July 25th, officials in suits trip and stumble down sun-baked steps, barking at each other using caustic words and gibberish. The stains of insult form on the white collars, betraying a mandala of last night’s dinner, or yesteryear’s dessert, sending all of humanity careening back into a sticky, wet, musky kitchen.
With no dishwashers to churn time forward or allow us to indulge diplomatic laziness in favor of self-satisfaction, we slouch over dishes piled up between clumps of soggy food. Our criteria of beauty finds this situation intolerable—a stream of rejected nutrients, rejected fellow humans, bullied or untapped soul-parts. It causes spasms of rage as we bite lips & contort faces.
But the stream of old bread leads to a glimpse of a horizon wherein true justice may reside: raging through the stifling sense of duty is possibly the only route to seeing the sunset, or dawn, of balance beyond the gavel-happy judges of self & other, high on condemnatory lingo, we’ve been tempted to become.