And Our Seed Is G

So apparently there is some rich-fuck rightwing racist shameless welfare-recipient Mormon-underpants-wearing rancher wantonly roaming his cows over public land for which he has not paid grazing fees for more than 30 years.

This nit-knock has deluded a Reality wherein the federal government don’t mean shit; only, so says he, shall he acknowledge the government of the State of Nevada. He’ll pay them, says he, the state people, to graze, his cattle, over land that don’t caledonia soul music: what it isbelong to him, but he won’t pay no feds.

Next, he’ll be raving on about how he gets to keep slaves.

‘Cause that is jist the sort of git, that this git is.

I am mostly— when not earning my crust in the folly of the law—painting oils, and planting seeds, these days.

Occasionally, I’ll peer into a tube.

That’s how I found out about this old nutbag Nevada sunburnt Mormon, who insists he can ejaculate his cows, for free, all over public land.

And my question, it is this: didn’t we already have the monolith?

Didn’t the true-life documentary film 2001: A Space Odyssey document the true fact that ape-men, they stood before a powerful passing planted black slab, millions of years ago, and thereby grew a brain?

So that we are actually millions of years beyond this yeehaw screaming till his lips bleed that he has a “natural right” to freely and flagrantly cornhole his cows on public land?

I am simply not allowing this crazed cattle-cornholer into my universe.

For he is like a species-appendix. Some weirdsmobile, completely shrunken and malfunctional organ, that may, several million years ago, have actually had a purpose. But, these days, we have no idea what that purpose may have been.

He is an old and desiccated desert rat, and soon he shall die. And, though his of-family people—who are many and manifold, because he refused in his lifetime to control in any way his loins—shall upon his memory weep, soon no one will remember anything about him.

Because, in the great wide open to come, all the land, will belong to everybody.

It is the bare beginnings of this, that this cornholing Rancher Retrovert, he cannot abide.

Too bad for him.

He’s already over.

That in the great wide open to come all the land will belong to everybody, is why, plkntthese days, I am planting these seeds.

We, of the seed people, we have gone long beyond all the galloping cornholing Rancher Retrovert horseshit that appears each day in the “news.”

This blah NSA blah Ukraine blah Nevada horse-ass blah blah blah blah.

Who gives a shit. None of them have ever once touched the monolith. They are so hundreds of millions of years behind the times. Just let them go. They don’t even actually exist. Close our minds to them: and they are gone. Willed-away wisps.

I am growing feverfew. Also, sunflowers. Moonflowers. Hot peppers. Potatoes. Some several different-one blueberries. I am growing passionflower—where it is not supposed to grow. Because I can, and I will. Dill. I am growing. Meadowsweet. Fairies. Magic. I am growing. Sage. Unto immortal May. I am growing. Madder. To dye all us good Celts red. As it has always been written. As even unto today it is done. I am growing. I am surrounding myself with garlic and arnica. I am growing. Buckwheat. It will be all and everywhere. I am growing. All the opium and wormwood: I shall plant thee: and then thee, shall, in vision, plant thyself in me.

I am growing.

I am no longer a sterile shrunken intertubes pod. “Living,” on a screen.

I am growing.

I am coming round here. Just about midnight.

Advertisements

7 Responses to “And Our Seed Is G”


  1. 1 Miep April 13, 2014 at 7:18 am

    Wow, you’re busy. Sounds like a wonderful garden. There are different kinds of passionflower, I have even seen one overwinter here.

    I like the reference to “ejaculating his cows.”

  2. 3 Rain Jeys April 19, 2014 at 9:18 pm

    I’m glad you are growing fairies and magic and meadowsweet. Those things are infinitely more useful and real than the blithering of the tubes. And much more useful, by far, than this nitwit rancher person.

    • 4 bluenred April 19, 2014 at 10:50 pm

      Well, I can’t grow fairies. Or magic.

      I can, though, try, to grow meadowsweet.

      You may remember in the Cherokee garden it was this big old plant that each summer put out these wonderful puffy will-o-the-wisp white flowers.

      Fairies like it.

      And thus, so, there, can be magic.

      But to start the plant, well, that is a struggle. I nursed, then, in Cherokee, the little seeds along, in peat pots. And that’s what I’m doing again.

      Like with wormwoood. Once established, the wormwood plant will be all woody and anchored and immortal and gnarly. And if people eat of it, it will transport them to Tralfamdore. But when the seeds sprouted, just the other day, the plant-heads were, without exaggeration, smaller than the head of a pin.

      How do such people survive, in this world?

      They just do.

      Like the trees, we learn, who have decided they’ll just go right along with, adapt to, global warming. If that’s what they have to do.

      Humans think they are of all the very much completely important.

      Some: yanking their hair, rending their garments, currently, because they’re afeared humans are making the planet boiling hot, and they flagellate themselves over this, like medieval monks.

