I will most likely not keep up with one post a day. Regretfully I do not always finish what I have begun. Some good music was heard today. Phone: is it for me? Probably not. Ok, it's not. I have a bad habit of putting semicolons instead of apostrophes when I am typing too fast. Someone once told me that they would do anything for me, if it made me happy. Conceptually, it is a warming thought, but really, sometimes what makes someone so special to you isn't what they give you. Perhaps it can be what they take from you, what they would like to give but can't, what they refuse to give, that allows me to see them as I do. Or maybe it is all my perspective, with little to no bearing on that person's judgements or actions. I hope and suppose it would not be any one of these things. Most likely, what makes someone so amazing to me is a combination of my attitude, their attitude, my relationship to them, and their relationship to me. Telephone! These things would be both in the moments that intersect, our time spent together, and the grains of sand of these moments mixed with the millions of other moments, actions, thoughts, and relationships that make up the shoreline of our world: our feelings. Anakin once said a cool romantic line about sand, something I would not remember from the many times I watched the movies...
My uncle. Uncle Frank. They, the unkown nd unknowing doctors, found cancer. It was too late to save him from death. They hooked him up to the machine today. I llost the train for what i was writing about i am going to go our lives are connected, each death ripples sadness to those living, but those who knew him best know he is watching above.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Century Plant
[written Saturday May 30th]
A century plant, native to the desert, has many leaves that shoot out like fireworks from the ground. One stalk, one particular neck of green, watches from above the leaves, a patriarch. This overlooking shoot stands sentry over the leaves with little buttercup-like seed-flowers. Well, more aptly seeds; they have a very short life as flowers. When the plant is green, the seeds develop over the course of decades until, a century later, the seeds are fully mature. At this point, if no other century plant is mature, then the plant browns, dies, and will never pass on life to another century. I saw a battlefield of these timepieces. Some, past their prime, were dried, crisp, angled, falling for decades or already fallen or, worst of all, standing dead for eternity. Yet, in the midst of the dead were two green century-plants. They were five feet apart, the closest and farthest five feet in all of the earth. One, within its ninth decade, was still a little young to flower. The other plant, a short but sturdy specimen who had withstood the torment of sandstorms, had not drowned in the quick rain-showers that brought enough water for months, had envied neither the lonesome chase of a coyote nor the relatively fast crawl of a desert tortoise, and had grieved the death of its elderly neighbors, had nonetheless found the purpose of its life. It had 12 yellow-tan bulb-like flowers, dainty things that did not look particularly beautiful at a quick glance. Three on four sides. She held them up proudly if stiffly, her young lover had no knowledge of the brood. Desert bees, coming every other spring, had liked the two and agreed to rendezvous at the stalks. Pollen had happened upon the mature plant, as well as the immature miniature. One Hundred years, and she had flowers.
I went motorcycling. While riding, I saw a whole bunch of dead looking plants. I went up to one of the few that still had a little color, saw it had flowers. I tried smelling it but it smelled of dust. I picked one. The petals dissolved in my hand. Oh well.
A century plant, native to the desert, has many leaves that shoot out like fireworks from the ground. One stalk, one particular neck of green, watches from above the leaves, a patriarch. This overlooking shoot stands sentry over the leaves with little buttercup-like seed-flowers. Well, more aptly seeds; they have a very short life as flowers. When the plant is green, the seeds develop over the course of decades until, a century later, the seeds are fully mature. At this point, if no other century plant is mature, then the plant browns, dies, and will never pass on life to another century. I saw a battlefield of these timepieces. Some, past their prime, were dried, crisp, angled, falling for decades or already fallen or, worst of all, standing dead for eternity. Yet, in the midst of the dead were two green century-plants. They were five feet apart, the closest and farthest five feet in all of the earth. One, within its ninth decade, was still a little young to flower. The other plant, a short but sturdy specimen who had withstood the torment of sandstorms, had not drowned in the quick rain-showers that brought enough water for months, had envied neither the lonesome chase of a coyote nor the relatively fast crawl of a desert tortoise, and had grieved the death of its elderly neighbors, had nonetheless found the purpose of its life. It had 12 yellow-tan bulb-like flowers, dainty things that did not look particularly beautiful at a quick glance. Three on four sides. She held them up proudly if stiffly, her young lover had no knowledge of the brood. Desert bees, coming every other spring, had liked the two and agreed to rendezvous at the stalks. Pollen had happened upon the mature plant, as well as the immature miniature. One Hundred years, and she had flowers.
I went motorcycling. While riding, I saw a whole bunch of dead looking plants. I went up to one of the few that still had a little color, saw it had flowers. I tried smelling it but it smelled of dust. I picked one. The petals dissolved in my hand. Oh well.
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