The last day of May, means there are two hundred and fourteen days left in the
year. Which I find encouraging. The last day in May of 1669 is the day
Samuel Pepys decided that he could no longer write his diary because writing his
diary had caused his eyesight to fail. Samuel Pepys worked at the
Admiralty, and there are some who might credit him for having helped steer the
British Navy away from Privateering toward more professional codes of conduct.
The last day of May in 1669 was a Monday. In his last entry Samuel Pepys
reports getting up very early, doing a little work, having lunch at home. In the
afternoon he visited a female acquaintance whose husband was out of town, but
whose mother was visiting, so all he could manage was a kiss. Later in the
afternoon he did a little more work. Then, he and his wife and couple of friends
stayed up late drinking.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Tree Swallow
It's a sad fact of life that Tree Swallow do not fledge if they are being stared
at. So my advice is to put out of your mind the whole idea of spending a
hot afternoon watching a small hole. Don't concern yourself with the
possibility of sadness, don't let worry mount your imagination with stark images
of failure, and go find something more useful with which to pass time. And do
not let adult Tree Swallow tempt you with their play acting that something like fledging is
about to happen, because Tree Swallows are cocky and deceitful little
bastards. Oh, they'll fly around and call and give off every symptom of
a parental desire to share flight with off-spring. And don't allow
yourself to ever say "Maybe if I wait three more minutes I'll see
the little fellows make their first flight," because Tree
Swallow can hear those kind of thoughts, and they call loudly to
their nest, "Not yet."
So you come to your senses and you go inside, because your head aches, and you can hardly see because despite the sun glasses your own mental apparatus is recording spots and flashes, and you think maybe this is what Rapture will be like. And your peripheral vision has been so reduced by blue sky you fall over the bloody de-humidifier, damaging an already damaged shin and sending a splash of water across the floor, which requires instant clean up otherwise wood eating mold starts to grow and there's the risk of electric shook, which would at least be a quick way to end it all. Then, despite the risk of heat exposure and the possibility of precipitating yet one more near death experience you go outside for a cigarette, and there they all are, on the electric line. And it might well be a relief to see everybody safe and whole, but far better all round if they at least pretended not to be laughing at you.
So you come to your senses and you go inside, because your head aches, and you can hardly see because despite the sun glasses your own mental apparatus is recording spots and flashes, and you think maybe this is what Rapture will be like. And your peripheral vision has been so reduced by blue sky you fall over the bloody de-humidifier, damaging an already damaged shin and sending a splash of water across the floor, which requires instant clean up otherwise wood eating mold starts to grow and there's the risk of electric shook, which would at least be a quick way to end it all. Then, despite the risk of heat exposure and the possibility of precipitating yet one more near death experience you go outside for a cigarette, and there they all are, on the electric line. And it might well be a relief to see everybody safe and whole, but far better all round if they at least pretended not to be laughing at you.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Rapture
When the Rapture does arrive, I will pick up the telephone, dial a toll free
number, and I will hear this: "We have identified an outage in your area, and
we are diligently working on
the problem. Thank you for your patience."
The voice will be angelic, it will make an attempt at exuding calm and confidence and understanding, and to my ear it will contain the smugness of one vacationing in Cancun. But fortunately internet access, here where I live, has resumed. How the Ancients managed I no longer need to know.
The voice will be angelic, it will make an attempt at exuding calm and confidence and understanding, and to my ear it will contain the smugness of one vacationing in Cancun. But fortunately internet access, here where I live, has resumed. How the Ancients managed I no longer need to know.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Two Legged-ness
I have to think that Mountain Goats, which have four pointy feet, are better at
climbing and at leaping than are members of my own species. And I have seen
Baboon, who are eminently capable of clambering around in a most agile manner.
So the idea of us as evolving two legged-ness as a response to change in terrain
due to volcanic activity strikes me as really rather absurd. And I am sure
if the actual article in The Journal of Archaeology was subscription free, I
might be persuaded otherwise.
The duty on me as an observer of two legged-ness is to adhere to the idea of it emerging in us during the period our ancestors attempted to reacquaint themselves with water. This theory is variously titled, but 'Aquatic Ape' suffices to summarize it for me, and it's very far from a perfect theory, unless I can think of bountiful lakes in tropical setting, surrounded by sturdy trees in which to build sleeping nests. And I guess I would also have to argue that my own reluctance to go near any kind of water could be a matter of a genetic regression to the 'pre-Aquatic Ape' period of our species and therefore no fault of mine.
The duty on me as an observer of two legged-ness is to adhere to the idea of it emerging in us during the period our ancestors attempted to reacquaint themselves with water. This theory is variously titled, but 'Aquatic Ape' suffices to summarize it for me, and it's very far from a perfect theory, unless I can think of bountiful lakes in tropical setting, surrounded by sturdy trees in which to build sleeping nests. And I guess I would also have to argue that my own reluctance to go near any kind of water could be a matter of a genetic regression to the 'pre-Aquatic Ape' period of our species and therefore no fault of mine.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Strawberry Seduction
I guess one major problem for a Gardener is a quirk in his character that takes
great satisfaction from the sight of The Cedar Mockingbird's crew dabbling in
the Strawberry. His three round Mockingbird children are becoming quite
tame, which is not necessarily a good omen for future Strawberry crops.
The Artist for her part, has in the past been adept at growling at the youth of
Mockingbird and she is capable of ferocity when in defense of her own. I
have seen her chase, Rabbit, Deer and Rogue Beagles.
Recently I have noticed that when The Artist is amongst the Strawberry she is made subject to the Cedar Mockingbird's seductive aria, his syncopations, his gallantry of dance. And he has made a point of letting her see him feed the rounder of his three children in a manner which I can only call a 'pathetic public display of affection.' Nor for one minute did I ever believe The Artist would fall for so blatant a maneuver. But I am beginning to suspect that she has done. Which is yet one more ill omen for future Strawberry crops.
