The Body Is Simple As A Turtle

I Don't Think Writers Change The Past Any More Than Other People Do, Except In So Far As We May Mine Our Lives And Change Things For Fictional Use.

The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

You Are Built To Pull A Cart, To Lift A Heavy Load And Bear It, To Haul Up The Long Slope, And So Am I, Peasant Bodies, Earthy, Solid Shapely Dark Glazed Clay Pots That Can Stand On The Fire.

We're Herded Into Schools And Terrified Into Behaving. Taught How We're Supposed To Pretend To Be, Taught To Parrot All Kinds Of Nonsense At The Flick Of A Switch, Taught To Keep Our Heads Down And Our Elbows In And Shut Off Our Minds And Shut Off Our Sex. We Learn We Can't Even Piss When We Have To. That's How We Learn To Be Plastic And Dumb.

We May Be Losing The Ability To Understand Animals Who Are Not Pets Or Horses. We Have Less Contact With Them. We Don't (most Of Us) Tend To Know Even Cows And Pigs, Let Alone Bears Or Wolverines Or Red Tailed Hawks.