There is joy here, and mystery. The fact is, American bison are good to eat. In my own experience of bison-burger, I would rate it with venison, Chinook salmon, Dungeness crab and pâté de foie gras, as being, obviously, when you taste it, what God intends that you should eat--like how the Japanese, I understand, feel about pink sea bream. God's goodness. Which is a difficult place for a vegetarian and a conscious practitioner of ahimsa to be in. And the bison do not make it easy for us, being quirky beasts, dangerous and full of likeable (rather than loveable) and respect-worthy character--whom to kill and eat more offends our conscience than doing the same to sweet, lovely but after all rather douchey cows.
I burn hot. I tend to exhaust people in conversation, like Margaret Fuller did Carlyle. Which leaves me (but apparently not Margaret) always wishing I'd shut up sooner. I have quite a few friends and not many enemies, but I'm very proud of the few I do have. There is consensus among my friends about me, which is how I know to write about myself. What my enemies think of me I have no idea. That, of course, could be dangerous.
The list of interests and favorites is absurdly partial and half-assed, particularly as to music and books. It's the stupid format of the blog itself, as given, that, of course, I color outside the lines and burst the seams of.
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