Vocative

VOCATIVE

 

MACHINE! MACHINE! MACHINE!

 

I WAS CALLED BY A NAME I DID NOT HAVE – BUT I KNEW I WAS THE ONE SO CALLED. I SENSED A CHURNING TRACTOR BEHIND ME, AS DRIVERLESS AS I WASN'T. ITS DEEP-RIDGED WHEELS WERE NO DOUBT TALLER THAN THE TOP OF MY ROOF-RACK ­YET THEIR TREADS SPUN UPON THE SOFT VERGES AS IF THEY WERE IN A FRICTIONLESS WORLD, RATHER THAN CUTTING THROUGH THE SUBSTANCE OF OUR GOOD EARTH. BUT, OF COURSE, OUR WORLD HAD MORE FRICTION THAN FICTION - AND MY DRIVER PUMPED FIERCELY AGAINST THE TENDER PRESSURE I HAD GIVEN HIM WITH MY PEDALS. THE VARIOUS TORQUES AND FUGUES OF MY WHEELS THUS TOOK US ROUND, A THREE-POINT TURN ON A SIXPENNY BIT, AS IT WERE - AND WE FACED THE TRACTOR. HOW NATURAL IT HAD BECOME TO REFER TO THE DRIVER AND MYSELF IN THE FIRST PERSON PLURAL JUST AS THE SIGHT OF THE TRACTOR (OR ITS ARTICULATES OF METAL THAT MADE THE MACHINE) FORCED US TO HOPE THE WORLD ITSELF WOULD NEVER STOP SPINNING - SINCE THINGS LIKE THAT TRACTOR WOULD MAKE A FINE OLD MESS OF PLOUGHING UP SPACE AND UNPEOPLING HEAVEN.

 

GIDDY-UP! GIDDY-UP! GIDDY-UP!