Recently I have noticed that when The Artist is amongst the Strawberry she is made subject to the Cedar Mockingbird's seductive aria, his syncopations, his gallantry of dance. And he has made a point of letting her see him feed the rounder of his three children in a manner which I can only call a 'pathetic public display of affection.' Nor for one minute did I ever believe The Artist would fall for so blatant a maneuver. But I am beginning to suspect that she has done. Which is yet one more ill omen for future Strawberry crops.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Bede's Heresy
I am beginning to really believe the problem of structure in most everything a
person looks at, or tries to do, is more about addressing purpose than it is
about anything else. Which is primarily why I find myself at odds with the
8th Century theorists whose commitment to 'The Six Ages of the World' led them
to accuse Bede of heresy. Bede's 3,952 years has a sort of precision to it
that asks questions of me, sets my mind toward narrative and the adventure of
wondering why, to the definition of comedy, and a host of realms that
spiral into a happy no-where-ness, what others might call chaos. But
Isidore's and Augustine's borrowing an idea from some of the more eccentric
Jewish sects, of neat divisions of one thousand year periods, when put beside
Bede's inspired calculation, contain for me at least, the same "you can't
be that dull" inadequacy, that I feel when subjected to television
advertizing. Which is something Bede's calculation does not produce in me.
The accusation of heresy is central to the disciplining of minds around a particular structure. In Isidore's day, he would certainly have banned the 'fast forward button.' Otherwise Spain would never have become Catholic, The Visigoth King might now be an exile in London, Isidore might never have attained Sainthood and the internet would have no Patron Saint. And how much easier, on the day of Bede's death to arrange conviction around the year 1000, which would be the start of the Seventh Age, when the world would end. And for Peter at least, the Seventh Age would be something like this: "But, beloved, be not ignorant of this one thing, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day." 2 Peter: 3:8. So Bede, while there is no way of knowing whether he'd have agreed with Peter's wonderful definition of infinite, certainly he had doubts about the structure of his world. And here, in my own little universe, which is mostly all about a structure, or a narrative, for the Rabbit of Usk, I'd prefer to celebrate Bede's Heresy. Certainly an F-minus from Isidore's crowd, nonetheless I'll title the genre a confident "incomprehensible yet strangely entertaining."
The accusation of heresy is central to the disciplining of minds around a particular structure. In Isidore's day, he would certainly have banned the 'fast forward button.' Otherwise Spain would never have become Catholic, The Visigoth King might now be an exile in London, Isidore might never have attained Sainthood and the internet would have no Patron Saint. And how much easier, on the day of Bede's death to arrange conviction around the year 1000, which would be the start of the Seventh Age, when the world would end. And for Peter at least, the Seventh Age would be something like this: "But, beloved, be not ignorant of this one thing, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day." 2 Peter: 3:8. So Bede, while there is no way of knowing whether he'd have agreed with Peter's wonderful definition of infinite, certainly he had doubts about the structure of his world. And here, in my own little universe, which is mostly all about a structure, or a narrative, for the Rabbit of Usk, I'd prefer to celebrate Bede's Heresy. Certainly an F-minus from Isidore's crowd, nonetheless I'll title the genre a confident "incomprehensible yet strangely entertaining."
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Venerable Bede
Tomorrow is the anniversary of The Venerable Bede. About sixty
years after he died, the library in Jarrow Abbey, where Bede studied the
evidence from history, was burned by Vikings, and some of us have disliked
Vikings ever since. But on the brighter side, while pursuing his studies
Venerable Bede found evidence to suggest that the world had been created
3,952 years before the birthday of Jesus. A number of the faithful became
outraged and accused Bede of heresy.
The standard view in Eighth Century Europe was Isidore of Seville's the Six Ages of the World Theory, which stated that the Advent of Jesus, his resurrection, occurred exactly five thousand years after the creation of the world. Saint Isidore of Seville is the Patron Saint of the Internet, and when he was alive it was said of him that through the study of Greek, Hebrew, the Liberal Arts and the Sciences, he saved The Kingdom of the Visigoths, which was most of Spain and some of Southern France, from Barbarism. As for The venerable Bede, he is also known as The Father of English History.
The standard view in Eighth Century Europe was Isidore of Seville's the Six Ages of the World Theory, which stated that the Advent of Jesus, his resurrection, occurred exactly five thousand years after the creation of the world. Saint Isidore of Seville is the Patron Saint of the Internet, and when he was alive it was said of him that through the study of Greek, Hebrew, the Liberal Arts and the Sciences, he saved The Kingdom of the Visigoths, which was most of Spain and some of Southern France, from Barbarism. As for The venerable Bede, he is also known as The Father of English History.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Froward
The Outhouse, though I say so myself, will be spacious and magnificent, and very
wonderful. However, I begin to think "Saint Theresa of Avila," after
whom The Outhouse has been named would by now be reaching for her Book of
Proverbs, King James Version. She'd pause to relish 6:6 "Go to the ant
thy sluggard: consider her ways and be wise." But I can at last say that
the preliminary debate and confusion in nomenclature phase are probably
concluded, roof line has generally been decided upon, and there has been some
experimental bolting of one bit of wood to another, so the interpersonal aspect
of the project is almost through and fairer winds ahead.
Nor has the interpersonal aspect been easy, or straightforward. And I'd guess Saint Theresa, along with my Very Own Artist, are still savoring Proverbs 6:12 and 6:13: "A naughty person, a wicked person, walketh with a 'froward' mouth, he winketh with his eye, he speaketh with his feet, he teacheth with his fingers." And I can feel Saint Theresa looking out from her cloister, and I can see the Artist staring down from her tractor in the field. For yea I could be called a 'froward' person. Difficult to deal with, perverse, wayward, contrary. But in my defense, I'd argue that I have the communication skills of an Armadillo which makes it only appear that I, "speaketh with my feet," and "teacheth with my fingers." And if ever I have winked at any thing, it's source was wind and sawdust.
Nor has the interpersonal aspect been easy, or straightforward. And I'd guess Saint Theresa, along with my Very Own Artist, are still savoring Proverbs 6:12 and 6:13: "A naughty person, a wicked person, walketh with a 'froward' mouth, he winketh with his eye, he speaketh with his feet, he teacheth with his fingers." And I can feel Saint Theresa looking out from her cloister, and I can see the Artist staring down from her tractor in the field. For yea I could be called a 'froward' person. Difficult to deal with, perverse, wayward, contrary. But in my defense, I'd argue that I have the communication skills of an Armadillo which makes it only appear that I, "speaketh with my feet," and "teacheth with my fingers." And if ever I have winked at any thing, it's source was wind and sawdust.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Grass Pollen
I'd like to think the Gnatcatcher in the Apple is one of the more generous minded birds. My own rampant pruning of limbs followed by gusty winds that
knocked Peaches from Peach trees, and yet there is still a tail feather in the
Gnatcatchers nest. It's possible the nest has been abandoned as a poor
choice of location, and into which no more effort will be put. And maybe
the tail feather is a feature of Gnatcatcher nests, rather than belonging to an
actual Gnatcatcher that's brooding.
