The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
HERESAY FIFTEEN
Riffing on depth of consciousness, let's consider ripples in a spring. No one changes what just happens. It's like a cirrus cloud scudding high, puzzling not one bird. Even in the land of dreams none of this escapes attention. Pundits might change the subject or look the other way, to laden the ship of state with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Salami and cheese. In London a black cab green badge cabbie navigates The Knowledge, and just incidentally the streets.
Sitting at kitchen table, “I am one eight billionth of the problem/solution.”
(Muse -- why do you bother me so?)
Well, one must think outside the submarine. So I no longer make missiles or write tech manuals. It was way back when a neighbor posted my resume on the bulletin board of a hardware store where he worked. And I got my first job as a gardener. Overqualified for pumping gas, but that didn't matter. What I no longer was became a qualification. Having vacated my place of work, a confinement carefully prepared, meant leaving former coworkers -- inmates -- “Oh, he actually did something.”
So then new friends. And drugs, sex, rock and roll, peace on earth, ecology, Esalen, EST, the I Ching, astrology, stacking rocks . . .
Then the bottom fell out of my bucket. Several lifetimes.
Now I no longer eat meat. Tobacco, psilocybin, alcohol and the like are no longer interesting. Normality seems an odd concern; it hasn't much value for the problem/solution.
So there you go, Muse. You maybe thought you threw me a curve ball? Or maybe not. I think we're friends. We still know there's a better way.
Sand fleas get washed away periodically – have you ever tried to count them? Before you're done they're gone. An arabesque of abalone shell is polished by the sea. Abstract sworls of luminescence are shimmers that have escaped the mind, as though looking through the wrong end of a telescope into traces of kaleidoscopic light. Just so many arrangements are possible on a given beach. Infinity, after all, is a single word. The problem has exhausted some few who have pursued it. It tickles my toes at ebb tide.
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The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_