Biofactory

The business model applied to my time: bread outweighs dreams.
Natural capital: the universe provides us with natural systems of abundance, flows of clean water, solar energy, time to tell stories or devise games or labyrinths, space to hunt in or pollute.
Why do I want to be a writer, anyway? So I can see my word-worlds printed on paper pulped from trees torn from the real world, sold at stores and then devoured and then discarded or set on the shelves to collect dust or to wind up, binding-broken, stained, fluttering pages uselessly like a grounded butterfly in a landfill somewhere?
Us artists and writers and musicians- how is what we do so sacred and pure, when the economic model of the system we are contributing to endangers our own survival? Whats so great about filling the world with more zines and CDs? More... stuff.
What's our defense?
Printing on recycled paper? Promoting alternatives to unsustainable growth in our work?
What kind of Work has real value?
I don't want to sell widgits or gas cards to business travellers. I'd rather be an enviro-bandit, hijacking lawyers and senators on the way back from their exclusive tennis courts, holding them at gunpoint while taking their money and jewels, and then giving it to... who would I give it to? The Sierra Club? Is that the answer? More powerful NGO's?...
Plant-machines, hunchbacked Ents over an assembly line with their tree-branch hands, busily cramming the lids on psychedelic pies to send out undercover to powerful establishment baby-boomers, to rouse their green tendrils of curiosity again and send then curling into action, those ones who never actually got down in the 60s or 70s and always felt square and vaguely guilty and hateful for missing out on the fun.
The biofactory of my Body, meanwhile, is metabolizing the coffee and kettle corn I just injested. Later, it will become the raw material of both farts and thoughts.