sex and death on the thompson
Organic freestyle cycle. Like a redneck's front lawn, a gypsy's camp the morning later. Like the cargo residue of the irish, the convicts and the french peasants, the chinese and the korean, the negroes from the darkest of Africa. And too, the boys and girls and women and men of fashionable religion, colour, shape of the time, scapegoats with their war torn limbs strewn along beachways, sand dunes, city centres, in the jungle, strung up in trees, pulled behind the wheels of pick-ups, rolled over by tanks.
Animals live in the raw and open, no shame in sex no shame in death. When we have had the luxury of giving space to our emotions we bury and burn our dead. Our skin consecrates the thinker's life. The more enlightened the more artistically fragmented and dislodged we become from the cycle. We proclaim to be above the cycle but there is no above or below there is but this absorption. This is our connectedness.
So this is what happens when you go fishing? A meditative essay on the subjugation of races by those with the technology to do so, it all started with an ax with an ax, and it grew so complex and then the pig stood on two legs, with the help of a mechanical cane, proclaiming superiority to the poor pigs stuck on four legs, accusing them of being animals.
ReplyDeleteMost people would just drink beer and zone out. You have an opera and no McDonalds.
thank you but with all due respect, the beer store was closed and the opera house has been shut down. we have to find tragedy and verisimo in other venues.
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