At times, like Charles Bukowski describes, written words come bursting out of me in spite of everything, come unasked out of my heart and mind and gut.
Other times, it’s the garden that is painted on the walls of my heart that burns my gut and flies out of my soul like a rocket. At such times, being still—not planting or weeding or watering or walking in the garden-today or dreaming of the garden-to-come—would drive me to madness or suicide or murder, and it certainly drives me to leap out of bed before 5 some mornings and it tickles and nudges and niggles and vexes my brain all night many nights, especially when July’s supermoon lights the garden-tonight from above and floods through my uncurtained windows.
It’s a month, four Wednesdays, since I posted any images or words on this blog. If you’ve wondered where I am, now you know: I’m in the garden.
Pictures will follow when I take some that mirror what I see.