FOOLS (a writing exercise in 3 parts)

At the inaugural Fire Season artist residency in Kyburz, CA this June, I led and took part in a writing exercise that involved three stages: first, reading and reflecting on an essay titled A Storm Blown From Paradise by Paul Kingsnorth. Second, a 15-minute timed stream-of-consciousness writing session. Third, developing a 3-part written piece that melds the first two steps together into something new. The following is the 3-part piece I wrote, reflecting on foolishness– an emotional state I've found myself in more often lately. The piece draws upon three related topics using the word fool: the Fool card in Tarot, fool's gold I saw in the river at the residency, and the figure of speech foolhardy.

FOOLS 
June 17, 2026 

0 — The Fool (card) 

You love the smell of roses– 
fragrant, tea,  
any variety that fills your olfactory epithelium 
with that sickly-sweet aroma.  

You have a loyal companion– 
Afghan hound, or whippet, or collie, 
a species terrified of breaking eye contact. 
Every step, sound, breath is for you and you alone. 

Your clothing is class– 
Embroidery, brocade, fringe,  
the symbols of wealth, excess, privilege, and “women’s work.” 

Your smile is your favourite feature– 
you do it often, because, why not? 
What has ever stopped your joy? 
What could ever stop your joy? 
There has never been suffering, loss, poverty, or discomfort. 

You stride, strut, gallivant, swagger wherever you like. 
What location would ever suffer your arrival? 
Your blessing? 
Your presence? 
Where could you possibly go where you might face adversity, unwelcome, or trials? 
Nowhere. 
There is no ground that would not embrace the soft plod of your silken slippers,  
save for the air beyond the edge of that– 

1 — Fool’s Gold 

I stepped into a river, shocked by the cold of it.  
I seem to lose my ability to stand confidently. Motor skills are lopsided. 
I fell– once, twice. 
I took a step and my foot did not land where I expected. 
I was not busy sniffing roses,  
only entering a space my body is not meant for, or at least acclimated to.  

We all must acclimate to things, learn our lessons, wise-up. 

But not yet, not while the shimmering is here–  
below the roil of the mountain– 
chilled flow, flecks of gold– 

Is it really? Could it be? Gold? Surely not, but... what if it was? 

I had to hold it, examine it, collect it.  
And if I was to discover it, all around me,  
what fools everyone else must be for not noticing it. 
It’s everywhere. 
I could make a life with it, a real one, no more struggles, no more deficit. 

I forgot my friends are here. 
They let me down easy, as if everyone knew. 
I knew, but I still chose the fantasy.  

Anyhow, 

Might go buy a pan tomorrow– 
I might know something you don’t. 

2 — Foolhardy 

We were reckless, stubborn, rascals. 
“Brave, in a silly way” they said. Did we know it? 

Was The Declaration silly? 
Was The Trail and The Tears silly? 
Was “silly” enough? 

We had a good laugh. 
And The Bravery was certainly in good supply. 
This is bravery’s home, after all.  

And what did we do with it? 
How did we bend it’s meaning to our will? 
To our desire? 
To our denial? 
Fool-proof, you could say. But then... 

Hardiness– 
A value, and valuable, and we valued it. 
Another word for strength, endurance, resilience. 
We describe weeds this way, 
or livestock,  
or cockroaches, 
or grandparents. 

We build this, and perpetuate it, and fall for it. 
And now we walk blindly toward another cliff... 

Kingsnorth once said 
“we cannot expect cleverness to save us from our own cleverness” 
but perhaps our foolishness can, 
intentionally or not 
silly or not 
courageous or not. 

The roses are in bloom, companions abound, abundance in our grasp. 

Approach the cliff 
Do not stop 
This is the great fall of–