CSA

Do I know any fiction writers? I suppose I do. Have I read any of their works? I don’t believe I’ve read any fiction by fiction writers I know, which means I’ve only read or heard about writers stealing the lives of their friends in order to create fictional characters, and haven’t experienced my life being stolen for literary entertainment.

Do you keep a web log or journal? Have you said anything about me? Have I said anything about you in my web log?

Does it matter that CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture?

Will domestic food production lead to a kind of economic isolationism? Does anyone really care?

What is really important to you? Is it reading about me or reading about me writing about you or reading about me writing about you writing about me? Is it food? Materialistic happiness? Breathing? A sense of belonging to the community? Usefulness to anyone other than yourself? Feeling your heart beat?

Have you intentionally killed another living being? Have you accidentally killed another living being? In either case, were you able to put the dead being's body to use in your life? In other words, have you harvested anything for food, whether animal or vegetable?

I have grown my own food. Does it taste better than commercially grown food? Sometimes but not all the time. Am I more satisfied by eating my own food? Not always. I'm not the farmer type. I don't keep chickens and cows in the backyard. I feed wild birds, instead, who give me nothing but eye candy. I've grown vegetables and herbs, though, and enjoy both their eye candy appeal and their taste. I never found a way to turn weeding into an enjoyable pasttime so my backyard garden is overgrown with graveyard vine (Vinca major).

Do you want to read about yourself in this blog? I'd like to write about you (and I mean YOU, you know, and that's you, right there, looking at this blog, not the other one. Not, not you. You! I'm not going to use names because I don't have enough details about you to create a fictionalized version of you yet. I need a good biography before I can name you, mixing the facts about your life (your CV, so to speak) with your likes, dislikes, and dreaams).

Do you garden? Do you like to grow things? Or are you allergic to dirt and hard work? Don't worry about your answer. I don't care what you like or dislike. I just want to know who you are, look into your eyes, and find out how you want to be immortalized in writing.

I'm serious. I'm never serious. I make things up as I go along. I accept nothing as fact and take everything as real. I'm insecure because I'm not sure who I am but I know who I am. I am. I am not. These words are lies but tell the truth.

I have fears that match millions of people, like nightmares about taking a test I know nothing about the subject (a fear of failing), or teaching a class in which all the students know more than I do. Well, that last one is not a fear - it's actually a wish, just like I always wished my employees were smarter than I was and made more money than I did. I don't need to get paid to give people the information I have that they temporarily don't have or the emotional push that I can see they need.

Like I said, I'm just this human, nothing special. I have this life I have to live, that I didn't ask for, but have my parents to thank for their wish to procreate/reproduce. I am, not because of me, but because of this long line of reproducing animals on planet Earth and possibly a stray asteroid, comet or some other extraterrestrial chemical composition. I'm unique, whatever that means, more important in local cultures than on the global stage.

What do I want from you? I'm my own god and thus have already taken my soul for myself so I don't need another soul - my universal omniscient/omnipotent needs are satisfied by me. I want all of you except your soul - you can give your soul to your god, if you like. The rest of you belongs to me. Well, except for your offspring, if you have any. I'm not the diaper-changing kind of god and don't want to be a foster parent to others' temporary moment of passion. But the rest of you I'll take - your personality, mainly. I'll possibly destroy our friendship after I've painted you with these words. People don't like seeing the gods and monsters I make of them on paper, with exaggerated blemishes and false pasts. But hey, you walk into my light and it's what you get. We gods want our sacrifices, even if from ourselves. It's the price we're willing to pay to rule absolutely. No compromises. Either you're in or you're out, no stepping halfway into the doorway and expect to see yourself here. Keep that in mind before you decide to make eye contact with me. Afterward, your eyes are mine and your story belongs to me - you can't go back.

I'll see some of you here later. We know who we are and want to rejoice in making a fictional life together on these pages.


The rest of you better get your shades on or keep your eyes averted. You can grovel, too, if you like. We gods love being worshipped when we're not playing the role of humble, weak, vulnerable humans.