Back home, my tendrils unfurl, the windows are open, the pool is up to 60. My work has coalesced into a manageable sphere, sparkly and with an end in sight. I have been working alone, which confuses people; they don’t know where I am at.
I’ll start swimming as soon it’s hot and sunny outside, probably not today but quite likely tomorrow. This is unspeakably exciting. I’ve become soft over the winter, and I don’t just mean less muscle. Getting in the pool while it is still cold is like a declaration: I am not to be toyed with. Anyway, this is as warm as some lakes ever get. It’s party time, by Canadian standards.
Miss Fish is very busy, as am I; it’s Spring, things are up and about. She is here and there, staying informed.
I’ve been feeling sorry for the little Eustace Limequat tree I planted in Orangelina’s zone. When I chose the spot, I was thinking about the light, and the eventual size of the tree, and the delight of a lizard. I was not thinking enough about the quality of the soil, and the nearness to the mesquite tree, which discourages innovation in the dirt around it. Anything in that zone also contends with the occasional river of pool backwash, which is mildly salty.
All that tree wants to be is great, and I’m giving it bad dirt and water.
I Katepomorphize with it; the air around me is like my food; I read it, I am what it carries, I taste it like music. In the wrong place, I also am unable to thrive.
As soon as I’m sure all of the lizards are up I’m going to move the Eustace to a new spot. Right now, digging in that bed could mean accidentally injuring Orangelina- I don’t know where she hunkered in for the winter, but wouldn’t I feel like an ass if it were under the limequat.
Last night, on Facebook of all places, I was pleased to bump into a piece that my beloved Dave Morrison wrote about Carl Sagan. Have a look.
Carl has become more relevant to me over the years, as has Buckminster Fuller. Each of them was keenly aware in their lifetimes that they were not being listened to, not really.
Sagan was trying to warn people about the foolishness of becoming surrounded by nuclear weapons and helltowers, and Fuller of the unsustainability of urban sprawl, filthy sewer systems, and the mind-numbing stupidity of every person wanting to have a complete set of everything that was theirs and theirs alone.
Much of what we have built in America is badly wrong. We’ve destroyed mountain ranges, crippled an ocean and a whole lot of lakes and rivers, and helped pollute Terra’s slice of space with an orbiting carpet of trash. Instead of cleanly composting our own waste, we direct it into reeking underground rivers, polluting a water supply that must be constantly re-cleaned to drinking purity to then dump back down toilets and onto lawns. We run an all-you-can-waste buffet of fossil fuels, with no upper limit on consumption, or what one human being can buy and rule.
Sagan and Fuller were well aware that they would die while their home-country stupid was still ramping up, but they hoped that later, after people realized how shortsighted they’d been, there would still be time to listen. It’s still practically impossible to talk to people about composting toilets or limits on personal consumption, their eyes glaze over.
I wish I’d really talked more to Carl while he was alive. I certainly had enough chances. I was more concerned with not letting him think I was impressed by his celebrity than I was in bonding with him. I’m glad we got the chance to actually connect before it was too late for a handoff.
Today, I’m offline for some writing, some Larryland, and an early dinner with Hartmann; I need a good mindmeld with him and the timing is perfect. Good luck to you, out there, and may you find something nice in your own garden.
Ferry, looking like Sagan, looking like almost all of the boys who have ever been in my mind, tall, dark, deep.