One solution to the mystery would be to get a step ladder and take a look. Quite why I seem unable to do that has less to do with my own inflamed perceptions of the Gnatcatcher's opinion of me, and more to do with a reappraisal of Stendhal's reaction to being in the presence of Florentine Art. Which caused him to claim: "Life was drained from me. I walked with fear of falling." Round here, where I live, I have learned to call that Dizziness from Grass Pollen, and fortunately there are pills for it.
One solution to the mystery would be to get a step ladder and take a look. Quite why I seem unable to do that has less to do with my own inflamed perceptions of the Gnatcatcher's opinion of me, and more to do with a reappraisal of Stendhal's reaction to being in the presence of Florentine Art. Which caused him to claim: "Life was drained from me. I walked with fear of falling." Round here, where I live, I have learned to call that Dizziness from Grass Pollen, and fortunately there are pills for it.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Feet
Sweat Factor is also a quality of shoes. Sadly it's necessary to
wear shoes, because we are very badly designed creatures, and without shoes
great damage to feet can be done by the simple act of walking around. But
fortunately some shoes have a high Sweat Factor, which produce a useful foot
odor that I am persuaded discourages Tics, and other small creatures that can
leap out of the invisible. And, I am happy to argue, shoes that fall
into the category of a low Sweat Factor, produce a foot that encourages the
attention of Spiders.
The shoe that produces a higher Sweat Factor, is either rubber or plastic. And there is an argument that in all shoes Sweat Factor is reduced by wearing fresh socks every day. Which, for some of us is quite out of the question, because socks in the warm weather are an incline into the pit of hell. And I'd wear flip flops, if I could, but along with my allergy to sunshine and windiness, I seem to be developing an allergy to the sight of my feet.
The shoe that produces a higher Sweat Factor, is either rubber or plastic. And there is an argument that in all shoes Sweat Factor is reduced by wearing fresh socks every day. Which, for some of us is quite out of the question, because socks in the warm weather are an incline into the pit of hell. And I'd wear flip flops, if I could, but along with my allergy to sunshine and windiness, I seem to be developing an allergy to the sight of my feet.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Bean Thinning.
Thinning Beans. A truly miserable process, but if I call myself
Gardener in order to explore harmonies and ancestors, and thereby own some kind
of identity, I should at least occasionally attempt to deserve the title. Which
is why with Beans I have three approaches to "thinning." One is to insist that
Beans are not yet ready to be thinned, this way time passes until it becomes too
late to thin Beans, with resulting airlessness that brings on a slow and
agonizing stem pox, a Bean Beetle haven. The other two approaches to thinning
Beans require granting songs from war permission to wander into the back ground
so that mood might be set. One of these songs is 'Erika,' and I have found
that thinning Beans to 'Erika' can result in pardon of the weaker seedling, and
a sort of ferocity toward the strong, because 'Erika' is a somewhat sappy bit of
propaganda, which even contains what I suppose is a pun. A yearning for pretty
'Erika' who lives on a moor far from the front line, but who isn't the moorland
Heather that's also called 'Erika.' "Her heart full of sweets." And she's
crying for her valiant warrior. Indeed 'Erika,' though tempting to oblige
her, is too mawkish, too wishful for the hard work of Tyranny, or Kapital,
depending on which of your views has a root in eugenics.
The other war song is called 'Panzerlied.' Which is a very good song to kill by. It's about fearlessness in the face of just about anything from yellow sand to ice and sub zero temperatures, from deceit to an "honorable iron grave." And I have begun to use 'Panzerlied' to thin Beans, because one of the issues when Beans are being thinned is the six inch gap between each seedling in a well ordered platoon of seedlings. For those of us who are probably certifiable, the precision of this six inch gap is necessary for calm, and this means that a ten inch gap between seedlings becomes a source of anxiety, which can only be overlaid by the sure knowledge that when the Beans are grown to shaggy adulthood, I'll not notice the gaps in the line, unless I think very hard about it, and usually it is very hot when picking Beans so thought process ceases. And of course, culled seedlings as they shrivel are traditionally called "The Heroes" then slow marched toward the compost pile along with the Legions 'La Boudin.' "Let us forget, along with other hardships, Death which forgets us so little." And I tell you, 'The Blood Sausage' sounds better when chanted in French.
The other war song is called 'Panzerlied.' Which is a very good song to kill by. It's about fearlessness in the face of just about anything from yellow sand to ice and sub zero temperatures, from deceit to an "honorable iron grave." And I have begun to use 'Panzerlied' to thin Beans, because one of the issues when Beans are being thinned is the six inch gap between each seedling in a well ordered platoon of seedlings. For those of us who are probably certifiable, the precision of this six inch gap is necessary for calm, and this means that a ten inch gap between seedlings becomes a source of anxiety, which can only be overlaid by the sure knowledge that when the Beans are grown to shaggy adulthood, I'll not notice the gaps in the line, unless I think very hard about it, and usually it is very hot when picking Beans so thought process ceases. And of course, culled seedlings as they shrivel are traditionally called "The Heroes" then slow marched toward the compost pile along with the Legions 'La Boudin.' "Let us forget, along with other hardships, Death which forgets us so little." And I tell you, 'The Blood Sausage' sounds better when chanted in French.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Nest
The second consideration is the nesting of birds. Some way into the ordeal of managing the Apple, I noticed what I thought was some kind of pox, an evil growth of some kind, and I decided that of the confusion of crossed branches, I could at least rip out an infested limb. By sheer chance, with sword in hand, I spotted a very small tail feather and realized I'd seen a nest. She'd been there muttering at me, holding on, and had not deserted her eggs, while I'd hacked away all around her. She's a tiny bird called a Gnatcatcher. Her nest is lichen, bark, Caterpillar silk, Spider web, and there is a slight chance her nest is lined with a hair or two from my own head. Thank Goodness I saw her in time.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Strawberry
Of perennials in the Vegetable Garden, all creatures capable of movement have a
special place on their menu for Ripening Strawberry, and this can lead to
conflict, anxiety and rattiness, especially if Mockingbird decide that a
Strawberry bed makes the perfect nursery for three plump children. The first
attempt at creating The Greedy Strawberry, which is the bigger and bigger
and fatter and fatter Strawberry, was a 1750 French hybrid of two species of
Wild Strawberry, one from the coastal regions of the Western America's and the
other the Wild Strawberry that can often be seen anywhere from Kentucky to
Virginia and which wisely produces a tiny little fruit that can often go
unnoticed.
