Last night was a rough one, psychotically speaking. It was all I could do not to reformat my cranium as some sort of post-Post-Modern, avant-garde, recessionist-abstract deconstructionist performance piece. Not to disparage the severity of leaden suffering my mind has found fit to absorb in general, of late. Suffice it to say I am now quite certain and markedly convinced that my Crazy Pills are no longer working — something I have, for some time, suspected, but obdurately resisted accepting — which means the next 31 days until my Starving Artist Insurance Plan will cover the scheduled months in advance new patient exam that is required for my establishment on the panel of a primary care provider who can then give me a proper and necessary referral to who I hope will be an eccentrically brilliant, empathetic, slightly neurotic headshrinker slash script writer with a heart of gold are going to be, shall we ambiguously say, interesting. Run-on sentences only hint at the delightfully unpredictable mania to come! But, dem lows, doh…
Knowing that I must bide my time, maintain the Madness, and resist impulses of self-destruction for this objectively short period of time, I’ve tried to make available to my faculties certain therapeutic distractions. One such welcome intercourse has been that oft-dreaded, inexplicably despised facet of supposed “home-ownership”:
As in all things The Ryan must do, I despise the idea of yard work. However, likewise, once I am able to force myself into the task, I actually fucking LOVE yard work. It provides focus for a brain hell-bent on distraction. It provides activity for a mind/body meat bag prone to lethargy. It provides necessary and welcome physical, mental, and spiritual immersion in nature. It helps stave off the goddamn reliably unpredictable tide of anxious shimmering madness that I am increasingly unable to comfortably surf in flow.
And, occasionally, it results in discovery and intrigue.
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There is a vengeful, thorn-bearing foothill paloverde which holds vile dominion over one corner of the front yard. It is a belligerent, malicious, glorified mass of shrubbery from which I removed a bulk of inbred, compacted, endlessly resilient bastardized stems and upstart branches a few days ago, an abomination which I have termed the Stump of DOOM.
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The bitter “fruit” it sprouts dries into these little unassuming pea-pods:
— which then distribute themselves to all corners of the Earth in an attempt to propagate the ancient foothill paloverde message of scorn. Many of these have attempted to gain strongholds of their own within the isolated, concrete-locked bed which the mother paloverde calls home. Some have, during periods of neglect, found themselves bold and daring, their audacity to exist and to grow resulting in said DOOM-Stump. But, he who trowels last… >:]
Or, so I thought.
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Apparently — and, with the aid of wind, water, chance…perhaps even some willing or unwitting co-conspirator — some of the pods managed to make their way and find root among the radicles of several tangelo trees on the other side of the yard. I discovered today that said flora had sprouted several malicious, mutant branches of thorn and broadleaf. In a moment of megalomaniacal dietiego* I considered allowing them to mature to see what kind of strange and terrible fruit this ghastly union might bear. Fortunately, Fate intervened, shoving my finger sharply into the prickly, blood-thirsty embrace of a thorn. Since the execrable deviant foliage had therefore subsumed my superlative mitochondrial blueprint (it had absorbed by precious blood stuffs!), I was forced to uproot and destroy it for fear of fathering some unwitting creation, some kind of horrific, intelligent, self-aware brand of citrus that would surely uprise and come to enslave and destroy all of mankind. I can’t have that kind of responsibility on my head, man!
BONUS: I found these fellas.
“…in the sun she warmed her wings, and listened to cicadas sing…” Not to worry, I returned them safely to the Earth. It’s not your time yet, cicadas! Yeah bitch! SCIENCE!!!
* ‘dietego’ – a portmanteau made up of the words “deity” and “ego”; coined in use by © TR Sanders, February 2015
© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.