Sunday, January 6, 2019


As the day warmed your gardener reintroduced himself to his shovel, and I can tell you this much it wasn't the act of particularly willing gardener rather it was the act of a sniveling and guilty gardener. You can't just sit in your boy cave happily contemplating glamorous octagonal towers for Gormenghast while the sun works the earth into the beginnings of a frenzy that gives those more aggressive of our number their chance to escape their own contemplation of octagonal towers. They too have empires to conquer, horizons to seek out, pogroms to conduct, and they're all considerably younger than I am, many yet to germinate. The thing is it's only the beginning of January, so in some respects we did feel foolish enough to smile at Walnut trees but at least the rest of us realized the call of purpose instead of just sitting there in blissful nothingness.

The experience felt more like an act of contrition, just a little less severe than being directed by a monk to beat myself with chains. Yet I did sense the passage of the season as I worked the more suspicious of my many parts, the back, the knees, the left foot, the wing, it's a longish list. And it was interesting to sense this passage or whatever it was because the idea of "passing across" and the particular kind of movement those two words inspire has for some produced an insight into the way thinking works and what it might be. There's memory, there's facts, there are desires and passions which are often produced by knee jerk and vengeful chemical reactions in the older parts of a person's mind, and there's this misty thing which passes over and through these stubborn rocks, does a little dance of victory, maybe laughs before it moves on.  Yes indeed all the great minds are proud gravediggers, their books are their tombstones.

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