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June 7th 2010    Tim Candler

    Strange that the devil lives underground, and I suspect it was a Pommes de Terre that tempted Adam.   A lightly boiled Pontiac Potato garnished with 'can't believe it's not butter' served at four o'clock in the afternoon.  And true it was a sin to break the row, but I will tell myself this plant had no bloom left and its foliage had been rolled upon by a small blotchy red Bison.   The Eggplant of course sneered at me, so today I allowed a Colorado Beetle to wander on Eggplant leaves, while we negotiated the terms of Eggplant behavior and attitude.

       I like to think this sudden despotism of mine stems from too long an association with an empathy that more often requires activity from me.   Some might say I am kicking the dog.  And probably they would be correct because I would like to know what it feels like.  

   It does seem wrong, however, to pick on Eggplant.  So I need a therefore in order to create a triumvirate of reason, otherwise I am rattling around in a purposeless way responding to whim, so well exemplified by the two pounds of boiled Pontiac that had me asleep by seven on a summer evening.

   To say the Eggplant spoke to me has that charm which often can be mystified through reference to Potato hallucinogen, or too much sun or some such jingoistic rhetoric from mental health professionals.    Then when I reached for the Colorado Beetle, it lifted its wings and flew. 

    And what does an Eggplant sound like when it tells you how dumb you are.  It is a little like the Close Mockingbird pecking at the ripening Raspberry.

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