Saturday, May 28, 2005
Blissfully Mutilated. I swear to god I look like one of those teenagers who takes razor blades to her arms and legs. But the mutilation comes from the brambles of the garden, not a razor. Now I know what the hell Voltaire was talking about i.e. you can't change the big picture unless maybe you are Clinton, Bush, or Bono so you go for the small picture: creating a sanctuary... Mind you I grew up in a city devoid of garden of any kind. But this isn't stopping me from pruning, weeding, planting, snipping, hauling -- as if I knew what I was doing. Which is surely how I got that wicked case of poison ivy last summer just before we went to Ireland. But I digress. It feels so good to get lost. Into a zone. To hold one's breath that the perennials provided by a friend will thrive. To close your eyes at night and only see weeds and soil. Thinking is, I think, highly overrated sometimes. At least for those who see the dark side of mankind. The mankind who destroys its environment and each other like a virus (remember the Matrix ). Ignorance is, indeed, bliss.
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