The lines are long and the aisles are cramped. We are the crowd that edged the lull to avoid the crowd. But why do we bother? Needs must, I suppose. Though desire may drive us through the fast food window, we gather in Farm Fields to assent to the purported, to buy and to eat the clean and the honest in the hope that, by ingestion, we can achieve eternal health within the finite span from now until then: a death by old age, the Pilgrim’s Starry End.
When I was a girl, my mother loved God. She led me through the Holy Fire, Christ’s Bookstore, with the hope that I would find the right sort of music that more or less sounded like the wrong sort of music I happened to like. Right and wrong both sang of the pain of longing, but the while the right knew the fix and suffered from knowing better, the wrong knew the fix was the cause and lamented a looping regression.