problem in the vegetable garden emerging from a relationship between the
new me, the old me and geometry.
A fence does not run parallel, there will be an acute and a grave accent,
instead of right angles. The old me is in a froth of
anxiety. The problem is exacerbated by he who dwells soberly
in these mists, impatient to get a good start on breaking ground for new
beds. Otherwise debate could continue on for several more
It is the
awkwardness of sharp and shallow shapes in two dimensions, the old me
objects to. So how on this plane can a dimension be achieved that
provides for a moment of enthusiasm sufficient to permit the breaking of
Purpose perhaps can be found in the
vegetable itself. Enthusiasm for new structures and shapes that
address the random of bounty. And I think of the cottage garden,
limited by space, no inch left unwanted.
Yellow rope and sturdy stakes dot the
landscape, and it has reached the point of such uncertainty that edging may
have to be temporary. Which the new me apparently finds unfitting
because he wakes me up like a sullen mistress to ask whose side I am on.
There is however a lighthouse, haunted
though it might be, which shines from beyond the mist. Her council
offers progress out of impasse by providing the word 'xylophone'.
But the old me grumbles like a volcano,
and no one is certain how dormant he is.