1837. Curdled Pastoral
This is called “Curdled Pastoral.” I want to die inside of a Slurpee.
Somebody has turned up and caused strife in the farmlands again!
It happens, like a practiced sunset, like a performed memory...
All my life I am just waiting for the right moment to gag and turn my thumb down...
This lake is disgusting. This mountain stinks. This view isn’t worth the headache of living the rest of the day out.
Opinions on the matter fill me like so many little Buddhas in the home of a person trying to be Buddhist...
...Once, in a previous life, I was nature. I crawled down a forested hill. I napped on a log. I drank rain from large petals. I had no urge to analyze why I was so thoroughly and deeply problematic...