Can I make you a soup of roots? We’ll sip it in the woods, no one watching. Midnight. I thought to Kickstart the project, capture it on camera. But that’s not magix and crowds might not fund it.
Around the cauldron, like the first woman and wolf. The fire’s nice but it’s the spices that will bring you, Teal Deer (TLDR), in threes and fives, to sip the brew. Ripened pears for dessert from trees in the yard. Just ask Hound. Those will get you drunk.
The Hound, the Wolf, and the Witch. Enter the forest. Eye can tell.
In Metropolis, the last winter, there were long lines at gas stations. Just like all the apocalypse vids. Armed guards with automatic weapons, in uniform, keeping the peace in a city without electricity. The majestic skyline invisible at night. The snow going gray. Every day walking with Hound and worrying about our fate.
Daisy said we can’t all win. So Wolf and I made our own win-win. Whim! Write it on the doors, plant it in the gardens. Old growths wait to take back the world. Young redwoods reach for silver linings. The creek trickles patiently.
Dear deer, do you dream? Do you ever think of me when you walk past the scattered shacks hidden in the hills, hop our funny fences? Invest in bird nest futures. We can’t contain you or keep you out. Not sure why we’d want to.
The soup will be served coolish. Because ancient faiths with names we do not remember.
The doge is pleased with soup and quiche. Ripened pears. Feed him well and he will paw the quantum, tear the webs, repurpose your purpose. Hound is adorbs. But he will bite. We let him lead us out of hell, a place he knows so well. For five years, he guarded its gates.
Wolf says those in chains must complain. I agree. Do it in rhyme, poetry. But every time we point fingers at the world to curse it, there are two fingers pointing right back at us.
To make a gris-gris scribble verse on paper, fold it, spit twice, sew that into a pouch, say the words in Wolof. Burn it with evergreen branches. An avatar in ashes. A phoenix from the flames. A fool going nowhere fast, speed of life, shifting the multiverse with words.
But who am I kidding? Naming is the first curse. Why this and not that? What’s better or worse? I don’t know or purport to know. Still, it seems sweet to sip soup with dear deer in the woods, to learn the secrets of flight and disappearance.
Campaigns are lost when we are careless. KitKat is a pissy pussy and that’s why she needs a break. Candy is good food. Eat some every day. Who can choose between Coke and Pepsi — they’re just so delicious both! Steak goes great with everything, especially Ampersand Matrix.
If you have any concerns about where this is all going, just trust me — I swear on the Founders — though I know little, of this I’m certain. The Single System System does not depend on them or us. We plug in for a minute. A blink in the eye of the machine. Before Ergo Sum there was being, these trees, dear deer.
Before the forest, I didn’t know about the leaps of faith that spirit you away. Dear deer, I wish I could tell you, whenever we meet, how enchanting, how delightful. But I freeze, like a deer in the headlights, afraid to breathe, afraid if I blink you’ll be gone.
Questioning has been solved. We know what we love and hate. Who we’ll plus, how we’ll rate. It costs us nothing, yet we withhold our clicks. Give only to strategic partnerships.
The power of disgrace is that it laughs in the face of favor. Winning is kool. But there’s real chic in destruction. Maybe that’s why to have been TLDR’d is to have been something.
The history of the world in 140 characters. There are six emojis with which to respond. Haha. Wow! Sad. Joke’s on us. I love the culture. It’s funny. But I don’t like it all. Sometimes I’m angry. Very rarely do I cry tears of joy, the world’s most popular emoji.
Not waving but drowning. Would you pass the chutney? Words can mean anything, nothing. We don’t speak the same language. Any of us. Ever.
Zen koan of the day. When a story’s posted on Reddit and isn’t up-voted, was it ever written?
As whiz kid vids go viral, a generation longs for apocalypse. In the mountains the cranks hide in shacks, listening to mouse parades at night. Paradise found. West of eden. A cathedral of trees. We have bows and arrows, a dogerman winter. Our ways.
An omission can speak volumes. Still I prefer prose. The Keeping It Real Committee wasn’t nominated for any prizes this year. #PeopleSoFake.
Yet a person of the book must q precisely when having no questions is perfect. Call me old-skool. But I see the future.
Scribble the missive. Fold the paper. Spit twice. Sew the pouch. Burn a branch. Dissolve all the ashes in a pool of rainwater from tomorrow’s storm hidden in the stump of a redwood painted gold.
A treacherous path. A steep hill. Dear deer will cross the way to welcome us. The map will end. Beyond the bend is the block un-carved.
Tiny cabin, living large. Among old gods stitching silver linings. No denying that’s a win — from the wilds of West Afrix to the temple named Shaolin. Whim!
I’m feeling lucky. Things will fall apart. They always do. Stay tuned. Murders, mayhem, jostling for our spot on the scrapheap. Hound will not be pleased but he’ll lead us out of hell. Spirit Guy.
Forest eye can tell. Rain will fall again. Curses will rain. In winter and in summer we’ll sip soup with dear deer.