Who is going to weed this?
The emotives, artistics visionaries in outlook, have uncovered their agrarian roots. While their tent world is airing, these balmy days call up the genius of gardening. Spring opens all that will come; fruits, vegetables, viney growths, sprouting green goodies, the gentle haze of chartreuse over loamy soil ( a spread of lightly sanded microbial nursery and grave). No bugs yet, just a few bees gathering in the ditches pollinating flowering weeds.
But surely the bugs will come, with associated fears and pain, and the delicate delights now coloring the roadside will spread happily among the rows of newly planted edibles. The elbowing for sunlight, the spreading drinking roots, the happily (are plants happy?) gnarling fertilized stems will need removing. Killing (killing a happy plant?) from these purposeful rows, now neatly tilled valleys of ancient worm graves, will be required.
The circus, as mentioned, uses part of the tent for their menagerie, assuring a plentiful supply of manure to replenish the soil (though not likely to return it to the prelapsarian) but maybe allowing some dance of a sort: a grim pass between danger and delight, beast and grace, weed and fruit, stench and aroma.
Sometimes (maybe always) even the simplest places have layers, some meaning veiling some other meaning. Myth upon measurable truth, nobility upon coarse brutality, angels (the good kind) upon fearsome savage, all contained in a few squares of a measurement; studied surface laid upon the unfathomable. Aromatic manure upon antique compost, all feeding weediness (and so the question – who will weed?)…and maybe…gain fruitfulness.
As spring moves souls and seeds this world of effusive artistics has a plethora of planters. But the garden holds sparse hopes for abundant fruitful harvesting, considering the happy weeds and the plentiful old and new manure, and it being probably bereft of weeders.
Planters are cocky, forward, proud; the harvesters self-congratulatory: but in between must be the weeders (when employable), hot, bug-bit, bent, ill-tempered; maybe also feeding a crotchety delight in killing. Across the road crop farmers use chemicals, kind-of crotchetiness in a bottle.
But, for this artistic’s garden, the only hope is that a disciplined few will be weed editors.
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 