Flash Epistle Number Ten


Once upon a time, meals were festive and inclusive. Then, early in the last century, civilization choked, empires crumbled, and the mind became messy. The picnic broke up. You can’t outrun an earthquake. We are still trembling above that fissure today. The whole has become the parts and the parts don’t much like each other. Whether you are LGBT, an anguished feminist, or an anarchist poet, you can join some group, disdaining all others. It’s so comforting to be accepted into a tribe. You can hand over your personality to the gurus, free yourself from the tedious responsibility of thought. The shamans of similarity beat drums pounding out the Truth of their own sympathetic magick. The shattered world oozes blood and suffers indigestion. Swim against this trend. Invite your neighbors over for lunch and eat them. It takes an iron stomach to digest a broken world. Hide some Alka-Seltzer nearby. Who is on the menu today?

Honorary Schizophrenic. Recent refugee. Displaced person. Old white male. Confidant of cassowaries.

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