Attending to personal fate during planetary war is a guerrilla skill and collective endeavor. Nothing is truly personal. We are a compound dream, cohering. I have not found a difference between outside and inside—war is everywhere, and we can’t estimate the impact of our efforts toward integrity.

My heat-seeking curiosity has grueling consequences, but every time I don’t die, the contours of human belonging widen.

We're already living in the ruins of certainty. How would it feel to look around and claim the chaos and contradiction, to flip the mirror upside-down, and finally see ourselves for the first time?

Ritual emerges from our real lives, our actual friends and families, our dreams, and the lands we live on. “Does it feel contrived, or does it feel alive?” is a good litmus for a ritual’s worth.

in the depression
I am a flapper,
a public tassel

with the tender zeal
of the horse
beneath the pastor

its lathered gallop
lurching church to church
forever after

the corn draws a wild dream

If culture is the art of the land, let us be art.

what kind of omen are you