The interesting thing about the Wild West Coast Strawberry, or Beach Strawberry as it's sometimes called, is it's presence in the Mountains of Hawaii. The argument from some quarters is that the Beach Strawberry was carried to the Mountains of Hawaii by migrating birds. The Wild Strawberry of Europe are as far as I can tell, mostly The Little Woodland Strawberry. Which from around 1500 were kidnapped from their forests and planted by Gardeners in nice straight rows so that all creatures capable of movement could easily find them. The Romans boiled the entire Strawberry plant, roots and all, as a cure for mental distress. Which is an option I am seriously considering.
The interesting thing about the Wild West Coast Strawberry, or Beach Strawberry as it's sometimes called, is it's presence in the Mountains of Hawaii. The argument from some quarters is that the Beach Strawberry was carried to the Mountains of Hawaii by migrating birds. The Wild Strawberry of Europe are as far as I can tell, mostly The Little Woodland Strawberry. Which from around 1500 were kidnapped from their forests and planted by Gardeners in nice straight rows so that all creatures capable of movement could easily find them. The Romans boiled the entire Strawberry plant, roots and all, as a cure for mental distress. Which is an option I am seriously considering.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Squab
I thought a Squab was a life form of the sea, that lived in the colder depths
where it grew to great size while it pondered the meaning of darkness and the
poor dear had suddenly become fashionable amongst the 'eating-out' crowd now
that Swordfish and Snapper are in terrible decline.
To discover that a Squab is a nestling domestic Pigeon, that's not yet left the care of it's parent, and can do not much better than flutter, has sent me into a decline, awakened the certain knowledge that so long as I trudge this earth, I'll never again open a cook book.
To discover that a Squab is a nestling domestic Pigeon, that's not yet left the care of it's parent, and can do not much better than flutter, has sent me into a decline, awakened the certain knowledge that so long as I trudge this earth, I'll never again open a cook book.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Barefoot Carmelites
One of the problems of being dominated by The Rabbit is the persistence of his
past, which now intrudes. One consequence of this intrusion is boredom for
any one who might read these pages and another consequence is such things as for
example a name for the Out House. Which in my mind has become a tentative
"Saint Teresa of Avila." For his part, The Rabbit formerly achieved
Sainthood, in the Year of Our Lord 1099. But as is well known, since
around 1100 a person does not usually become a Saint, until he or she has
been gone form the mortal plane for a respectable period of time. There
are a great many recent exceptions, and I'd argue that these exceptions are
primarily a reactionary whim on the part of the modern Vatican, a pandering to
populist demand. As well there has been in recent times a horrible habit
of what I will call "Mass Sainting." The eight hundred Martyrs of Otranto,
may be an extreme example but it is far from unusual. In the 1970's Pope
Paul the sixth suddenly announced the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales, most
of whom had had their moment on earth at around the time tea first arrived in
England.
The Rabbit was born around 720 and died around the time Offa came to the thrown of Mercia, which according the Anglo Saxon Chronicles was near enough to the year 757, though of course the calendar has changed a little, so it might have been 758, or 756. And during The Rabbit's time upon earth, it was more likely that in order to be a Saint a person had first to have held a very respectable office within the religious hierarchy, and as admirers gathered for a final farewell there would be graveside discussion of Sainthood, and onward the process would quickly go all the way to the Pope, who'd pretty much gloss through evidence of Sainthood and make the decision on political grounds. Then there would occasionally arise a rascal, who for one reason or another would be made a Saint for purely political ends. Which is why one of the phenomena a commission on sainthood considers worthy, is what's called the Odor of Sanctity. And here "St. Teresa of Avila" became a Saint because her grave exuded a sweet scent for nine months after her death. Saint Teresa was one of the founders of the order of Barefoot Carmelites, who are called to a cloistered existence of "prayer, penance, hard work and silence."
The Rabbit was born around 720 and died around the time Offa came to the thrown of Mercia, which according the Anglo Saxon Chronicles was near enough to the year 757, though of course the calendar has changed a little, so it might have been 758, or 756. And during The Rabbit's time upon earth, it was more likely that in order to be a Saint a person had first to have held a very respectable office within the religious hierarchy, and as admirers gathered for a final farewell there would be graveside discussion of Sainthood, and onward the process would quickly go all the way to the Pope, who'd pretty much gloss through evidence of Sainthood and make the decision on political grounds. Then there would occasionally arise a rascal, who for one reason or another would be made a Saint for purely political ends. Which is why one of the phenomena a commission on sainthood considers worthy, is what's called the Odor of Sanctity. And here "St. Teresa of Avila" became a Saint because her grave exuded a sweet scent for nine months after her death. Saint Teresa was one of the founders of the order of Barefoot Carmelites, who are called to a cloistered existence of "prayer, penance, hard work and silence."
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Odious to God
William the Second was a son of William the Conqueror. "Hateful
to almost all his people and odious to God," he well might have been.
After the death of Archbishop Lanfrac, an Italian Norman who had been Archbishop
of Canterbury, William was reluctant to name another Bishop to the postion and
that way he was able to secure Church Revenues for his own purposes. Then
one day William fell sick, and he was able to convince himself that this
sickness was a punishment from God, and he set about the business of appointing
a new Archbishop of Canterbury. He chose another Italian Norman called Anslem, a
brilliant politician who a hundred or so years after his death was recommended
for Saint Hood by none other than Thomas Becket. Saint Anslem of
Canterbury died in the year 1109.
William the Second's nickname was William Rufus. He had a "red faced" appearance and probably suffered from some sort of red blotchiness as I do. He was 'flamboyant' and without entail. And it's possible that the good scribes of the Anglo Saxon Chronicles added this aspect of William's personality to their understanding of "odious to God." William died while hunting. The Anglo Saxon Chronicles suggest he was "shot by an arrow from one of his own men." The arrow pierced his lung, he fell from his horse, and there in the forest he was abandoned by the nobles. His younger brother, Henry, raced to Winchester where the Royal Treasury was kept and within days Henry had himself crowned King of England. And I have told the Rabbit of Usk that I have no intention of going hunting with a marksman.
