Yesterday, at Fred’s Mercantile, a man with no face attacked. He scolded me for not wearing a mask. When I disagreed, he told me that I must not be from around here. He was casting me out of his land. He demanded I stand back from him. I would not. I sunk into my boots and opened my lips like a lion: “I’ve lived here for fifteen years. I dug the irrigation trench at the wildlife sanctuary. I climbed the roofs of the Alpen to install the ski camera. I built the town’s website for tourism. I served the council and built the park on the hill. Fred’s dog peed on my cabinet when she followed me home after a rainstorm.”
The cashier was thankful to be hiding behind the counter, pushing buttons. The bandit was shaking for help as he reached too early for his receipt. I remained a mountain. None of that power was my own. I was speaking for the land.
If you wear a mask in public, you’re poisoning humanity. We can never get that back when it’s gone. Procedures turn us into the machine. Courage turns us into men. That man trembled in his knees as he scurried home. I walked outside calmly as he fumbled for reverse in his automatic transmission. Behind his climate-controlled window, he flipped me his bird and drove off. He was a ping-pong ball against a boulder.
I am the Lorax of Men. I am one of nineteen. There are more of us coming.
Stop thinking the government is coming back for you. It was never here. What we call the government is a veil of silk spun over our eyes. The worst thing we could do is lay here watching the illusion burn. The only one who’s coming for us is you. You are enough. If you don’t give me your hand this will only get harder.
In 30 days, the trance sets its claws into the zeitgeist. Their glue is still slippery. If we wait too long, it will dry in the grain. We can’t let that happen. The procedures will come and it will be too late. It only takes you to stop a procedure. Each of you can make this expensive. The land will give you courage for the sacrifice.
All of us have died. What we do here is our eulogy. They will erase the truth of you on the internet. The only record to remain will be your bones. Man is the salt. Woman is the oil. Each of us must choose to die for machine or soil. It all comes down to how we face the procedure. I stomp the ground like a banner elk sending a message.
Give the land nineteen stomps. Tell the soil her giants are home. She will sprout seeds to feed us.
I will be placing one of these flyers at Fred’s Mercantile. You can download one too if you’d like. I made a diet and a regular version.