 As I flitted around the Tattoo Parlour where I spend part time as a body piercer, my employer was taking care of a little light Font Management on the office computer last week. One of the Fonts suffering demise by way of system waste basket was deemed, GHOST MEAT.
I didn't get to behold such a font prior to its glorious beheading, but I can only imagine it to be quite a spectacular spectral beast. The moniker alone lit the thighs of my imagination aflame. Now, I've come to know many a vegan and vegetarian folk though I, myself, am a carnivore. I've tried vegetarianism and sadly with my many sensitivities to chemical processing and preserving it's nary but even a bagged salad I can devour without physical distress these days. So, my ideal diet looks Paleolithic with meat protein and root veggies and apples. But I digress, the term Ghost Meat turning and churning on the spit in my mind sparked quite a dichotomy of imagery and allegory of a side of beef aglow with ectoplasm. Immediately I'm transported to a vindicated victory over the vindictive hauntings of traumatic pasts. A rotting carcass of bad memories finally left far behind in a browning November field haphazardly framing an old barn, arthritic and blackened by the same dark times. The carcass is buried ceremoniously or ceremony-lessly, deeply, not deeply enough, beneath the earth. Tread upon by present day, a careless trip-up, down memory lane. The Meat of Ghosts could also be nourishment for our Soul's journey. Fuel for a comforting fire by which we warm on a frigid and lonesome night. Memories are both part of who we are and simultaneously are nothing relevant to the day in which we find ourself. A whisper which periodically screams - an insolent child seeking attention - to be tolerated or honored- or both at once. We tolerate the loss while simultaneously honoring what's lost, or lost at least, in beast but not in spirit. Maybe Ghost Meat is the necessity arising for us all to acknowledge the meat, the weight or importance of looking beyond the fleeting physicality of the world in which we live to an infinite energy which holds the treasures locked away in the heaving chest of our imaginations. And the imagination is the Pandora's Box which holds the very essence of every single thing here on this Earth. -Lee Cripps, 09/25
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 I was on the Ferry heading across the frothy Halifax Harbour with my son. The Sun shone relentlessly, highlighting my left side - the cotton-balled sky no match for the hot lasers shooting out of its molten center. My son was on my right, engaged in an animated convo with a friend about their least favorite coolers.
As we neared our destination and slowed toward the sleepier Dartmouth pier, the boat rocked and a Gull swooped over a captive audience. Darkly feathered as though it had been singed by the very sun we baked beneath, it suddenly tucked its wings and quickly plummeted. We eyeballed its target - a heavenly feathered Gull twice his diameter. The snowy enemy cradled a fine find in his beak. A winsome fish about to slip right down into his little Gull gullet. Not so fast, cried his shadowy nemesis. We Ferry folk watched on as battle ensued and the slippery fish was fiercely pursued. My son commented on the antagonist's darkened appearance and we chuckled concepts of Good vs. Evil. I asked which one is Good? We didn't have the answer. |
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