The curse and hex lie alongside the charm and balm. Rhetoric has no team, rhetoric has no flag.
On some level, memories can feel like locked rooms that you might enter at will and find a moment perfect and unchanged. But . . . those perfectly preserved rooms are shifting and changing constantly, as we are.
This practice of pharmacy, fundamentally, writing about that in a fictional way brings it into the realm of science fiction. Or it can, very easily. Yet I feel far more connected to literary fiction.
My sincere hope is that someone will read this and invite me to do some sublimely goofy shit with them.
What happens to the man that demands respect from the goddess Nature? An erupting volcano is the only appropriate response.
In one week of wandering here, I’d see Rockefeller’s grave, tacos topped with salad dressing, and an abandoned celestial observatory. I’d see a billboard warning of fentanyl donuts or S’Wonderful, the tchotchke store. Poetry can hold all that.
I think the invitation is very much there to root for the Predator as a kind of consequence for and corrective to the historically horrific behavior of humans.
If all we do is oppose suffering, we’ve missed out on something important. . . . We lose something of our humanity.
I’m not too interested in forms that don’t hold onto some sense of wildness, even if just under pressure.
What does it mean for young people who are still finding themselves to move through the world holding a secret?