An English In Kentucky


















April 29th 2010    Tim Candler

    Some of us have been remarkably diligent with labeling this year.  Our halo shines gold and beautiful.

   We have carefully saved scraps of kiln dried pine.  With dangerous machines we have cut these scraps into thin stakes.  And we have practiced our hand writing without benefit of those clever mechanical devices that check spelling.  So what Spanach  might be, I do not know. 

    There is however in the world a more dominant intellect.   Probably it sits in a basement, where it devises those subtleties of language that can be found in the expression "permanent marker".   

    And now when I wander through a kingdom of little wooden stakes like a professor of eugenics  searching for the undocumented, I discover that no evidence of hand writing remains.   Bleached by sun, washed by rain, or is it more nefarious.  Is it a conspiracy of the impure and am I back pining for a golden age when there was only one kind of carrot.

    Certainly true there is no permanent thing.   Perhaps I should have used pencil. 


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