Sunday, May 18, 2008

Working the Old Soil

The rainclouds having retreated, it was once again time to busy my fingers in the earth. Fashion begins with foundation, as they say, so I occupied myself for a few mornings with the removal of winter's detritus: those cheap grassy weeds that grow but do not flower, meandering tendrils of ivy, the moldering carcasses of eviscerated dog toys, and a year's worth of competitively-flung bottle caps. Eventually I had a few level beds with which to work, and I even had a pallet of good red clay brick delivered, which I stacked up and watered on a sweltering day to make humid afternoon sunning bays for my orchids.

Unfortunately Todd*, employing the varied and misfiring talents of his ruined mind, mistook one of my cherished phalaenopses for a heroin-producing opium poppy, and gobbled it right down to the roots. Then, instead of penning a smash album of transcending genius and unifying pathos, he immediately fell over in fits of peristalsis and did a noisy wee on the side of my Coca-Cola. The visuals of the reassembled orchid did nothing for me, so I sprayed both art and artist off among the tomatoes with the hose and went inside for an iced glass of mint tea.

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*Unfortunately Todd: Wouldn't that just be a divine name for a SitCom about the little monster?