I Fell Into Shame Like A Suicide

Gravy Is The Simplest, Tastiest, Most Memory-laden Dish I Know How To Make: A Little Flour, Salt And Pepper, Crispy Bits Of Whatever Meat Anchored The Meal, A Couple Of Cups Of Water Or Milk And Slow Stirring To Break Up Lumps.

It Ain't That You Get Religion. Religion Gets You And Then Milks You Dry. Won't Let You Drink A Little Whiskey. Won't Let You Make No Fat-assed Girls Grin And Giggle. Won't Let You Do A Damn Thing Except Work For What You'll Get In The Hearafter. I Live In The Here And Now.

The Only Magic We Have Is What We Make In Ourselves, The Muscles We Build Up On The Inside, The Sense Of Belief We Create From Nothing.

Hunger Makes You Restless. You Dream About Food - Not Just Any Food, But Perfect Food, The Best Food, Magical Meals, Famous And Awe-inspiring, The One Piece Of Meat, The Exact Taste Of Buttery Corn, Tomatoes So Ripe They Split And Sweeten The Air, Beans So Crisp They Snap Between The Teeth, Gravy Like Mother's Milk Singing To Your Bloodstream.

I Need You To Do More Than Survive. As Writers, As Revolutionaries, Tell The Truth, Your Truth In Your Own Way. Do Not Buy Into Their System Of Censorship, Imagining That If You Drop This Character Or Hide That Emotion, You Can Slide Through Their Blockades. Do Not Eat Your Heart Out In The Hope Of Pleasing Them.