After the death of my brother Aaron, I began having a series of dreams about flies. Every night the flies came. One night, I tried to speak to one of them. But it wasn’t a real fly. It wasn’t organic. It was a giant fly made of cardboard. It was an artsy fly. My childhood dog, lady, also showed up. And she dug a hole, just like maybe 20 years previously, to give birth. She was in great pain but something beautiful was happening too, the birth of new life. So there was the fly, the eater of poop, and my childhood dog, giving birth, but in a hole.
There was no speaking to the fly. It was a silent movie, full of images, like the early films of the surrealists.
Death and birth, back and forth, dancing together. Can they really be separated?