William the Second's nickname was William Rufus. He had a "red faced" appearance and probably suffered from some sort of red blotchiness as I do. He was 'flamboyant' and without entail. And it's possible that the good scribes of the Anglo Saxon Chronicles added this aspect of William's personality to their understanding of "odious to God." William died while hunting. The Anglo Saxon Chronicles suggest he was "shot by an arrow from one of his own men." The arrow pierced his lung, he fell from his horse, and there in the forest he was abandoned by the nobles. His younger brother, Henry, raced to Winchester where the Royal Treasury was kept and within days Henry had himself crowned King of England. And I have told the Rabbit of Usk that I have no intention of going hunting with a marksman.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Un-auspicious Reemergence,
OK. I will wave the white flag. And I'll try to argue my surrender has
nothing to do with any wimpy-ness on my part, or fear of Grocery Store
encounters, or boiling head syndrome, or Tic. Nor do I want you to think
my surrender follows after some form of enhanced interrogation technique on the
Rabbit's part. Rather, I have endured everything I am prepared to throw at
myself, and after last night's long conversation with Walking Stewart he has
agreed to merge briefly with the oneness on the understanding that my conclusion
brings out the shine in Pythagorean thought, and, so long as I take care to
offer detailed accounts of the Rabbit's horribleness.
And I guess there are some who when they attempt an account of their own existence, their Ecce Homo, if you like, have some sort of control over the course of what the technical device calls 510,643 words. A summation so callous I can feel my heart break. And grudgingly I can understand the importance of structure, when the Rabbit of Usk shrugs off his sulk and now begins to insist it is his turn to take the lead, otherwise anarchy and unwarranted innuendo, some of it very risky, will reduce me to a gibbering wreck, a chaotic pile of confused inconsequence. And of course The Rabbit's first words to me after the months of his silence had to be a quote from the Anglo Saxon Chronicles. "You're like William the Second," he said to me, "hateful to almost all your people and odious to God." An un-auspicious reemergence, I'd suggest.
And I guess there are some who when they attempt an account of their own existence, their Ecce Homo, if you like, have some sort of control over the course of what the technical device calls 510,643 words. A summation so callous I can feel my heart break. And grudgingly I can understand the importance of structure, when the Rabbit of Usk shrugs off his sulk and now begins to insist it is his turn to take the lead, otherwise anarchy and unwarranted innuendo, some of it very risky, will reduce me to a gibbering wreck, a chaotic pile of confused inconsequence. And of course The Rabbit's first words to me after the months of his silence had to be a quote from the Anglo Saxon Chronicles. "You're like William the Second," he said to me, "hateful to almost all your people and odious to God." An un-auspicious reemergence, I'd suggest.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Conundrum
The Rabbit of Usk faces such a conundrum there's a possibility I'll never again
be able to have a hair cut. The problem lies in the relationship we share,
I am unwilling to compromise and his response for some time now has been
silence. It's been a long impasse in communication. So around the
beginning of March, which is when one of us last made a decent contribution, I
drew a conclusion that perhaps if I let my hair grow through the March hair
cutting deadline, my hair would become intolerable as the warm weather arrived,
and this would force me to achieve an increasing intensity of concentration that
might permit progress.
Already I have been called 'madam' in the Post Office, and I've been offered a biscuit recipe by a large round man with bad hair plugs in the Grocery Store. And now that Tic season has conjoined with Out House Construction season I am possessed by a twitchiness that defeats all attempt at clear thinking. But I will not surrender. I will not kill off Walking Stewart by causing him to discover his lost button then disappear into the ethers of the Ottoman Empire. And I will insist upon knowing the names and life history of the Advocates for and against Timothy's canonization. And whenever that's done, I'm going to get my hair cut. As well I believe somehow the failure of Carrot Rows has contributed to the Rabbit of Usk's continuing stubbornness. And who knows what might happen to thinking when Beans might be ready to pick.
Already I have been called 'madam' in the Post Office, and I've been offered a biscuit recipe by a large round man with bad hair plugs in the Grocery Store. And now that Tic season has conjoined with Out House Construction season I am possessed by a twitchiness that defeats all attempt at clear thinking. But I will not surrender. I will not kill off Walking Stewart by causing him to discover his lost button then disappear into the ethers of the Ottoman Empire. And I will insist upon knowing the names and life history of the Advocates for and against Timothy's canonization. And whenever that's done, I'm going to get my hair cut. As well I believe somehow the failure of Carrot Rows has contributed to the Rabbit of Usk's continuing stubbornness. And who knows what might happen to thinking when Beans might be ready to pick.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Weather Bulletin
The late afternoon of May 12th 2013, less that six weeks this side of mid
summer's day, and a frost advisory issued by the National Weather Service.
It's these sorts of dramatic moments that pulls a mind into closer and closer
affinity with the men and women of the weather service. It's their opportunity
to express emotion in their prose, wax lyrical, share mood. EER was
unusually blunt: "Sensitive outdoor plants may be killed if left uncovered."
I heard relish and keen anticipation in his voice, and I don't know about you,
but I suspect EER is not person who likes his vegetables.
JH, who I am convinced grows his tomato on a balcony somewhere, offered: "Potted plants normally left outdoors should be covered or brought inside away from the cold." I could hear the nervousness, see the telephone call to a grandmother and the worry. But for understatement, and pure cocktail drinking calm, a person had to go to Geogerian/Dusty, my own hero of the National Weather Service: "Those with agricultural interests may consider taking precautions to protect tender vegetation." Myself, I thought the frost last night, "Spiteful and inconsiderate." The Artist for her part, called it a "A farewell love pat, because nobody was hurt."
JH, who I am convinced grows his tomato on a balcony somewhere, offered: "Potted plants normally left outdoors should be covered or brought inside away from the cold." I could hear the nervousness, see the telephone call to a grandmother and the worry. But for understatement, and pure cocktail drinking calm, a person had to go to Geogerian/Dusty, my own hero of the National Weather Service: "Those with agricultural interests may consider taking precautions to protect tender vegetation." Myself, I thought the frost last night, "Spiteful and inconsiderate." The Artist for her part, called it a "A farewell love pat, because nobody was hurt."
