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.
Somedays just want to be enjoyed, a breezy Spring day, full of new green – the pale soft new green full of new sun and new waters – on a new breeze.
Someday, with the sun at the appropriate inclination, the ground at the appropriate warmth, the wind at the appropriate breeziness, the picnic table appropriately leveled (to keep our bombs from falling off), the fears appropriately displaced, for now…maybe.
Someday fancihatted twisted crazies might just take a walk, not searching for anything, not for some personal goal, just a walk, some wandering in the breeze for now.
Someday just a picnic ( like We had offered at first) no drama, just a breeze and some nibbles awaiting nothing, nothing, nothing…without the turbulent gyrating synoptic folderol (okay maybe with some pleasant wine or cool frothy beer).
Somedays we remember we now eat the harvest we saw six months ago, now it is plowing, tilling, seeding time, six months from now another harvest.
Someday, maybe this day will be remembered; opening the flaps of the tent, airing it out: letting the breeze do what we can’t…move the past onto someplace other than…now.
Someday to maybe just take a walk, for now, will a picnic just be there?
Turbulence, the synapses keep firing, twists and turns (a bit embarrassing).
What inside keeps it all going? memories? rituals? codifying dreams? efforts? (oh my God the failures), the faint loss? the unattained? the firing nerves…maybe that is all, just firing nerves.
The haptic synapses, oh how embarrassing, do they mature? Do synapses wrap up the Divine… this matter?
Melted ice and dried thorns, bits of petals, leaves, still attached; crumbles of things. Its’ Spring, or, what’s left over from Winter. Ice and thorns and turbulence, now warmed. Some day this will lift up again, as if the past is now just sleeping.
Caught in the backwaters, what beauty has sustained is not to be noticed, but that beauty is still there, right?
The river does keep flowing wetness, damp alive black soil wetness that thickets will carry forth…upward… as green, green, green. Here (where winter browns and grays all life) those little shoots of green green green… matter. As if matter was The Divine.
As to matter, or “what matters most”; isn’t that Realm… thicker, richer, fogs denser, cold deeper, warmth more enduring, colors more revealing, under a brighter sun? A vibrancy of stories?
Stories, it is always best (for power) to know the other man’s sins, or better yet failures. Reminiscence of old times (among friends, in front of the young) does often bring forth an event which shadows so much. Some path through the turbulent synapses: a hidden story of pointed embarrassment.
And yet we all begin embarrassed.
And so we start all over again, the green, green, green (or maybe a different color) to variations along the same path, firing off similar (but oh so personal… stories); lost in the tragedy laughing, or surprised in the comedy crying.
It is common to reduce the Divinity to concepts best reserved for choosing bathroom towels, to wrap about, to cover what matters, to know…embarrassment.