Eating flesh, the domain of the flesh, the world between earth and sky, akin to stuff of plants, the very media of the animate, the flesh, this is where we live and breathe. We know that stars are born and they die. We have seen trees fallen in the forest. In an early gesture against the paparazzo, in the 1960's, Yugoslav actress Sonia Romanoff attacked photographer Rino Ballirari for having published an unflattering photo by planting an ice cream cone, ice cream first, into the photographer's forehead one evening.
The light of the moment, the triumph of the hero, the allure of the flash of battle, the twinkle of seduction all come and go never to be known again in the same way. World as sausage, world as lover, the refrain is deflecting, ridiculous, avoidant. But that begs the question of question of mustards: French's, Grey PuPon, Durkee's? And shall we feast or shall we famine? The political season is heating up and one of the candidates is really chopping up the the spare organ of the body politic beyond recognition to portray himself as some kind of war deity. Sausage I say. The question at hand is whether we shall picnic with our neighbors or just remain a blood thirsty rabble?
Oh that we might wander the world in peace seeking our light. That we get our sausage at the ball park and the next country over. These are the important things: that we have trees in our cities, that we have minstrels beneath bridges, that we promote international dance competitions, that we have a cupboard well stock with diverse relishes and that we eat plenty of fruit and vegetables. It is mistaken to believe that we must put someone up in the big house. In the timeless words of the venerable blues man and carnivore Keith Richards "why are we fighting?"