In the storm of daily life I have found that once written and tossed into the ether a statement becomes like a tablet down from the mountain. Otherwise it's all just a morass of "Maybe Tomorrow." Which is why I will announce two potlatches. The one is more of a fair warning, and the other is a definite "Will Do." The fair warning has to do with a technical device, it will involve a sledge hammer and a blow torch, and should the technical device again revert to a Bolshevik attitude toward function there will be a berserker moment behind the barn, followed by loud wailing, and the inevitable tears of regret.
The "Will Do" potlatch has to do with A Vestry of Monnow. My own arrogance and
hubris will be humbled in the fire. It's more of a delete button, but none the
less the flames are no less absolute, the thing will be gone, wiped from the
world, off to oblivion, and your writer of pulp will re-climb the hill. This
time with a fresh eye, and with luck something like a well thought out plan that
results in a comprehensive conclusion, bells, whistles and an idea of "Yes that
makes sense." Anyway it's all very exciting and does provide a frail comfort to
the often incredibly depressing process of putting a vegetable garden to sleep.
I'm certain you'll agree, there's something horrific about ripping out the