Now is a good time to eat your feelings.

For those feeling a bit bold, nailing them screaming to a bamboo cutting board and slicing them from stern to bow like a writhing eel is always good for a dramatic appetizer. Slide the skin off in one measured pull, feeling it smoothly separate from the flesh. This is not a dish for those with a tender heart or insufficient levels of alcohol in their bloodstream.

Once skinned and gutted, chop into bite size pieces, thread on brass skewers, and grill them over white hot charcoal while basting with a rich, sweet soy based marinade.

Eat quickly feeling the tiny bones crackle against your gums. A single tear will roll down your cheek. Tender and soft.

But never be ashamed of a simple preparation. Baked, broiled, or fried your emotions are always a toothsome treat. Be gentle as you handle the gross output of your neurons being tickled and taunted by glandular secretions.  Touch it with care and tuck it tenderly into its roasting pan.  Then with infinite patience, slide it slowly into the oven or its lively bath of stock or oil. 

Tracking down a loaf of sourdough is worth the effort for a fine dinner time companion to sop up the savory juices.

Be sure to push yourself back from the hearty repast and feel the sliver of nothingness. That flicker of satori.  That momentary fragment of peaceful oblivion before they claw their way back into your consciousness.

 

The Plague Begins

We’ve been banished from the office. 

The glass door has closed behind us as we stand in the hallway clutching our cell phones and rapidly cooling mugs of coffee with clever nerdy slogans on them. We have been cast out of the questionable yet familiar comfort of the khaki world of our semi-open office into the bright mystery of daylight.  

The higher authorities of our organization who dwell in the tall tower two blocks away have read the portents in the excel sheets and see that the birds of the air have more to speak.  They have summoned the corvid thanatologist to observe the patterns the crows are making on the rooftops.  She gazes through the glass and mutters, “flaming fuckballs”.  

The higher authorities blanch and mutter among themselves.  The thanatologist is rewarded with silver and an extra-large soy mocha per the ancient custom and dismissed.

Some time later an email is dispatched.  The doors open, we are herded through them and they close behind us.  

Return to your homes they tell us.  Return to your homes and avoid the unwashed.  Cleanse yourselves.  Seek shelter.  The crows have spread their fine tablecloths upon the high places expecting a feast.  Your labors shall continue as shall your wages.  But be not too enamored of gold for it will not comfort you in your time of isolation.   

Netflix on the other hand will be your friend. 


We return to our homes. 

Whispers of a pestilence from beyond our western shores had been circulating for some time.  There is an easier time when the whispers are distant, now they appear in our own city.  We had heard that the elderly were touched by this disease and very close by.  There just wasn’t enough information, we didn’t know the shape of the thing or its reach.  

There is no guidance beyond being clean.