not a story

It has a beginning and a middle but no end, so how could it be a story? No plot, just character(s) and setting. Signs and symbols are everywhere. Language is so secondary, it almost gets in the way. And there's the rub. I'm not sure declarative sentences are possible without distortion. Where does subject end and predicate begin? Did subject X do that to object Y, or did things mutually and simultaneously shape themselves and each other?

Can you dig?

After my meeting Saturday morning, I had a second breakfast and went directly to the compost pile. Something told me it was time for the ritual dismantling of compost from the past year, marrying its remains with the vegetable beds, and thus preparing the garden for this year's planting, amen.

The wooden structure surrounding the compost had been in place for about a year, so it was time to liberate the alchemical stuff to begin its next incarnation as soil. I raked the lower two-thirds out into the bed and spread it evenly over the ground. Now it will settle and mingle, get rained on, blend in, and spread all that organic goodness.

The sun was out in all its glory, so I took my shirt off and got a mild burn, but it was worth it. Like Steve Zink, a friend of a friend at Purdue back in the day, who admitted that listening to Hendrix at full volume on headphones probably caused some permanent hearing loss, but he insists he got the better end of the deal.

It was just a great day to be outside, what can I say, not much. I didn't do much except pull a few weeds, transplant a few perennials from full spots to empty spots, empty the week's kitchen compost scraps into the now nearly empty enclosure, and cover it with a wheelbarrow full of weeds, and call it a day.

Somewhere in there, Gven Golly came outside and we talked about a pergola. Meals were eaten, coffee, water, and beer consumed. Rumor has it more (weeds, compost, soil, vegetables, raking, digging, food, drink) will follow in the future.