Cut the 5 sq. meter lawn...
this morning, early. Still with the hand edgers. The old gardener who hunkered with ease has not returned. Don't know why. It happens a lot here. One thinks one has made a deal only to find out he was the only person who thought so.
Then, planted a tree I bought the day before. It's trunk is about 2 to 2.5" inches in diameter and about 8 to 9 feet tall. Hope it takes hold. I've had just so-so luck with this garden. The ground had been used much like a dump for at least a couple generations. I have hauled off tons of rocks, bricks, plastic crap dating back to the forties, glass, wire, wood and bones. Yes, bones. I have convinced myself they are all animal bones, but, at times the mind races. The soil is old and tired, which I can sympathize with, so I have been steadily trying to revitalize it by constant turning, fertilizing ( a brother-in-law has a dairy), sand and whatever other shit people tell me would be good for it.
Another sultry, smothering sort of day. Gave up early today, started drinking 'aguas frescas' (fruit water) by the jar full trying to rehydrate while waiting for happy hour to roll around.
Newest favorite blog title: Jowl Movement (KOS)
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
"See a world of tanks, ruled by a world of banks." — Sol Invictus
MEXICO (as I see it):
There is a conspicuous absence of clocks in public
places in Mexico. I suppose that’s because nothing runs on a schedule. A thing takes place whenever it takes place and that is all there is to it.
AND
Although most Mexicans are very conscientious when it comes to
their own property they exhibit little community spirit. Trash
and lawn clippings are often swept up in front of a residence and
then carried across the street to a vacant lot and dumped
Sometime, a vacant house on the block will become the dumping
grounds for all of its neighbor's leavings.
Apparently, when the mess doesn't actually touch their own
parameters the whole city is clean.
THE SERIAL: Her Viking
We left off here:
'Who knows though?' she thought; with the snowy white hair and beard he certainly would look distinguished in a navy blue, pinstripe suit. The widow smiled as she dressed the stranger.
What kind of man would he be? Gentle, she supposed. Kind too and with a soft voice. Assured and calm under pressure as well. The widow interrupted her daydreaming with a little snort of disgust thinking how foolish she would seem to anyone who could read her thoughts.
The actions of the stranger continued to baffle the Widow Mora. Lately, as he chose certain spots along the shoreline to pause, he would toss a coconut into the sea, then sit down, and watch the receding waves pull at the fruit. The undertow dragged it further out and each new wave carried it part way back. When the coconut had, finally, been pulled out so far that the developing waves no longer had any affect on it and it was sent drifting on the open sea, the man would stand, brush the sand from his trunks and walk away.
Despite not understanding what the man was doing the Widow Mora found herself anticipating his arrival each morning. She was even getting up a little earlier and waiting for him. When the stranger did not pass by her house she became agitated and a little angry with herself for allowing such a trivial thing to bother her. The widow waited by her bedroom window, always a half step back and a bit to one side. If she imagined that the man was looking in her direction she faded a little more to one side.
She began to develop feelings for the stranger. She liked him and wished she knew his name. Knowing that this was not possible, the Widow Mora decided to give him a name.
'What sort of name would someone from the north have?' she wondered. She would have liked to think of him as a Raul or Antonio, two names she had always favored. The widow could tell, however, that this man had no Latin blood. His name was certain to be totally different from any she would be familiar with. She tried to visualize from where he might have originated. It seemed likely that he came from the United States, like so many before him, but there really was no way to be sure.
Watching the stranger striding the beach, hair flying in the wind, white beard flapping too, it struck the Widow Mora that he must be a descendant of some type of Nordic people. She had seen their costumes in her husbands enclycopedia. After mulling a while, on what kind of names men from that part of the world were called, she realized that she did not know a single Nordic name.
After watching his determined pace and serious countenance, with the sea and sand in the background, she concluded he looked like a Viking. Of course, the widow was aware, the word Viking was not a proper name for a man and it surely wasn't as melodious as Raul or Antonio, but she thought it suited the stranger. Since she had no other name the newcomer became the Viking.
Now that the man had a name the Widow Mora felt closer to him. She could think of him as a person, a friend and confidant, without the nagging distress of not being able to place him. In her mind 'the' Viking soon became 'her' Viking.
continued....
