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May 16th 2010    Tim Candler

    I should find physical work soon, otherwise the stairs to the room where I sleep may become too steep to climb, and I will snooze in the armchair downstairs, call out occasionally for a peeled grape or a bacon sandwich and meet a sticky end.  

    In the template of life there are points of change that younger people reference as "my first..."   Proudly they will look upon something shiny with wheels and call it "my first car".   On through the pattern some will travel with the round eyes and eagerness of the properly adjusted.  And I suppose "my first heart attack" must become a matter of pride, otherwise pointlessness is too apparent. 

    At my age "Whoop-Dee"  is the better response to eagerness of any sort, so I have often wondered why physical work offers me such solace.   Today's answer to this question includes a yearning from imagination.   "My first edible root eighteen inches long."  A carrot perhaps.  A parsnip maybe.  Some sort of  Wurzel, possibly.   And for this I will need a two foot depth of well drained and stone-less soil, good rain and co-operation from the insect world.

      Some might argue that in me "creative is" has become too deformed for usefulness.  And those who might think this I can spit upon because blessed release occurs only once. 

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