Un-agitate yourselves...rabid souls nowhere in sight...just a bit of matter and mind at war; and here I am again, gambling with the forces of the cosmos. Mind tackling matter in natures realm of all things green and brown, all things living and dead, all things under my control that are so totally out of my control; even though I try to convince myself that my physical and mental input is worth more than a mere 2 cents...that my own grain of sand stands out in the 598,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 centillion grains of sand of this complex place.
I'm addicted to playing the game of chance with Mother Nature, Old Man Weather, and the sinister Grim Reaper of all that inhabits my significantly insignificant gardens. The gardens are always in sporadic flux...some plants magically pop up in opportune places, but most plants discouragingly pop up in the worse places imaginable. Don't get me wrong...I love my weedy good guys half to death and my weedy bad guys totally to death, and fortunately for my weedy bad guys, they are becoming the death of me.
I long to be a workaholic expat, but the city of my transplanted origin won't let me divorce myself from worrying about those teasing embraces of my weedy buddies. Exasperating laws are on the books telling me to embrace the concept of my city overcharging me an enormous fee for the privilege of euthanizing my entire yard with swirling blades of steel if I fail at their definition of weed control. Where is that flame thrower when I truly need one? When will I ever be granted the luxury of sitting back with a steaming cup of cream laced coffee, relaxed, and beaming with pride at the perfection laid before me?
I wait for good weather. I wait for good weather on one of my days off from THE JOB, which is turning into an oxymoronic concept of magnificent hallucinaconic proportions. Rain, torrential rain, lightning, endless misty drizzle, frost encrusted, hail, straight-line wind, not so straight line wind, tornadoes...good grief, the list goes on and on and on; then it all terminates into the gooey, ooey, glob of hellaciously hot, muggy, uggy, super sweat drippy kind of heat stroke summer that I've been dreaming about all winter.
I'm hounded by the scythe of eternal quietness swishing closely behind like the pendulum of some gigantic clock. I've lost track how many times that sinister Grim Reaper has smiled as he enters an X by my name in the Big Book of Mistakes below the Off With Their Heads category under the column of Significant Blunders; you know, blunders that terminate those green little tykes existences with an ill placed tire tread hiking boot gardening shoe...poof! It's always the good that finish last when it comes to an encounter of the worse kind with my murderess shoe...guaranteed 100%.
So, winter of little winter...here I've been and still am...with saws, pruners, scissors, work gloves, buckets, trash cans, brooms, rakes, weed whackers and a few extra visits to the bone manipulator thrown in on my quest for that picture perfect perfection: gardens that mimic those luscious, stylish, unspoiled, unsoiled, flawless garden images I see in every gardening magazine. A quest I'll never let common sense extinguish.