Wandering the savage garden…


There was a young man from south Georgia who thought that raccoons could be tamed.

He thought it was cute how their eyes were ringed, like masks, but had no idea how such masks might be considered to be effective.

So he tried to arm a raccoon with a staff – a two-foot piece of PVC pipe – but he never could figure out which raccoon he was trying to arm, or against what the raccoon would use the weapon.

Perhaps he thought raccoons were predatory, and needed a blunt weapon to be more effective. It’s hard to say.

A girl wanted to become a calligrapher, but she disliked liquid ink; she couldn’t write with pencil, either, so she found herself trying to draw with ball-point pens, with thick ink. It was not a pretty attempt. Her calligraphy mostly seemed to signify that her limitations prevented her aspirations, despite her desperation.

Her friends mostly thought she was a little nuts.

A dog howled at the planes overhead. It had no problem with the moon, or the stars; it found that it could frighten away clouds by shouting at them, especially if there was a strong wind. However, planes were its special enemies, and it would not countenance them; it yapped at them until they left his line of sight, which usually didn’t take very long. However, planes were stupid; they kept coming back, over and over again.

His owner mostly regretted buying a home that wasn’t too far from an airport.

Blue always wanted to be yellow; yellow thought white was a little proud of itself, so it would try to stain anything of white, perhaps by harmonizing poorly. It just wasn’t fair, yellow thought ,and it never once considered how blue might have felt, staring at yellow from afar, silently watching and waiting.

Yellow was a little bit afraid of red; sure, it was close by, but red always seemed so… passive compared to what it could be. Yellow was pretty sure red was going to snap some day, and the yellow would leak and fade. Then what would be left? Green?

How tragic.

The grass didn’t care about any of this. The grass only grew when the sun was overhead, when the days were warm, and slept when the sun went away and the cold came. The grass was content, and didn’t know that it was the color that earned yellow’s silent contempt, or that it might have served the calligrapher better than her poor writing utensils, or that the boy had no idea what raccoons actually were, or that he loved the raccoons despite his ignorance. The grass couldn’t even hear the dog, or the planes that terrified it so.

The grass just grew, and died, and grew, and died.

The grass was happier than the rest of them.

None of them knew what it all meant.

But someone did, and does.

BTW, this might have been the least edited, most accurate picture of “the process” for me that I’ve ever managed to create.

2 Responses to “Truth

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