godhead of the machine, the amorphous and staggering mindbrain, designed and evolved for a dangerous life in the wild where there is safety in small numbers and where death waits with claws and teeth; the shape of us is for running and climbing and the creation of tools, carefully watching, tinkering, touching, tapping, scanning, quick-judging and rapid assessment, beguiling each other with shape, with volumetric geometry, naturally embellished to belie fitness, for birthing, for caring, for fighting, for killing; the body as genetic display, as living advertisement for motherhood, for survival, for defense, the mind for whatever it needs to invent to exist long enough to produce its enhanced iterations, to strengthen the bonds of the band, the tribe, the group, with its hierarchies and histories and myths of creation, the bodies, the boxes without corners or lids, residence of more than just ova and sperm, not sex machines, not killing machines – soul machines. Love is the key to the prison of form.

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