The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
FOSSILS
How shadows fall through evening's breeze, some sharp, some lacking focus. All the yard is a sea, backlit green, with friends gathering. Doves land on the fence, one dropping down to the feeder. A robin in the bird bath splashes water everywhere, sparkling jewels in the sun. Mr. Finch lands on my cushion, followed by one of the youngsters, who is getting more grownup. These are the longest days, yesterday was high noon at the tropic of Cancer. With lots to do, they fly away quickly, leaving the cookie crumbs undisturbed.
I knew there was something to write. But where to begin? The uncultivated ignoramus destruction – stupidity. Idyllic weather, considering the new abnormal studiously ignored, is an anomaly. It's either too obvious or not enough. The words can't get written fast enough, aren't good enough anyway.
Earlier, and maybe my inspiration, out of subconscious summation came an image from the literature of India. The goddess with a thousand eyes. Which has always impressed me as fantastic. But then that interpretation lost traction after I dropped acid and experienced my own, live, mandala. I haven't experienced the goddess that way, but she's not exactly disbelieved either.
Until, blip!
All the innumerable images, and compilations into strategies, personas, intelligence factors, prognostications, interpretations ~ all the vast sea of “me” ~ my thousand eyes!
Well, perhaps droll for anyone who'd rather not be bothered. Robin has returned for another bird splash.
For a long time I've wondered how to say what seems so stupidly obvious. How the doomsday machine, overpopulation, tolerance of elites, climate change ~don't they altogether in a singular mention form one indigestible bolus? Like everyone, I grew up in a world of pervasive propaganda taken for reality. In any civilization there will be propaganda, beliefs, a thousand eyes carefully nurtured, one by one. But then, blip!
The answer – choice is possible. Balance population with the planet's limitations. Choose not to work in the war machine, but to dismantle it. End the fossil combustion party. It goes on. Choose for people, planet, life, Mr. Finch and the horses, kangaroos, whales, clams, a whole writerly conglomeration, but you get the idea.
Yeah. But you know what? It's really hard to concentrate on all that when it's so nice out here, but who knows maybe this place gets an earthquake. Or, if I last long enough and the climate continues to change faster, sea rise and torrential rains will flood this patio. A dove has come to peck seeds around the legs of my chair.
Just caught one of those eyes in the act of blinking. The sun is dipping below roof tops. Guess it's getting too late to write anything.
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The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_