Garden Rant We Are: Convinced that gardening MATTERS. Bored with perfect magazine gardens. In love with real, rambling, chaotic, dirty, bug-ridden gardens. Suspicious of the “horticultural industry.” Delighted by people with a passion for plants. Appalled by chemical warfare in the garden. Turned off by any activities that involve “landscaping” with “plant materials.” Flabbergasted at the idea of a “no maintenance garden.” Gardening our asses off.
Having a hell of a lot of fun.
The clouds blow through the simulacrum of the imagination.
The loaf sized rocks in the dry-stone wall, like scales of an ancient fish, the running spine caught in a barbed wire net the belly at rest amongst the weeds green waves rolling away... neath the white spume...
"...[the] crucial moment when we believe we have another person's measure... Up to that point all is curiosity, guesswork, a hankering after confessions. Hunger for the other person, the lure of their hidden depths. But secret potential has been decoded, along come these words, often pretentious and dogmatic, dissecting, pinpointing, categorizing. It all becomes comprehensible reassuring. Now the routine of a relationship, or a difference, can takeover. Their body reduced to flesh and blood mechanism, desirable or otherwise. Their heart to a set of predictable responses.
At this stage, in fact, a kind of murder occurs, for we kill this being of infinite and inexhaustible potential that we encountered. We would rather deal with a verbal construct than a living person..."
Andreï Makine The Woman Who Waited Hodder & Stoughton (2006) pp.3-4
Makine unpeels his narrator's pre-conceptions gently shifting his perceptions...a description of the moments that shift our minds. Set against the narrative is the unfurling of the seasons of Siberia, landscaping the two protagonists.
Read this book.
photo of Siberia by hulilung at http://media.photobucket.com/image/siberia/huliling/Landscapes/SIBERIA.jpg?o=36
"...and the whole bay spread before them and Mrs.Ramsey could not help exclaiming, 'Oh, how beautiful!' For the great plateful of blue water was before her; the hoary Lighthouse, distant, austere, in the midst; and on the right , as far as the eye could see, fading and falling, in soft low pleats, the green sand dunes with the wild flowing grasses on them, which always seemed to be running away into some moon country, uninhabited of men. That was the view, she said, stopping, growing greyer-eyed, that her husband loved."
The UB Post featured this report in February. Whilst the extreme weather in China featured in mainstream news programmes no mention of the likelihood of deteriorating conditions in Central Asia were considered or mentioned.
At last, my first photo on my blog! Using my mobile phone and taken from an upstairs window at about 9:00am in December.
I've been told, on good authority, that you can see the whole world from the top of this tree. What you can definitely see are my sheds, the allotment gardens and the woodland burial area of the local cemetary.
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb, Now leaves His well-belov'd imprisonment, There He hath made Himself to His intent Weak enough, now into the world to come; But O, for thee, for Him, hath the inn no room? Yet lay Him in this stall, and from the Orient, Stars and wise men will travel to prevent The effect of Herod's jealous general doom. Seest thou, my soul, with thy faith's eyes, how He Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie? Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high, That would have need to be pitied by thee? Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go, With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.
The Advent wind begins to stir With sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir, It's dark at breakfast, dark at tea, And in between we only see Clouds hurrying across the sky And rain-wet roads the wind blows dry And branches bending to the gale Against great skies all silver pale The world seems travelling into space, And travelling at a faster pace Than in the leisured summer weather When we and it sit out together, For now we feel the world spin round On some momentous journey bound - Journey to what? to whom? to where? The Advent bells call out 'Prepare, Your world is journeying to the birth Of God made Man for us on earth.'
And how, in fact, do we prepare The great day that waits us there - For the twenty-fifth day of December, The birth of Christ? For some it means An interchange of hunting scenes On coloured cards, And I remember Last year I sent out twenty yards, Laid end to end, of Christmas cards To people that I scarcely know - They'd sent a card to me, and so I had to send one back. Oh dear! Is this a form of Christmas cheer? Or is it, which is less surprising, My pride gone in for advertising? The only cards that really count Are that extremely small amount From real friends who keep in touch And are not rich but love us much Some ways indeed are very odd By which we hail the birth of God.
We raise the price of things in shops, We give plain boxes fancy tops And lines which traders cannot sell Thus parcell'd go extremely well We dole out bribes we call a present To those to whom we must be pleasant For business reasons. Our defence is These bribes are charged against expenses And bring relief in Income Tax Enough of these unworthy cracks! 'The time draws near the birth of Christ'. A present that cannot be priced Given two thousand years ago Yet if God had not given so He still would be a distant stranger And not the Baby in the manger.