Then, planted a tree I bought the day before. It's trunk is about 2 to 2.5" inches in diameter and about 8 to 9 feet tall. Hope it takes hold. I've had just so-so luck with this garden. The ground had been used much like a dump for at least a couple generations. I have hauled off tons of rocks, bricks, plastic crap dating back to the forties, glass, wire, wood and bones. Yes, bones. I have convinced myself they are all animal bones, but, at times the mind races. The soil is old and tired, which I can sympathize with, so I have been steadily trying to revitalize it by constant turning, fertilizing ( a brother-in-law has a dairy), sand and whatever other shit people tell me would be good for it.
Another sultry, smothering sort of day. Gave up early today, started drinking 'aguas frescas' (fruit water) by the jar full trying to rehydrate while waiting for happy hour to roll around.
Newest favorite blog title: Jowl Movement (KOS)
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
"See a world of tanks, ruled by a world of banks." — Sol Invictus
MEXICO (as I see it):
There is a conspicuous absence of clocks in public
places in Mexico. I suppose that’s because nothing runs on a schedule. A thing takes place whenever it takes place and that is all there is to it.
AND
Although most Mexicans are very conscientious when it comes to
their own property they exhibit little community spirit. Trash
and lawn clippings are often swept up in front of a residence and
then carried across the street to a vacant lot and dumped
Sometime, a vacant house on the block will become the dumping
grounds for all of its neighbor's leavings.
Apparently, when the mess doesn't actually touch their own
parameters the whole city is clean.
THE SERIAL: Her Viking
We left off here:
'Who knows though?' she thought; with the snowy white hair and beard he certainly would look distinguished in a navy blue, pinstripe suit. The widow smiled as she dressed the stranger.
What kind of man would he be? Gentle, she supposed. Kind too and with a soft voice. Assured and calm under pressure as well. The widow interrupted her daydreaming with a little snort of disgust thinking how foolish she would seem to anyone who could read her thoughts.
The actions of the stranger continued to baffle the Widow Mora. Lately, as he chose certain spots along the shoreline to pause, he would toss a coconut into the sea, then sit down, and watch the receding waves pull at the fruit. The undertow dragged it further out and each new wave carried it part way back. When the coconut had, finally, been pulled out so far that the developing waves no longer had any affect on it and it was sent drifting on the open sea, the man would stand, brush the sand from his trunks and walk away.
Despite not understanding what the man was doing the Widow Mora found herself anticipating his arrival each morning. She was even getting up a little earlier and waiting for him. When the stranger did not pass by her house she became agitated and a little angry with herself for allowing such a trivial thing to bother her. The widow waited by her bedroom window, always a half step back and a bit to one side. If she imagined that the man was looking in her direction she faded a little more to one side.
She began to develop feelings for the stranger. She liked him and wished she knew his name. Knowing that this was not possible, the Widow Mora decided to give him a name.
'What sort of name would someone from the north have?' she wondered. She would have liked to think of him as a Raul or Antonio, two names she had always favored. The widow could tell, however, that this man had no Latin blood. His name was certain to be totally different from any she would be familiar with. She tried to visualize from where he might have originated. It seemed likely that he came from the United States, like so many before him, but there really was no way to be sure.
Watching the stranger striding the beach, hair flying in the wind, white beard flapping too, it struck the Widow Mora that he must be a descendant of some type of Nordic people. She had seen their costumes in her husbands enclycopedia. After mulling a while, on what kind of names men from that part of the world were called, she realized that she did not know a single Nordic name.
After watching his determined pace and serious countenance, with the sea and sand in the background, she concluded he looked like a Viking. Of course, the widow was aware, the word Viking was not a proper name for a man and it surely wasn't as melodious as Raul or Antonio, but she thought it suited the stranger. Since she had no other name the newcomer became the Viking.
Now that the man had a name the Widow Mora felt closer to him. She could think of him as a person, a friend and confidant, without the nagging distress of not being able to place him. In her mind 'the' Viking soon became 'her' Viking.
continued....
posted by bbuckman | 10:47 PM
1 Comments:
i have never been to mexico, but i did live in san antonio (for what that's worth) and i understand what you are saying about the dumping issue. very bizarre. the connection of a "neighborhood" being a reflection of it's inhabitants isn't a concern. i have found, in my humble opinion, that "community" in the sense of family and group belonging, are what matter most. noble, i believe. but nice surroundings do provide a certain energy. and the world is a big place.
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