She's a good friend of mine.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Secret Garden
So it begins. My Garden Column.
Maybe Row would be a more appropriate name.
Although little of my gardening is done in rows.
It tends to circle the bottoms of spruce trees, or climb over crumbling walls. It spills over hillsides, splits around sandstone, then flows into what's left of the lawn.
And is little-tended.
Our garden rises from cracks in the paving. Sets root in the gutters and downspouts. Birds help us to plant it. And often the rain or the wind.
Much of what we do is not-do--we simply get out of the way.
Take one chemmed lawn. Soak it with snowmelt and rain. Send out a hound dog and sheep dog to mix things up a bit, then voila! A new vein of gold emerges. A luscious crop of golden morel mushrooms in May, after the redbud undresses.
Could I be so free with such information with a crop worth a small fortune?
The sun's fading. Time to respire a bit.
But I promise, stick-scooter, I will be back.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Dormant Season
A fine reader complained about the lack of posts. I apologize.
I'm not playing tricks on the scooter in the sticks.
Truth is, I'm still underground.
That's the reason. It's the dormant season.
The previous posts were mere first sounds.
I promise, I'll be back around.
Cyl M. Lnlord
I'm not playing tricks on the scooter in the sticks.
Truth is, I'm still underground.
That's the reason. It's the dormant season.
The previous posts were mere first sounds.
I promise, I'll be back around.
Cyl M. Lnlord
Friday, November 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Something tries to be born, online
I'm waiting for my teacher to wake and teach me some language. I lost mine in an unfortunate incident. He just went to sleep so it could be hours 'til he's coherent. Maybe I best close up here myself. What do you do--pull the plugs out of the wall? Pour something somniferous into its guts? Some infusion from the night garden, maybe. Although they never worked for me.
Maybe this box has a switch, like my teacher's. Flip the light off on the ceiling above his head and he's gone.
Right now, I just want to find the SLEEP button. The one with the little sheep on it. Or thought-balloon full of zzzs. Maybe it will be round and white with numbers engraved into a talc-y surface: 714. This I know: I want to get back to that dream I was having this morning.
About a house like a hotel or city, with a garden or pool on every floor. Wide hallways like boulevards; swinging bridges that crossed construction into older, darker wings. The boulevard split into narrower corridors, some completely open to the side of a lake, then woodland, the flooring in the hallway more organic now, soft with humus and moss. I took a set of steps that appeared to lead back to the core of the building with wooden risers, solid walls, a Persian rug or two, but instead entered a second endless hall, past what looked like a series of bedrooms, some empty, some inhabited. I wondered if I should toss my bag into one of them; lay claim. The hallway turned and zagged up then down ramps, a small flights of stairs, and through a long, low-lit tunnel, until emerging into an open area divided into ancient laboratories. The shelves, which smelled of linseed oil, held inscrutable old instruments. Boxes on the floors and lab benches overflowed with parts looking vaguely electronic, others held blown-glass forms and old brown bottles with indecipherable labels. I'd noticed a shimmer of wildflowers as I passed the lake; I scanned the lab benches and glass-fronted shelves for something vase-like: an old Erlenmeyer flask, volumetric flask, glass beaker, even a glass reagent bottle or separatory funnel, a porcelain crucible. I noticed a row of old bell jars, the kind made from warbley green-tinted glass, the kind I used to grow delicate formations within, so long ago, with a different name, and I wondered then, with rising hopes, that maybe, maybe, one of the people passing through here would know how to find them--
I really need to find the Off button for this machine. A storm is heading this way. If I wait long enough, lightening may knock out the power, put it to rest. Me rest. Everybody rest. All resting within emanations of our own making--REM, Eminem, S&M, Auntie Em. Go and get 'em.
Maybe this box has a switch, like my teacher's. Flip the light off on the ceiling above his head and he's gone.
Right now, I just want to find the SLEEP button. The one with the little sheep on it. Or thought-balloon full of zzzs. Maybe it will be round and white with numbers engraved into a talc-y surface: 714. This I know: I want to get back to that dream I was having this morning.
About a house like a hotel or city, with a garden or pool on every floor. Wide hallways like boulevards; swinging bridges that crossed construction into older, darker wings. The boulevard split into narrower corridors, some completely open to the side of a lake, then woodland, the flooring in the hallway more organic now, soft with humus and moss. I took a set of steps that appeared to lead back to the core of the building with wooden risers, solid walls, a Persian rug or two, but instead entered a second endless hall, past what looked like a series of bedrooms, some empty, some inhabited. I wondered if I should toss my bag into one of them; lay claim. The hallway turned and zagged up then down ramps, a small flights of stairs, and through a long, low-lit tunnel, until emerging into an open area divided into ancient laboratories. The shelves, which smelled of linseed oil, held inscrutable old instruments. Boxes on the floors and lab benches overflowed with parts looking vaguely electronic, others held blown-glass forms and old brown bottles with indecipherable labels. I'd noticed a shimmer of wildflowers as I passed the lake; I scanned the lab benches and glass-fronted shelves for something vase-like: an old Erlenmeyer flask, volumetric flask, glass beaker, even a glass reagent bottle or separatory funnel, a porcelain crucible. I noticed a row of old bell jars, the kind made from warbley green-tinted glass, the kind I used to grow delicate formations within, so long ago, with a different name, and I wondered then, with rising hopes, that maybe, maybe, one of the people passing through here would know how to find them--
I really need to find the Off button for this machine. A storm is heading this way. If I wait long enough, lightening may knock out the power, put it to rest. Me rest. Everybody rest. All resting within emanations of our own making--REM, Eminem, S&M, Auntie Em. Go and get 'em.
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