to my dog today. She turned

her snout up to me, her eyes talking,

"I have not taste for spinach."

For weeks it began,

spinach plugins for the kennel walls,

aromatics, green wafting, mixing

with the redolence of rawhide,

spinach baths, spinach chew toys,

me whispering,

"Spinach, spinach, spinach"

into her subconscious mind

while she scampered,

twitched in her dreams—

hopefully dreaming of spinach.

But even this indoctrination seemed

hopeless. "Would this dog ever have

a taste for spinach?" So I deprived her,

made her life a misery of starvation

so all there was to be was spinach.

Till alas, gaunt and lethargic, she came

stumbling into the kitchen,

cloudy-eyed, wheezing, mewing.

With pathetic jaws she'd take

her first full bite of spinach.

But can we really consider this

a taste for spinach? No.

So we would go on to create

a new breed. That kin

would know only spinach

till the memory of meat be

so faint, so foreign, the thought

of blood be what they have

no taste for.

And you see, what we have

no taste for is a kind of

magnetism, charged, magical,

seemingly effortless—lest

we struggle against these forces.

Then it would take some

serious manipulating, the behalfs

of our environs, to charge

a dissonant force,

a force which individual "grit"

hardly escapes. The meteor upon

reentry may have grit but

that force tears that

trying opposition in

seething flames till it's

nothing more than debris.

Ash. Destroyed upon reentry.

That atmosphere thus

magnetised, repels all

that it has no taste for.

As I pull back my cheeks

to exam my gums, I see

the history and evidence

of past tastes. Even as my dog's

'cisors evince a carnivorous

appetite, so my body evinces

certain appetites.

Appetites, some I have long

forgotten, forsaken, my

environs with me—or

because of my environs.

Some humans come before me

make clear these contradictions.

"You with heart," they say, "do not

show love. You show blind

fear like the heartless beast."

"You with liver pure," they say,

"drink intoxicants, killing self.

You with brain do not think."

Over years the teachers of

these teachers have taken

these teachings as further fodder

for their reversed tastes.

"You," they evince our selves,

"are living wrongly."

See evidence—which is

convincing. That you gag, dog,

eating spinach, is proof of your

flawed nature. You dog. Bad dog.

So we sicken our selves and

blame our selves for feeling sick.

We, our masters of prior selves,

have reversed the tastes of our life.

Our attractions contradict the

magnetism of our ore. Aura.

Say, who cares the nuance of how

this came to be except that.

That is so. Here. Now.

I tried feeding alcohol to

my body today and I

had no taste for it. Tried

the thought of meat. I had

no taste for it. I tried my hand

at cruelty, unkindness, but

not all the forces could

at once make me mean.

I have no taste for it.

I still have taste for depression.

I have taste for poisononous

thoughts. I have taste for

judging these thoughts which

are not mine, are not working

for me. I have taste for struggle,

ignorance, delusion, and my own

annihilation.

As impossible as once it seemed

to have no taste for hatred, so

these tastes of now seem impossible

to fight. I have a taste for fighting.

My environ worships the God of Grit.

When I peel back my cheeks to

check my 'cisors, grit is not who

we are. Yet the magnetism is

strong. My fighting is

breaking me a

part.

Yet we save these words for

this image. This image:

when the time is right,

the poles flip, and that

impenetrable force

that hounds you,

that unceasing appetite

which kills you, quits.

Quits. Now the force is in reverse.

You have no taste for what,

yesterday,

was destroying you.

My warning, son, is not to force

a reentry before you are welcome.

It is enough just knowing where

our true tastes belong.

As easy as it is for the sun to rise,

the bird to sing, so easy will it be

to be your self. But of yet, you are

a mewing dog, a walking fish, a

sprouting rock, a dry ocean.

Not much is right except the

growing knowing for what is right.

So quit this business of thinking

you can overcome magnetism

which is stronger than any one

iron filing. You cannot, must not,

lest you destroy your self.

But caution: once you have

no taste for that which you are not,

you must forgive those ways of old,

lest the atmospheres from those places

of your prior selves also destroy you.

The butterfly stops eating the leaf,

no longer the caterpillar.

It will be hard when you

make it so. So we say,

"The path is hard." But the path

is not itself hard. We, guaranteed,

make the path hard, so we mistake

our having struggled for

calling the struggle real. We,

floating beings, exhaust our selves

to stay afloat.

Easy is the way. As easy as it is to float.

No commotion. As easy as it is to have

no taste for a thing. You stop tasting.

Keep on, then, with whatever

tastes good, even if it be not "good."

Care not when the taste shall leave you

but care what you are tasting

against what you are ready to have.

It is okay to one day have no taste

for what but yesterday seemed

your greatest pleasure. Just don't

then force your self,

wont to do so.

The taste is gone.

No more taste.

Namaste.

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