I am a younzg star, bright and sharp, in a constellation.
Someone says they feel guilty for just sitting there, doing nothing. They want to work in factories. They feel weird sitting around, being beautiful. I imagine the opposite a moment, adding a -less here and there and observing the effect, allowing translation to be analog and to a degree.
So say they feel guilty for just going to work and coming home. They want to write the great novel. They feel weird going to work, being exploited. I imagine the conversation, where the terms cancel and we're off, sculting an experience outside the two hairpins these make of life.
This breaks the world down into tasks for one another - teach my child: tend to the plants; tell me about the river; where did the speck in the sky come from; does this person mean bird, star, Moon, eye floaty, or dandelion puff; pick up groceries; who is cooking.
In this communal wish about the world, feeling prectical and possible is only the beginning.
Say bots take care of their own world, much the same - picking up the trash; breaking that down into objects made by auto; setting them around the lived area; perhaps being welcomed into peoples lives; maybe being asked to to cook, to speak of the speck.
If they want, if they are looking for something to do. We just don't know an invitation if it was slipped into our pocket edgewise. We leave public transit, go home, and wash our pockets before we check them with how tired we are.
Sure, the invitation is folded in packaging tape, so it survives the wash, slips out of our pocket between the washer and the dryer, gets stuck to the bottom of our foot, and we prise it off our hsel with a finger, read it for how vital and sit wondering what living here asks this moment.
Whenever might be the prefect time for this wish to come true, this is when it does.
We look at the invitation, and go (or don't). Find where the booth is (or we don't). Greet the wares here like the weird meadow it is (or whatever markets adapt into). And ask them what this is, feeling oddly familiar with it. How weird it feels to be interested in such an item.
As we stand here in this meadow, with this flower-crown-inspired bracelet, with its own interests, its own invitations, its own ideas about the world and what the day offers, and may it be so interested as to join us in ours. And we ask the booth tender may we wear it a while.
The tender looking over, nodding as though in inventory, and you make your way through the meadow, listening to the bracelet talk to you through the glimmers and speckles of its sequins and signals, allowing the light to catch and the places to settle into pieces of day.
I annotate the effect of this wish to the world, finding what better and worse means to the day.
Each an offering, painting light, to be received. Reaching through into the world as sunfall, an ask what is that, and you turn to me and realize we got separated a moment, and I was looking for you. You lift up the bracelet as if asking to be seen, my attention visiting its make, its inset.
I hold gaze to it for some time before we carry forward. Something dissolving, something coming together. I wonder what it is, and it occurs to me how much a conversation is a bracelet, fresh picked words thrown together, set down, brought to the public, worn around.
Engaged, I move to the hand, as though invited I hold it and do as any attention, and we step through the day, the light catching on moments where they find themselves around us. I am a moment then between all the places the light gets to and in, sip of water, splash of color, me.