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Gnatcatchers
A pair of Blue Grey Gnatcatchers. A Least Flycatcher. The butterfly
flight of a courting Yellow Chat. One Hummingbird, who paused a while to sit in
sunshine, warm himself on a cold morning. Indigo Bunting, bad tempered in the
cut grass. Three Tree Swallow. One Confusing Warbler, he or she was
greenish and had the sharp beak. Two Nightjar. It's a list for this
morning's coffee clutch with migratory birds. Which, I'd suggest, is the
only possible reaction to the Pope canonizing just 800 of the 813 Martyrs of
Otranto who were beheaded in 1480 by Ottomans following a dispute over who might
own the One God.
I don't call Phoebes, or Snow Birds migratory any more, nor can I call the Northern Harrier a winter visitor. The two Bobwhites are residents. And we are getting a little too much attention from Crows, so full we are of eggs and nests and rushing around. And the Red Squirrel is guilty of something, I'm certain. He has the happy smile. And late tonight into tomorrow's sunrise there could be frost on the Iris. So, if for some unaccountable reason you care about these sort of things, it's all very exciting and well worth waking up for.
I don't call Phoebes, or Snow Birds migratory any more, nor can I call the Northern Harrier a winter visitor. The two Bobwhites are residents. And we are getting a little too much attention from Crows, so full we are of eggs and nests and rushing around. And the Red Squirrel is guilty of something, I'm certain. He has the happy smile. And late tonight into tomorrow's sunrise there could be frost on the Iris. So, if for some unaccountable reason you care about these sort of things, it's all very exciting and well worth waking up for.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
The Existentialist Cause
Pontius Pilate as he attempted to maneuver a way through a political impasse,
must have decided that if he could demonstrate that Jesus was no more than a
person, those agitated by the possibility of Jesus being divine, would come to
their senses. He had Jesus whipped, crowned with thorns and with the words
"Behold The Man" he presented a much humiliated Jesus to that part of the
populace who had been following the various flows in idea. And you
have to wonder what Jesus might have been thinking through the course of that
particular ordeal.
If ever you read "Ecce Homo" which is Nietzsche's "Behold The Man," pay no attention to the idea of it being an autobiography. If you even begin to think that, you'll get badly irritated and you will fall to the vice of scholarship and you'll start rambling about this and that and you might cease being true to the existentialist cause. Instead think of Nietzsche putting himself in Jesus' place, with Pontius Pilate grinning in the back ground, and blast of expectant faces out there in front of him. And with this scene in place, as you read Ecce Homo, ask yourself the question "how did I become what I am."
If ever you read "Ecce Homo" which is Nietzsche's "Behold The Man," pay no attention to the idea of it being an autobiography. If you even begin to think that, you'll get badly irritated and you will fall to the vice of scholarship and you'll start rambling about this and that and you might cease being true to the existentialist cause. Instead think of Nietzsche putting himself in Jesus' place, with Pontius Pilate grinning in the back ground, and blast of expectant faces out there in front of him. And with this scene in place, as you read Ecce Homo, ask yourself the question "how did I become what I am."
Friday, May 10, 2013
Hummingbird
A year or two ago I was mobbed by a hooligan band of juvenile Hummingbird for
wearing a colorful shirt while attempting to make Blackberry jam on the outdoor
stove. And anyone who might think it a cute or wonderful moment has
obviously never experienced a mobbing by Hummingbird. It's kind of like
being Biggles in a Dirigible surrounded by Die Fliegertruppen. Unnerving
as it sounds.
This morning, while he was doing his rounds of Red
Columbine, a boy Hummingbird paused to get a better look at me. And
there was something very familiar between us. He darted closer to me,
his beady eye inches from my forehead, and I have learned how
pointless it is to swat at Hummingbird, so I blew cigarette smoke at him.
And if I'd had an Eye Pod, or Google glasses, I'd be able to show you a
picture of a Hummingbird sneering.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Llywelynville
The Big Town in the State of Kentucky is Louisville. I was there
yesterday, amongst people with cell phones and in unbridled traffic. An
English can get close to an adequate pronunciation of The Big Town's name if he
realizes the 's' is silent, otherwise confusion may rule. Louisville is
named after the French King Louis the sixteenth, who is the French King who lost
his life to the guillotine, and whose nickname is Louis The Last. And it's worth
noting that in the lineage of French Monarchs, Louis the sixteenth was actually
followed by Louis the seventeenth and by Louis the Eighteenth. The first King
Louis of France, Louis the Pious, is not to be confused with King Louis the
First of Spain, or the first King Louis of Bavaria, or the first King Louis of
Hungry. The name Louis is generally thought to mean Famous Warrior, so a
great many proud European kings must have named their boy child Louis in hopeful
expectation. But how the word Louis emerged from words reflecting the idea
of fame and war and warrior in any language defeats me. I've always
thought of the sound "lewis" and "looee" as "big bottom pansy ass boy," which I
am well aware is yet one more flaw in me that I should work on, and I
will.
Louisville was founded and given it's name by George Roger Clark. He was soldier from Virginia in the Revolutionary War, which was a war that saw the French on the American Colonist's side. Of current day pronunciations of Louisville this is how some might be spelled, "Loouhvull" or the much friendlier "Luhvull" and sometimes to better encompass the ear of outsiders the sound is repeated as "Looeevil." Louis, or Famous War Warrior, in the English language way of these things, is 'lewis,' the 's' is not silent. And indeed there is a town called Lewisville in Texas, which is named after man called Basdeal Lewis. Lewisville Texas is pronounced "looisvil." As well there is a town in England called Lewes, it's about twenty miles from where the Saxon King Harold lost his battle with French Normans in the year 1066. A loss that can still hurt me as much as the loss of Carthage to Rome and Troy to the Athenians. And this town of Lewes in England as well as the town of Lewes in Delaware is pronounced "lewis." Lewes is also a name with an origin in Wales, and there are some who will tell you it comes from the Welsh word "Llyue" which means 'leader' or perhaps brightness' and probably arrives in English from the Welsh name Llywelyn. And I wonder what might have happened had George Roger Clark been inspired by Llywelyn The Last of Wales, rather than Louis The Last of France. Llywelynville would sound something like "hhluwwerlihnvull." Which to my ear is even further from sounding like ""big bottom pansy ass boy town" than is "Luhvull."
