i love my hands when i get out of work. i love the dirt under my nails, embedded in the cracks in my fingers, how it takes a good fifteen minutes of scrubbing to look presentable enough to go to class. i love the smell of good soil. i love the smell of each plant when you break it’s skin. i love watching the compost steam when you turn it over on a cold morning. i love the worms squirming in the light. i love losing myself in my work and then i look up and my barrel is full and the ground is clear and brown and ready for planting. i love returning after a week, and everything is ready to be done all over again. gardens need constant attention. they need you, and a well loved garden can be one of the most beautiful things in the world. when i say well loved, i do not mean well tended. rigid lines and sharp corners are not what plants were made to do. they were made to fold and blend into each other, to mingle and fight and strangle each other out. i wish people were more like plants. maybe then i would like them better.
Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog from Hellthere is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.people just are not good to each other
one on one.the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.it hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.or the terror of one person
aching in one place
aloneuntouched
unspoken towatering a plant.
(via thingswhatareawesome)
PLANTZ i N0W H8 (because of my Job)
Gardening is tough. I do not understand why it is considered something for the elderly. Most would probably break themselves. However, occasionally you find a plant which is so low maintenance that you instantly fall in love. Such is the Forsythia.
It looks like this:
It is basically a giant bush consisting of twigs and tiny leaves and yellow flowers and requires essentially no care whatsoever. I could basically ignore it, which made my life so so so simple. That was until last week, when we were instructed to remove a rather large Forsythia bush from one of the properties we work on. To be fair, it needed to go. The whole thing was about the size of a small car, and was listing heavily onto another bush, which essentially meant that it was smothering it to death. whoops.
Anyways, we had to cut the whole thing down, and it was my job to load the remnants of the once majestic shrubbery into the work truck. This is when my problems started. See, the Forsythia’s branches snap rather easily and basically turn into splintery wooden shanks. I like to see it as an intentional revenge mechanism:
this picture is better if you imagine the Forsythia has an Antonio Banderas accent.
and as a result, I no longer like the Forsythia.
THE END.
