Ghost in The Garden


Being indoors on a fine spring day feels almost criminal.

Having coughed up and spit out every ounce of what’s substantial inside me, I coax what’s left outdoors, into the sun.

Trying to forget nothing, since two trips would tire me out. A blanket’s draped over one arm, dragging in the dirt. A pile of cookies, a china cup and a top heavy thermos teeter thrillingly on the breakfast tray I’m gripping. The newspaper is clamped securely under the other arm.

I pick my line oh-so-carefully, lifting and placing each foot zen-style, negotiating the freshly mole-tunneled path.

Ease the clattering tray onto the stump-table.

Yank the cushion from its vertical (foiling felines far and near) repose and create my asylum for one.

It sez in the International Herald Tribune that as a Marin County resident, I use up 27 acres of precious land with all my wasteful practices. Hmm. Must go on a carbon-footprint diet.


Right now, it’s read, drink hot-hot black tea, chow on left over cookies, and marvel at the tiny little lacy sphereshiding under the dead tomatillo vine. Survey my twenty seven aches and pains
and resolve to somehow get a Marin Ladie’s and Children’s clothing swap going.

Going green…it’s a cliche. Here, it just means ‘keep shopping, but more obsessively’.

This of course means spending more time in the car!

The very Earth’s hacking up her own sickening green sputum, the earthquakes, tsunamis and fires all natural fling-off-the-invader style fever paroxysms.

Or am I just hallucinating, maybe I’d better get better before trying to blog…


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