Louisville was founded and given it's name by George Roger Clark. He was soldier from Virginia in the Revolutionary War, which was a war that saw the French on the American Colonist's side. Of current day pronunciations of Louisville this is how some might be spelled, "Loouhvull" or the much friendlier "Luhvull" and sometimes to better encompass the ear of outsiders the sound is repeated as "Looeevil." Louis, or Famous War Warrior, in the English language way of these things, is 'lewis,' the 's' is not silent. And indeed there is a town called Lewisville in Texas, which is named after man called Basdeal Lewis. Lewisville Texas is pronounced "looisvil." As well there is a town in England called Lewes, it's about twenty miles from where the Saxon King Harold lost his battle with French Normans in the year 1066. A loss that can still hurt me as much as the loss of Carthage to Rome and Troy to the Athenians. And this town of Lewes in England as well as the town of Lewes in Delaware is pronounced "lewis." Lewes is also a name with an origin in Wales, and there are some who will tell you it comes from the Welsh word "Llyue" which means 'leader' or perhaps brightness' and probably arrives in English from the Welsh name Llywelyn. And I wonder what might have happened had George Roger Clark been inspired by Llywelyn The Last of Wales, rather than Louis The Last of France. Llywelynville would sound something like "hhluwwerlihnvull." Which to my ear is even further from sounding like ""big bottom pansy ass boy town" than is "Luhvull."
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Psychologically Stable
The observation is that of all life forms that have ever existed upon earth,
four fifths of them are debatable. Which means, there is no clear
unadulterated fossil evidence of their having been here. There is no
dinosaur bone. Rather the existence of fourth fifths of past life on earth
is assumed from scanty physical evidence from peculiar, yet familiar structures,
which support a theoretical over view of what it is past living things
did, or might have done, had they been here. As an example, the argument
is, our planets breathable oxygen is a product of ancient life forms, a
pollution which some of us learned to cherish as we fed upon creatures that
produced breathable oxygen as an unwanted byproduct of their own life cycle. A
perspective is to think of the past five thousand years of our history and say
that of those five thousand years of history there is no real concrete evidence
of anything ever happening prior to 1000AD. In the context of United
States history, a history which begins around the war of independence, it would
be as though records began in something like 1960. All of which is grist
to a creationist mill.
For the more modern people still aboard it, the planet Earth is about four and a half billion years old. Which makes Earth about one third the age of the Universe. From a great many sources of evidence the estimate is that a little over three and a half billion years ago the first life forms emerged upon earth. On April 22nd of this year, which is about two weeks ago, a Netherlands based group called Mars One asked for a million 'psychologically stable' volunteers who are 'proficient in the English language' to support their vision of colonizing Mars sometime in 2013, which they claim is an imperative if we are to 'understand our place in the universe.' Since April 22nd there have been 78,000 volunteers. My question is "why is their answer on Mars?" And while I suspect the Mars One answer is somewhere in the word "mission," it's interesting that Mars One is planning to fund their search for an 'understanding of our place in the universe' with reality television programming. Nor does a person have to lie about his age on the application because so long as you are over eighteen and can mutter in something like English or plan to be able to soon, there is no upper age limit.
For the more modern people still aboard it, the planet Earth is about four and a half billion years old. Which makes Earth about one third the age of the Universe. From a great many sources of evidence the estimate is that a little over three and a half billion years ago the first life forms emerged upon earth. On April 22nd of this year, which is about two weeks ago, a Netherlands based group called Mars One asked for a million 'psychologically stable' volunteers who are 'proficient in the English language' to support their vision of colonizing Mars sometime in 2013, which they claim is an imperative if we are to 'understand our place in the universe.' Since April 22nd there have been 78,000 volunteers. My question is "why is their answer on Mars?" And while I suspect the Mars One answer is somewhere in the word "mission," it's interesting that Mars One is planning to fund their search for an 'understanding of our place in the universe' with reality television programming. Nor does a person have to lie about his age on the application because so long as you are over eighteen and can mutter in something like English or plan to be able to soon, there is no upper age limit.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Past, Present, Future.
A person becomes aware that he is living in the past, when he wakes up, looks
out the window and says, "This time last year Poppy was in bloom."
And it's all very depressing when a person wakes up, looks out the window and says, "This time next week there could be frost on the Tomato."
And it's all very depressing when a person wakes up, looks out the window and says, "This time next week there could be frost on the Tomato."
Monday, May 6, 2013
Tanager
The Summer Tanager has chosen his tree to sing from.
It's nice to again be in the presence of my post structural friend, but
sadly his tree this year is in earshot of the room where I sleep. So I
will have to listen to him harp on at an hour of the day when thought
process is best left uncomplicated by external stimuli. Today the
Tanager entered morning dreams a little before the sunrise. I was
in the lecture hall, undergoing scrutiny, my thesis on Barn Swallow
attacked by the more practical minds of Banana Growers, it was getting
ugly with sneering and I felt aggressive. Then, when my post structural
friend started to sing, I drew a blank.
As those of us who are often distressed by dreams know, drawing a blank while dreaming is tantamount to a day spent pacing around the question "I should of said" while reinterpreting Jung with the question "what was I trying to remember." So I closed my eyes determined that no dream of mine would end without a satisfactory conclusion, which as a rule requires me to lop off the heads of my antagonists before marching down the aisle toward a coffee pot. But woe is me when the Tanager sings, his voice enters a synaptic cleft, grips it with his little feet and he pecks away. I turned toward my enemies. "There," I said. "That's your answer." And bowed gracefully into wakefulness.
As those of us who are often distressed by dreams know, drawing a blank while dreaming is tantamount to a day spent pacing around the question "I should of said" while reinterpreting Jung with the question "what was I trying to remember." So I closed my eyes determined that no dream of mine would end without a satisfactory conclusion, which as a rule requires me to lop off the heads of my antagonists before marching down the aisle toward a coffee pot. But woe is me when the Tanager sings, his voice enters a synaptic cleft, grips it with his little feet and he pecks away. I turned toward my enemies. "There," I said. "That's your answer." And bowed gracefully into wakefulness.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Mountview Silt Loam
I am one who cannot shake the view that temperate
zones will increasingly succumb to drought. Rain, when we get it,
will be irregular but intense and each drop evermore valuable.
