When the grass needs cutting

Jun 9, 2013 by

Diary

Tree in need of leaves. | charlesotn, w.va. | westvirginiaville.com photo

tree in need of leaves. | charleston, w.va. | westvirginiaville.com photo

The grass needs cutting, it’s that damn season when
the grass always needs cutting. Not to mention the spidery
brown corpses of last year’s porch-side plants I still haven’t
ripped out yet. I need to go to Lowes and get new pretty growing
things. Something purple, say. And yellow. And get down on my knees
and wallow and root about in the dark earth. They tell me it will
make me happy and reconnect me to the primordial loam.

Yet this empty Sunday afternoon, as my government hoovers up all
the data it can about me (and you), a veritable stripmining of zeros and ones,
the ones that tell everything about everything and nothing about everything, a
great lassitude takes hold. The earth, as usual, is going to hell in a
handbasket from Pier One Imports. Woven, perhaps, by slaving
thirteen-year-olds in a factory that will burn next month, bodies
piled behind the one locked exit door. Or was that last week?

It’s easy to be flippant about the news when you are trying to weave a
First World Ojo de Dios, a few words from your easy chair in a pink room
in front of a retina-friendly computer that cost more than your first
year of college so long ago, back when there was a jaunty thick wave
in the curl of your head hair. Or maybe I need to get on the mountain
bike and and plunge the backside of a hidden valley, frequented only
by people on two wheels wearing helmets to hold in their brains.

It is easy to get weary with our world. To be tired of this thing that keeps
waking us at morning, calling in the afternoon, pressing in at evening,
never getting around to answering the question my favorite Talking
Head uttered into the pop void: How did I get here?
The dead mother-in-law’s grandmother’s clock chimes the waning
afternoon hour. And, really, I could be putting my shoulder to the
world right now, trying to sort out it sadnesses and outrages. But

I did that last week. I mean, I think I helped. A bit. A few words
which, like nice white paper boats went floating on the creek, a poem inside
that said, in so many words and to quote the one fellow, one of a few who
rightly deserves ‘H.H.’ in front of their name, the one true religion
is kindness. Out the window, the Sunday breeze agitates the high green
leaves in the sycamores and oaks out back as I try and shake off this bout
of exasperation & ennui, get back out on the playing field and …

what? Make more shit, sail more boats, ride more trails, miss the arms, the
back, the heft upon me, weighing a snowflaked night with an essential comfort,
as cats scramble & chase after one other across the length of their lives. And the world
turns and the government commissars think they understand who you might be,
when even you don’t understand who that might be. Yet, anyway, it’s a
work in progress, to be sure. As ever. And that bike and
hidden valley is looking better all the time. There’s the clock again.

 

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2 Comments

  1. This is absolutely brilliant, however complex. My mind has been there, as has my heaving heavy heart.
    I understand. I especially appreciate the image of sailing paper boats of poems down stream. It equates to lighting paper lantern wishes afloat into the sky.

    Dig.

  2. admin

    Speaking of poetry on the web, click Spittling’s name — no, here, we’ll do it for you: http://sprittling.wordpress.com/ — for some good stuff. And thanks!