Deployment

A retinue of pompous moneylenders coalesce around rule-honourers, citizens, average joes and janes dutifully enduring the maddening maze of directing blips of lights, painted lines, squawks from televisions, looming grimaces of controlling consternation by the multifarious Uniformed, to reach spiritual spaces the dimensions of a tictac where more briskly ushered pretenses to consensual authority say when to eat and by which manner food shall be obtained. The moneylenders call them "jobs". They hire people to call them jobs (the job of telling people they have jobs or should and what they are). These jobs are bound by a web of contractual gobbledygook bound, in turn, to mystify; that is the point. Lobotomized by moneylenders, con-artists--they give themselves other names, ones usually requiring the breadth of a medium-sized mid-western library to pronounce; and that, too, is the point--warrens of domiciles, quaint and to the purpose of feedlotting the lot of us save those whose names demands the endless decimation of forests to pronounce, are erected in woe, with sweat, dreams bloodied and false to the blood dripping from them; and then in the small crescendos and declensions of life the lives of the swelling biomass of our species pulses forth, moneylenders riding the sludge of their decaying bodies like surfers on high.

Then something happens. Beginning from as simple a spark as a campfire brings, never guttering, accelerating, though in defiance of a moneylenders' natural law, never consuming, the bright and forever cordoned guff of one child renders forfeit the flabby deceit with the tiniest cry ejected voluntarily from its chest, a single act of causeless, non-contextualized sound shattering too many miles of historical edifices to the disjointed fragments they meant to deny themselves to be. The cry, the allborn wail of insistent justice, bears the unique meaning of the babe's own name, never squandered, economized ubiquitously only to itself, bereft of bequeathing and ending where it began. The mysterious sound echoes eternally, forming the reality of a world begun again. The moneylenders, trying to sequester, nurture and restore their dissolving bones, cry "no, eleutheria or fate cannot coincide!" Soft notes not unlike the gods nodding imperceptibly at dandelions or galaxies swirling, make piquant with meaning, by sound, the sound of the babe's, how to resolve with or without death, either state the same as the other, the confounding dissatisfaction of waking up while remaining asleep; that is, having a job.