Once upon a time, I traveled deep into the winter Sierra, with the woman who would one day become the mother of the award-winning deviant. At a fair time before the award-winning deviant manifested herself in Consensus Reality.
Upon a turn, we encountered a wondrous natural display. In which falling water, passing over a tumbling rock face, had hardened into a freeze, forming marvelous, and marvelously extended, icicles. Feet—unto twelve or fourteen feet—these icicles extended.
We stopped the car, and wandered out of it, to view this wonderment up close. The wonderment beautiful. Awe-inspiring. Bold. Expressive. A reason to be.
Because even then I was preparing for Ala, preparing to be “my next boyfriend will have a box camera,” I brought then forth from the car a camera. To capture. The water in freeze.
This I did.
And after this photographic capturing was complete, my then-lover strode boldly forth, placed herself before the icicles, lifted up her shirt, exposed to the frozen water her naked breasts, and challenged: “Top this.”
Of course, at this moment, they, the icicles, utterly lost.
They were a natural wonderment, true; but so too, were this woman’s breasts. The icicles were transitory; so too, I suppose, this woman’s breasts—but not for many and many more a moon. They were hard and cold, these icicles; this woman’s breasts, soft and warm.
In every way, through her challenge, this woman had won. She was, as my brother used to say, “the wiener.”
Was it my imagination, that the icicles, upon receiving the challenge of this woman’s breasts, seemed visibly to sag, to begin to drip more profusely, even morosely?
As Arlo Guthrie used to say, “I told you that story, to tell you this one.”
For something like that is today going on here, on the grounds of the Manor. Of which ye shall learn, if ye but travel beyond the “furthur.”
The way that vegetarians live with themselves—and from there have the effrontery to snort in gleeful superiority over those of us who avidly gnaw meat right off the bone—is to hallucinate that plants have no awareness, feel no pain; are basically dumb as dirt.
In this, they are heaving with bollocks. For in Reality, it is a True Fact, that Science Men have determined that plants are in fact Bursting With Brains, and furthermore Feel All Pains.
Vegetarians are just Lying. To excuse the way they Are.
This is a Normal human condition.
That plants are not only Bursting With Brains, and Feel All Pains, but are also shot through with Envy and the Need To Show Off, all of this is on display at this very moment, on the grounds of this very garden, here at the Manor.
For you see, when I moved in, there were several little burnt-out sadsack solar lights, lining the vast and endless path leading from the parking area, to the door of the Manor.
While shopping for other things, I happened upon a little solar light, for a very reasonable price, and so purchased it, and stuck it into the ground, there along the path.
I came to feel very warm towards it.
And the plants, arrayed across from this light, this they came to Know. And Resent.
Now, understand that there are maybe, oh, 700,000 irises, here at the Manor. They are everywhere. Lord knows why. Perhaps this was once the locus of an iris cult.
At present, none of them are blooming. Except those directly across from the new plucky solar light. These have come into full bloom, and are glaring in pride and I believe hatred, at the solar light, which they obviously feel has usurped attention rightfully due they.
This you can clearly see, in the phot0 rendered above.
It is making the little solar light kind of scared.
I am trying to mediate.
And it’s tough. For I have enough trouble, trying to communicate with “fellow” human beings. Much less convening a peace conference, involving plants and a passive solar machine. Both of which can pretend that they don’t understand a word I say.
Help me. Spock.