week of abstinence foisted upon it by inclement weather followed by an
afternoon of concrete, reminds the body that it will not last for
More often in the defining of Human
Being, we are apparently "why" things before we are
"how" things. Then in the parallel universe of symbols the
"why" and the "how" conjoin with "ifs" and
"thens" to produce explanation, or meaning.
Unease I suppose belongs to that part of the mind that contains the
elements necessary for unhappiness. And the secret has long been to
discourage unease sufficiently to manage its conversion into a practical
contentment, or at the more frightening extreme, ultimate happiness.
Whichever wavelength is chosen the word fatalistic might be tuned to it.
In parts of existentialist thought death itself is inconceivable.
And this because the mind does not contend with nothingness, rather it
always finds something. In other words it cannot help but answer
"why" with variations on the theme of "how". Or,
"existence precedes essence" as Sartre put it. And here
the truth or otherwise of "how" has little relevance to meaning.
There is no other place for me, which is
to assert that I must sometimes contend with nothingness. In my
universe of symbols, I have tried often to put death in the category of inconceivable.
I see the photograph of Sartre smoking his long pipe and I hear his voice
Today, after discussion, I was persuaded
to finally cull the remaining Tomato vines. Ruthlessly I tore them
down, and I could smell that fresh of living Tomato as sap flowed. In
my mind I thought of last year's Tomato vines and I thought of next year's
Tomato vines. And I put this year's Tomato vines in that area of
compost devoted to things that might possibly contain disease.
Briefly I saw in today's work an analogy
more seductive than a "slope in a random place". I say this
because "slope in a random place" is more a resolution of
"nothingness" than it is a solution to that quality of time
"when". Which I suspect is why so many require an
intelligence in the great beyond that today those remaining Tomato vines at
last found in me.
However, during the cull, I saw and heard
nothing of gratitude. And after it was done I sensed the beginnings of
winter orderliness which was echoed by the comrade of mine with whom I share
the imprecision of language.