An excerpt from Melinda Reidinger’s upcoming release, The White Deer

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“One of the most difficult questions for anyone to ask is, ‘Have you had thoughts of ending your life?’”

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Once we advocate for Democratic principles, or any basic mode of co-existing on a planet with 8 billion people, we are bound to face situations where certain groups take their theories to a Dictatorial level.

For most people there’s male and female, masculine and feminine. We’re used to duality as a way of seeing the world: Plato, Descartes, Manichaeanism, all taught us that the ways of the world are easily divided into two – night and day, good and bad, mind over matter, mythos and logos.

Words and language are indeed pure magic. It is how we share ideas, how we communicate, how we affect change and inspire change in others and in ourselves.

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Lula will not be able to single-handedly shift humanity’s course away from global collapse and economic despair.

Soap is timeless, or rather a thing which reminds us that what we consider as time now is never linear, never a march from “primitive” to “progress.” Soap has always been with us, and longer still.

It’s a beautiful place all year through but seems extra special in the autumn months. But it’s not just the beauty and the sense of spirit that draws me to the woods at this time of year, though I cannot deny that in itself is enough, anything else an added bonus. It’s mushroom season.

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Brazil, despite its unmatched connection to Africa, is utterly unequipped to care for the influx of African refugees, especially Muslim Nigerian women.

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Perhaps it is no wonder then that this time of year brings to mind cooking pots (as I write this I’m reminded I need a new slow cooker). The cauldron is one of those items perhaps most associated with witchcraft, magic and fire.

“What we now know as the professional police force only spend 10% of their time on anything to do with the law. Most of their time is involved in maintaining the social order.”

This ended up functioning like a lucid dreaming technique, in which I would sometimes be awake and sometimes in REM sleep, and sometimes in-between the two. This poem is a record of the things I saw and heard on that long drive through the desert.

We were born here and we are meant to die here. That is our destiny. It always was. We can either embrace it, or we can continue to deny it, to tell ourselves wishful stories about interstellar travel and making a home for humans on other planets, and thereby hasten our extinction.

“I couldn’t help but feel that an epic character like my father deserved to be remembered in an epic way, so I composed this elegy for him about a year after he died.”

And as the cycles of nature begin that inevitable unwinding, it tugs at the corner of our nostalgia and perhaps we return to that stage of reflection where we can linger over our experiences, all of those events and happenings that have touched our lives.