Eat Dog

One half has gone off to where they grow worms under green carpets, in a land far away. There they put signs in the hills warning people not to play soccer lest they fall through a hole and find themselves in a subterranean city where the worms rule, crawling over the steps of ancient pyramids and through little village huts over the perfectly preserved hand of some old Mayan mother where she lies encased in volcanic soot upon the floor. Another part is filling the bathtub with Indigo and in it sits a woman, a baby, and a man, all turning blueberry purple.

Brad Pitt explains to me that Pit Bulls have gotten a bad wrap. Many of them are kind and loving animals, faithful companions to mankind. I couldn’t agree more, but if something should go wrong, the result would be lethal. Is that a risk you are willing to take with a baby in the house? If a Pit Bull bites a baby, it won’t ever let go, its teeth will sink down into the soft flesh until blood springs forth and then involuntarily its jaw will lock and it will have to shake its victim until the life has left it, and only then will the maw of death slacken.

Is that small dark woman me, or is she that other? In the bath she storms at the man as called for in the script. “Are you crazy?” she screams at him, but he is very calm and answers her very calmly. She wants to fight with him, but he will not fight, and she is forgetting the baby, who is slipping into the dark water. I am the one who cleans one half of the tub and the bathroom mirror later. What can I do with the dark blue spider web hanging over her bed? She really should do more dusting. Now I will have to clean it up, otherwise when she comes home in the dark tonight she will extend her hand to switch on the bedside lamp and the poisonous little spider will bite her. I can’t allow that. I am responsible now that I have noticed what was neglected.

All those Indians crowded together naked to make indigo to stain dresses to be sold in Paris. They were not human so we put them all together naked, hungry, exhausted, and cracked the whip over their heads, (and on their bare backs from time to time to keep it lively), and left the dead ones in with the live ones to be sure that production never slowed and the fine aesthetics of fashion would be upheld. Today the only Indians left are spotted black and white and walk on four hoofed feet, or at least they would if we didn’t have them crowded in tiny pens with machinery hooked up to their swollen udders while in another steel building not far off we keep their calves hidden from the light of day so that their tender insides will taste all the better and fetch a higher price on the market.

There are a great many primordial woes swirling around under the carpet, being processed by the faithful little worms. I dared to lift the carpet up an inch or so too look in on their toil. ‘My God,’ I thought, ‘somebody is raising worms! But why? What a strange harvest.’ Why raise worms? To eat them? Maybe to be eaten by them. We have yet to come to fully understand the great transformational value in being eaten. It seems likely that we of the three dimensional dreamkind will come into full maturity when we begin to grasp the greater truth in this. There is no point in always consuming, tis far greater to be utterly consumed by something. Being a worm is more useful to the earth than to the worm.

Now, if you should happen to poke your head up through the carpet and be eaten by a bird… well then that would be the best possible thing. To be a worm eating dirt, that’s alright, but to be a worm eaten by a bird, now that is really something. You couldn’t ask for any better if you were a worm. Sure, you think I’m joking, or being sarcastic and political. No, not so, not so.

Perhaps you have heard the old adage, “You are what you eat.”? In this model when a bird eats a worm it becomes part worm, and likewise the worm has become part of a bird. This is the ultimate. This is how we change shape, by being consumed.

Like now, I hold my defenses at bay, and leave myself open to the pounce. And voila! That thing from the dark side leaps on me and devours me and this that you read is the sign of struggle left in the sand. A clever tracker could read it and come to understand what came to pass. Put otherwise, I make a sacrifice of my dominant, waking, survivor consciousness, and that dark bird of prey, the so called subconscious, swoops in and feeds.

Now if you were a very clever, but very simple life form, you would seek out other, alien life forms a bit more complex than yourself and entice them to devour you. This union would create a whole new creature, which would look very much like the old complex alien it used to be, but the inside my friend, the inside would be very different indeed. The difference would be undetectable from the outside, but conformity is only skin deep in some cases.

Evolution is what we call this tricky game played between eater and eaten. The very frightening thing is that while bathing under the sprinklers in the garden and chirping with your friends, you will never know which ones are really birds and which ones are worms that have become birds. If only the world were more full of babies which had devoured dogs.