A Year of Pieces

Over one year since I posted here. Vonnegut is in and of the ground by now, I would suppose. This is something I have always found amazing: his body will be broken down, spun out, latched onto by roots then stems then flowers, then come above ground and be blown to wind, or eaten, broken down, eaten again, and made a part of that next link in the chain. You could eat the cow that ate the grass pollinated by pollen made up, in one small part, of a piece of Kurt Vonnegut. And he could now be the tip of your little finger, the curve of your nostril, that annoying curly hair on your back.

Stop singing "It's the CIRCLE OF LIFE" and listen: regeneration, repropagation, recycling. There is simply not that much matter here on Earth for all of us to be that different from each other. Your little bits and mine--surely by now we share any number from something that scraped off or came out, something that was exhaled or inhaled or ingested--your little bits and mine are a mixed bag of reincorporated mish-mash, a pastiche of hands we've touched, places, people.

To what does that bring me? Why do we marry? Why, when we are so much of the world, so many parts and pieces from so many places, do we marry just one part? Why choose this bundle of dust and sticks, forget-me-nots and tines of forks? Do we not have a collection that is great enough ourselves? The more we ingest and digest, rebuild ourselves and shed ourselves off, the longer we do all of that, the closer we are supposed to come to meeting, mating, replacing. But why, when we are so much of the world ourselves?