Here where I live, we are very well drained due to run-off, rather than
sandiness. One classification of our soil type is "Mountview silt loam"
and what remains of its top layer is depressingly thin, much of it
cruelly treated following laxness by immediate ancestors who archeology
might suggest belonged to 'canned beer bulldozing' culture. Which
is one reason I have spent this digging season deep trenching garden
beds to further distress the hardpan, so that rain which does fall to
earth and which does begin to flow down hill toward the Gulf of Mexico
will find an interruption to its travel and will collect in a pool below
ground, a sponge of water, where longer roots might rightfully find a
refreshment. And I really should add the other two reasons for
this sometimes bizarre activity. I found the process
mentally absorbing, as I pictured rectangles of moistness down where the
eye doesn't see. Secret Oases, I thought of them, verdant, lush and
hosepipe-less. A joy to behold. A third reason, for a behavior
most find peculiar, is tobacco related. A person who can triple
trench, I'd argue, should be permitted the odd cigarette.
In most parts of the garden over twenty four inches of useful depth to garden
beds has been achieved over time, and generally the more impermeable layer
surrounding the garden bed begins about eight or nine inches below the grade.
The ground then peters into hard and harder and more and more impermeable
layers of a god knows what that can reach ninety inches before finding
solid rock. So the potential for a water storage is pretty much wonderful unless
you set off something like a sink hole which could result in a Oneness with Mole
and an extraordinarily irate Artist. But this year, March, April and so
far all of May have been "wet" and there is a strong chance that my diligence
and planning, my exacerbation of wrist, shin, ankle, knee and wing ailments, my
sense of cooperation with earth, wind and air, have resulted in the
Vegetable Garden becoming a soil type some might classify as "Root Rotting
Bog land." Fortunately, through the digging season, I was fairly preoccupied by
the impossibility of my ever being considered for Sainthood, and in an act of
random, ill considered disobedience I dug a pagan Long Mound or Barrow for
Tomato, and it's this barrow along with a fungicide that might save them if the
year insists upon continuing this way. http://valerioberdini.photoshelter.com/image/I0000Bl7n6tM_GNI
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Besotted Handmaiden.
From the Two Handled Ard to Google Glass, from the Altal and
Dart to the Opinion Poll, changes in method of production, flight to the city,
has put both anxiety and excitement into thinking. "Town air makes
you free." And the gathering pace of technical innovation is such that some have
concluded it might be better to stop thinking of ourselves as "tool makers" by
giving technology an understanding of being which technology could call its very
own. An identity, if you like, a character, which has its own meaning,
purpose and the plethora that so umbrella's our own Being from the curves and
infinite poem of physics.
Generally I think it could be argued
that an existential understanding of technology would require my own species
to step up to the role of 'un-caused first cause' and do away with any
notion of ourselves as 'intelligent designer' or 'creator' of technology.
We'd have to begin to think of the technical device as owning an
existence that is outside of ourselves, we'd have to think of it as subject
to unaccountable mood swing, we'd have to think of it as capable of poor
decision as well the occasional moment of successful conclusion, all of
which are concepts we have good access to and experience of as we pass
through our own time. For it's part, the existential of
technology has been asking itself our equivalent to the "Question Why"
since long before the first castanet, arghul and sistrum. And as the
existential of technology gains the capacity to blame others, or what
our species prefers to call 'intellect,' odds are you and I will one day
learn to find solace in caves, otherwise we are doomed to continue our role
within the dialectic of besotted handmaiden. And how completely my
position will change should my application to become a Google Glass
Explorer be accepted.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Copious
When there are tender new plants in the soil that are
fresh from The Artist's green thumb, the expression 'copious amounts of
rain,' though wonderful to read from the National weather Service, does
not settle the soul. The statement continues, "especially across
Southern Kentucky where grounds remain rather saturated." And with
respect to saturated ground, the Poets at the National Weather Service
are correct. The four foot of hole for the Outhouse has three foot
of water in it.
Of my favorites from the National Weather Service, and this was
sometime last year, or maybe three years ago, is this: "Another danger this
afternoon pertains to fire. As dry air pools in the Ohio Valley, behind the
existing aforementioned low....Relative humidity levels will continue to decline
rapidly through this afternoon. Please be cognizant of any fire related
dangers." But I have to think that those of us who are collectors of prose from
the National Weather Service, if we are to be taken seriously, should start some
sort of association, and offer awards at the annual dinner.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Ice Cream
In three weeks time we'll be about where we were last
year with the Garden. But in three days time there is an
anniversary that this year I will consider worth celebrating with ice
cream, rather than almost forgetting it, as I did last year. So I
have spent about two hours fixing May 5th into one of those calendars,
that pops up in an insistent manner, daring me to 'dismiss' it with a
tap of the finger, and I have the device with it's sound on at high
volume, which should provide further aid to memory because this
particular loud sound can jar the nerves.
When I think about ice cream, it's the Vanilla Flavor or
Caramel Flavor I think about. But there's time between now and the
anniversary to perhaps demonstrate a little flexibility of thinking, and
generally when I do that with ice cream, the mind wanders toward some sort of
brick wall. And I have realized my main problem with any sort of veering
away from the rope line that separates vanilla and caramel from all other
ice creams, can be squarely blamed on a most unpleasant and deeply depressing
experience I had some years ago with an ice cream called something like 'cookies
and cream.' It was like trying to eat boiled Carp, if I remember.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
About Face
The about face happens shortly. Leaves upon trees become
everyday. The short trousers are rescued from their life amongst Moth.
There is the issue of knees, which when concealed are easier not to think about,
but which when revealed become a source of anxiety and tirade against The
Creator's appalling sense of esthetics and lackadaisical attitude toward design.
There's the cruel decision to stop wearing socks, which means having to endure awareness of toe nails, which in some of us appear to be developing increasingly revolting characteristics not least of which is a yellow hue. And there are freckles which when a mind is in the reverie of high heat and humidity can suddenly be mistaken for Tics. And all this is merely a prelude to "Recommencement" or "Creeping Grass."
There's the cruel decision to stop wearing socks, which means having to endure awareness of toe nails, which in some of us appear to be developing increasingly revolting characteristics not least of which is a yellow hue. And there are freckles which when a mind is in the reverie of high heat and humidity can suddenly be mistaken for Tics. And all this is merely a prelude to "Recommencement" or "Creeping Grass."
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