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  • Writer's picturesaeri

Don't eat the stomach or the asshole

Updated: Oct 28, 2021

The thinning of the veil with this harvest season is palpable. The energy is rising and swirling… not moving forward just yet, and promising movement soon.

Feeling and hearing the land calling me.

The ocean too.

All my art supplies and all the food and even some wine.

The passion of my teenage self calls me to pick up where she left off.

I’ve been writing a piece about having boundaries with the muse… it’s illuminating the space I’ve created that I can really offer her/him (my muse).

Driving back from dropping my daughter off with her father (it’s an hour drive), I literally followed my heart.

I said: “yes, I’m willing to go someplace unplanned and spin the wheel of the Oracle of life”

It led me to the coastal nature preserve in Weott.

I had missed the sunset, but this scene awaited me at a road that dead ended at the brackish marsh.

There was a complete goat stomach there in the dirt.

Skillfully unpunctured, left cleanly… looking like an alien fetus in the darkening light.

What. Is. That?

I could tell driving in it was probably an animal or part…

Confirmed with a poke by a stick. It was very thick and hard… and large.

I also found the tail, the fur perfectly white with about 5” of entrails attached.

I imagine the predator that ate it, consuming everything else… and getting to the stomach and the asshole and leaving it cleaned of all the good parts respectful in its distaste for grain and grass… and of course the grainy grassy pooping part.

Or maybe people did it? It was bizarre.

I almost took a picture of it. That did not feel right.

I almost took the tail to preserve. I did not.

As I drove away I thought of how cool I would think I was to get the tail… and how okay I am with not taking that project on right now. Yay for the me in that dimension who did!

I could feel the wildness of the place.

The fierceness.

I pictured how it was when this land was connected to all the rest of the land here, not parceled out to the Weott tribe. When the land was regarded as sovereign.

The wide streets and sidewalks of Eureka just don’t seem to be honest to me. Where did the redwood rainforest end and the meadows and marshlands begin?

Coming into Weott there was a no-dumping sign that said at the top in the largest letters:


—I appreciated the sober directness of it; yes, do that. That’s why you don’t litter. And if you don’t get that, the Weott shall fine you dearly.

Why don’t we take this approach with more signs?

The land is still sovereign.

The zero fucks beauty of the place does not bow to maps and names and definitions.

It said to me: you are not exempt from being eaten here.

[I am a Capricorn sun and rising]

The spirit of the land is there, undeniably.

Dogs were barking in the distance, repeating the alarm of my presence, even a mile away.

Two herons flew overhead for bed, I imagine. They were huge. The memory of the meaty feathered crease where their thighs met their bellies, I had a solid minute that I contemplated if they were geese.

No I don’t think so.

I just had never seen them from that angle.

Herons seem to somehow always be spied in profile, so they were unrecognizable to me from below.

Here comes the moon!

-Saeri Wilde

#artoverinertia #respecttheland #sovereign

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