Notes toward a personal essay about the murder of trade unionists in Colombia by soft drink bottlers and about how the political is the personal: “disfruta la magia”
To believe a thing is made from people is to forgive. It’s the things that make the people here: the things made of people there.
I was born in the russet flush of autumn, 1985, in an evergreen place. My growth in the intervening years has been a gut-wrenching display of limbs beating upon membranes of things. That’s not how it feels, of course, Being alive.
To be in the Round is to Be. Each of us a Rebel. Each of us a Gifted Student. Each of us a Birth of the Cool. Each of us a King of the Lizards.
I became a data point in the carbon rush of 1996, in a climate-controlled room. My reduction in the exaflops since that shining moment has been a substantial work of engineering prowess. That’s not how it feels, of course, Being golden.
Ink beneath the gloss. Acceptable loss. Consummation to Consumption.
King Mob on the Meridian claiming this land is ours in the affirmative mode which animates even the Communists here the three-pounds of flax who wax zen on the temple mounds of the erased
Shuck oysters and weave the folksonomy of despair from threads golden like the ever yellow afterglow over the bay below you sing of this place like you own it, you like you could own Cassiopeia and Wite-Out the inky spaces in between