i grew up on the Mississippi
in Iowa. watched it flood, ice-over, cough-up windows and doors after
tornadoes and other storms passed. the shadfly season was a favorite
time of year, July, black clouds of the insects flying inland from the
the smell of the river.
and my uncle and grandfather's boats. we were poor, and the men would
net catfish, and smoke them in these makeshift smoke sheds. snapper
soup. snails, freshwater clams.
a bloated deer drifting by at breakfast entered my dreams over and over,
talking about water, talking through water, the bubbles and voice of
an alternative Christ.
from storms to sustenance.
or storms as sustenance. i remember the first time i shifted my perception
to see myself as a parasite drinking the vein of an animal. any river
could get you to understand this, but the Mississippi was for my epiphany.
what an exciting American
project you have forming.
all my best,
"I believe in
If people were forced to eat what they
killed there would be no more war."
"This is a good
And war shall fail."