Hemopoiesis

It may be an oversimplification to say that our likes and dislikes define who we are. Likes and dislikes are discernments, not nutrients. Though I do like peanut butter. And strawberry jam. Put that on bread and you’ve got matter for tribute and conversation. A dialectic of food that could easily evolve into performance, symbolization and sneezing. Why not get the peripheral nervous system involved? I’m sympathetic to homeostasis. I think of it as a melody in muscle fiber, epinephrin dancing in the bloodstream. And lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about bones. They’re more than a framework to hang one’s flesh on, more than mere levers for the enabling of movement. They have connective tissue, cartilage, which requires sustenance, the diffusion of nutrients, omelets and oxygen. The bones themselves consist of calcium and phosphorous. Twain’s story of seeing the glow of buffalo bones in the Rockies comes to mind. Phosphorescence of radio dials late at night. Luminescent comb jellies. Protoplasm, ectoplasm, metaplasm, cataplasm. Gels, cells, and bicycle bells. Knobs, blobs, and globs of gaub. Bone cells are connected with each other by canaliculi, little canals that also connect with tiny blood vessels. It’s all quite dizzying. There’s so much intricacy, lacunae and lamellae, concentric layers of the intercellular matrix. To say nothing of the engineering, the ways the bones connect and move and allow me to stand up and walk and gaze at the sky. Toe bone connected to the foot bone foot bone connected to the heel bone heel bone connected to the leg bone. And bones make blood. It’s called hemopoiesis. I find that astonishing. I had no idea. And stress. Stress is necessary for the integrity of bone. It’s why astronauts have to work out in space. Do treadmills in harnesses and belts or droop forever like jellyfish on earth. Funny, the embodiments of bone, druids and drummers and potbellied rogues named Falstaff. When I think about the processes that keep me alive, that brought me into this life to begin with, and will one day expire, bones to dust, and how I have virtually no control over any of it, it happens despite whatever I may be thinking at any given time, consciousness goes about its business, feeling itself free, unattached, and which may be expressed in the quick maneuvers of a violinist, the friction of a bow making vibrations, the sounds that hang on the bone of any given moment, the catgut making Bach talk.