I'm not writing TO anyone anymore. Only FOR myself. Those are keywords in many programming languages. The tossed-word-salad I put together occasionally is like a programming language. More like machine language and particular toward me own fancies.
There is a reason for writing that. It's about kowtowing to a philosophy of solipsism. I am is a practicing solipsist. I act just like what I see is so, and no more. No mas. Solipsism is said to be irrefutable for good reasons. I haven't been exposed to the process in which solipsism is on trial except with me as its defendant. All I got to say about that is that I ain't dead, yet. If, somewhere along the way I discover it ain't so, that is, if I suddenly realize that I am already dead and acting human is how the dead conduct their affairs, then I'll drop my pretenses to dig the scene.
"It ain't easy being green." ~ Kermit the Frog
Practically all the stimuli I am allows into the ambient surrounding of the nothingness it uses to form a ground of being is finely filtered through and combed, that is, the raw materials I am is uses to self-generate it's force-field cocoon in order to test the waters of a paradoxical somethingness that has to be protected against an in-born sloth that melts helter skelter upon the leaves the doGs lick up before it's consumed by snails and slugs.
Maybe that's what Aquarius (as the water-bearer) is for. Not so much to distribute the water of life as to protect it. To make sure the bucket/the jar/the bottom of the barrel ain't got no hole in it moreso than to charge money to use it as holy water, as a reward for winning that pesky little border fight down by the south forty.
Later today, if I remember to, I'm gwine down to the Lowe's store and buy me a small package of bone meal. It's part of a Communist Plot. Every devious idea-for-action I come up with is labeled a "Communist Plot" because of the McCarthy Hearing during my formative years.
It's not much of a plot. I didn't even think of the original event as useful, just noteworthy, and besides that, the idea may not work at all, because it depends upon the peculiarities of unpredictable animals who are only friendly because I feed them little, unfulfilling bits of table scraps infrequently.
I got the idea from watching my sister-in-law prepare a flower plot just outside her greenhouse. She dug and mulched the 6' X 6' patch of ground and added some compost she'd prepared earlier to give the native sandy land some organic humus to help her tulips and gladiolas thrive throughout the growing season.
Gardening is not my strong suite. I like the idea of it, but seem to forget whet people teach me about it before I go to sleep at night. I noticed that she was adding some bone meal to the soil she was preparing. It was her three young dog's reaction to the bone meal that got my attention. They were extremely curious, and had to be driven away so she could mix it up with dirt and cause the dogs to lose interest.
It seemed to work at the time. Eventually I got bored watching her work and went inside my house. Since it was starting to get dark, and she looked like she was getting ready to go home and cook supper for her husband, we retired to our perspective homes for the evening.
The next morning, during my first cup of coffee, I heard a shrill screech of irritation, followed by untypical stream of cuss words that startled me, because I recognized my sister-in-law's hysterical voice. Fortunately I had put on some breeches already, and so I ran outside and saw her outside the greenhouse when she had been working for hours the afternoon before.
The tulip and gladiola bulbs she had so lovingly prepared were laying scattered around on the top of the ground. During the night her dogs had dug the whole plot up looking for the source of that bone meal smell. It practically looked like a archeological dig with the relics looking not so relic-ky at all anymore.
That gave me this idea about a couple of places on my home lot that have proved difficult to grow stuff. A lot of the reason I got a brown thumb has to do with how lazy I am is. It's not the most ambitious spirit I've ever created as spirits go. But, I have to work with what I find when I swap bodies.
I have to go buy some bone meal first, then sprinkle some of it over the ground that seem sort of sterile for some reason or the other, and wait for my brother's dogs to dig in it looking for the bone they smell. Next, after they've dug as deep as they're gonna dig before they give it up, I'll go back and sprinkle some more bone meal in the bottom of the hole they dug. If my plan works I'll be able to get them to dig down to the hardpan layer that keeps plant roots from getting to the aquifer for a $2 bag of bone meal.
I got a curiosity about "hardpans". They're a layer of dirt made up of various materials. They're created here in the coastal plains along the Atlantic ocean because of the Appalachian mountains breaking down and eroding toward the ocean in a sedimentary style. Some layers are made of harder, less penetrable clays, and if they're fairly close to the surface they can present a problem for plants who need deep roots to survive.
℘
