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Sunday, 7 August 2011

Wittgenstein's Garden...

I got a packet of seeds today
free with a gardening magazine
Trying to work out the relationships of identity and meaning and role-in-world of the seed and the packet confusion set in, necessarily - of course, as a matter of course.
The packet contains written instructions, images and seeds.
Oh, the possibility of losing my reason has occurred
don't you worry,
but Beckett the gardener stuffs the packet in his pocket mumbling something about poking them sometime in the lousy old earth, but I doubt both his sincerity and his confidence.
Sometimes I think he's a bit past it these days but he's been a faithful retainer all these years.
Anyway, besides the point, down to it
work to be done
close the gap count the selfish books which, homeless, have taken seemingly perpetual residence upon and amid the creaking and groanings of my home,
floor and shelf.
Perhaps, like Beckett, they have worn my pockets thin
becoming small change dripping out of my trouser legs
(some transitory temporality winks in the corner of my imagination
scuttling off down the temporal lobe)
now we have him boys
in broad daylight too!
He's out of the garden now
in the computer
keep him here
out of the pen and the ink
the flow
the journal rich in becoming
and discovery...
it's too late now...
the moment passes like black
intricate silken lace
over the shoulder of memory.
Later...