      Others: with brain-stems akin to cattle, saying: we ain’t doing nothin’.

      Meanwhile there in a tank, by my front door, I have a dragon. He’s been around here since even before that asteroid. The one that they say knocked off, hundreds of millions of years ago, 90% of life on earth. And he says, in his knowing lofty way: bring it on. Just try it. I’m not dying. Life’s not dying. The planet’s not dying. Think yourself, you human, so important. Amusing.

      Humans, they would just be so much more at rest, if they could just appreciate and assimilate, the Four Core Teachings, of He Be Heller:

      “America is the strongest and most prosperous nation on earth,” Nately informed him with lofty fervor and dignity. “And the American fighting man is second to none. America is not going to be destroyed.”

      The old man laughed indulgently. “Rome was destroyed, Greece was destroyed, Persia was destroyed, Spain was destroyed. All great countries are destroyed. Why not yours? How much longer do you really think your own country will last? A million years? A half million? The frog is almost five hundred million years old. Could you really say with much certainty that America, with all its strength and prosperity, with its fighting man that is second to none, and with its standard of living that is the highest in the world, will last as long as . . . the frog?”

      I have this beetle here in one hand,” Aristotle proclaimed one day, “with a single oval shell and eight jointed legs, and I have here in my other hand this second beetle of lighter hue which has twelve legs and a shell that is longer and segmented. Can you explain the differences?”

      “Yes,” said Plato. “There is no such thing as a beetle, in either of your hands. There is no such thing as your hand. What you think of as a beetle and a hand are merely reflections of your recognition of the idea of a beetle and a hand. There is only the idea, which existed before these specimens came into being. Otherwise, how could they come into being? And the form of the idea, of course, is always eternal and real, and never changes. What you are holding in what you think are your hands are shadows of that idea. Have you forgotten my illustration of the cave in my Republic? Read it once more. That the two beetles you have are different is clear enough proof that neither is real. It therefore follows that only the form or the idea of the form is susceptible to study, and it is something about which we will never be able to learn more than we already know. Ideas alone are worth contemplating. You are not real, my vain young Aristotle. I’m not real. Socrates himself was but an imitation of himself. All of us are merely inferior copies of the form that is us. I know you understand me.”

      “I have been given to you by God, as a sort of gadfly attached to the state,” Socrates said to the jurors in his defense on that day of his trial. “And I am not going to argue for my sake, as you may think, but for yours, that you may not sin against God by condemning me. I am his gift to you. And if you kill me, you will not easily find a successor.” All his life, he informed them, he had been private audience to a personal supernatural voice whose enjoining instructions it would be sinful for him to ignore. “Men of Athens, I honor and love you, but I shall obey God rather than you.”

      It was too late to talk him out of this conviction that would have led to his being burned as a heretic in those enlightened Dark Ages to come, in which Plato was embraced and absorbed and Aristotle was rediscovered and acclaimed “the Philosopher” by such as Aquinas.

      And it was too soon to tell him of the lunatic schoolteacher in Amsterdam with the serrated bread knife, who believed he had been commanded by God to go to the painting of The Nightwatch in the Rijksmuseum directly from the restaurant in which he had eaten his lunch.

      “I was ordered to do it,” the schoolteacher is quoted as saying. “I had to do it.”

      To this day, there are superstitious covens in abandoned small churches in Amsterdam convinced the vandal was the reincarnation of one of the discontented musketeers who paid one hundred guilders to be memorialized with dignity and found himself reduced to a detail in oil paint in a garish illustration that could have served as a poster for a comic operetta.

      There are others who say it was Rembrandt.

      Yossarian was cold, too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt goose pimples clacking all over him as he gazed down despondently at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to read the message in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden’s secret. Drop him out a window and he’ll fall. Set fire to him and he’ll burn. Bury him and he’ll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden’s secret. Ripeness was all.

      • 5 Rain Jeys April 28, 2014 at 12:22 am

        You can grow plants that foster magic. And that is a way of growing magic. I’m sure the fairies like the will o’ the wisp plant. I certainly do.

        And that’s totally magic, with the wormwood.

        Maybe that’s a lesson, too. That something small can, if nurtured, grow to be woody and anchored and immortal and gnarly.

  3. 6 Elva April 21, 2014 at 6:37 am

    Did you plant a Blue Dawn? If not you can come and get a slip of my plant. I do not think I would even notice that you took some of it. Have fun in your garden.

    • 7 bluenred April 24, 2014 at 6:16 am

      I do have a couple Blue Dawns. But I have not planted them yet. Because I have not yet decided what areas I want them to totally take over. ; )


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s




When I Worked

April 2014
M T W T F S S
« Mar   May »
 123456
78910111213
14151617181920
21222324252627
282930  

%d bloggers like this: