Postcard 44

It pains me to send a dark thing into the world, to release a raven, not a dove. My fantasies are to put forth the end of a thick red ribbon, satiny and substantial in the hand, however briefly. That you would receive it unexpectedly and give it the sudden tug of apprehension, and that tug will pull into your grasp my subtle little gift, as this one here could be. But the high holy days are here and the banners', trumpets' and T.V.s' tantara and tintinnabulations blaze beyond my abilities to equivocate peace. As the world about us continually crumbles and regenerates, we have locked arms with the cult of death, that is the cult of fear in man. The indifferent world issues growth as soon as decomposition. No, this is not natural inasmuch as nature is a silent negotiated balance of paradox. This is a creation of the will of man, and when I say man, I mean men, the phallic center, the apprehension of light, piercing and direct. The male animus that would destroy rather than embrace or bypass. We store up goods. We drill where only previous drilling lets us go. We consume what only previous consumption allows. We waste because kill is in our blood. But soldiers should not be the core of any cult. Soldiers rejoice in their own expendability so let us too. Give them their laurels and move on, move onto the place without fear. Out into the dark where the only answer is there is none -- the cult of death and life.