The garden, he speaks French; I don't know why. But there is its slate, proclaiming it is permitted to take photographs,
and the sprite in charge of the slate has underlined this permission heavily. I did not see her do it. She was out early and knows where I go to heal.
It is Saturday and I still recover from bodily trauma, metaphysical distress and waking up this morning tangled in a coat rack in contest for my vest --and the garden is a "he". I suppose it must be correct. The garden would know because gardens think. I too think, and know that and reflect no disturbance. It knows its place in the universe and, because I am in it, know mine. Where am I?
The brain is an irritable beast that itches with frustration, with a spiritual agitation for which one cannot turn to churches --not even big powerful ones with Popes like Catholicism and Facebook-- because one lacks specifics. And, because religions are thick with worldly intrigue, we must sometimes disenthrall ourselves and turn, naked and alone, to the moment. There are roses. They have names, like "Mr. Lincoln" and "Candelabra".
During upheavals and events of astonishing brutality, such as we hear of daily, the mind roams and soars in search of meaning. The garden is a good place to let it do that. For this reason I include a comprehensive view of it:
From a 1940s oater:
[Gabby checks his pocket watch]
It's half past.
Half past what?
I dunno - the little hand's broke off!
To which I can only add, tune in next time, Li'l Buckeroosh!