An English In Kentucky


















Sunday December 29th  2013  Tim Candler


      There is a developing  argument in the other world - which is a place where I have come to think 'professional' means 'tenure is two weeks in Cancun and BMW rental' - that indeed perhaps "The Secret Life of Plants" might not have been so much geriatric mumbo-jumbo.  The  neurology of  things that live, the 1973 best selling thesis claimed, might reach beyond creatures whose children we people think cuddly.  And sure you can hook up the Aspidistra to a lie detector and watch it squirm while your Mega Mouth Juicer does it's work on your half pound of carrots. And if you are completely insane you can pipe what the puerile call classical music through the electric to your Crucifers in the belief you are offering them a calm.  My own choice in this area would be The Ramones or The Clash or Cherubino singing to a voluptuous Susanna, or an Ankole drummer getting his spear ready to dance, a  dust and heat, I yearn for.

       Then, if you are like me, you can enter the world of the universal where you can collect cold Potato Rocks, call them cousins and tell them about the geometry of slopes in places that are random.  Which can be lonely, because through the years far from bonding with my clan, I have developed allergies to nut eaters and their mostly transparent commercial enterprises, that too often include the word 'angel' and the word 'spiritual' in preparation for a crash course with the devil on marketing, followed by a visit to  heaven's representative on earth, or the bank manager. Nor am I prone to fall for Goethe's Poet, "What genuine is, posterity will cherish." I'll tell that dreamer too that I don't give a rat for "words that are fitly mated."  And yes there is a disconnect in me that more often than not is resolved by a well cut double trench and that cruel and unusual punishment I have learned to call "Compost."


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