Whiteshell Provincial Park, or "it still tastes like soap".

( recap )

weeds winning

During my absence for four days, my friends' list went through virutally every turmoil imaginable, from the triumph of a major career goal through the heartbreak of heartbreak and right up into the sheer odd burden of being subjected to absurd criminal conduct.

When I was a boy, I mowed a lot of yards. I never charged much, and I never did all that great a job at it. I loved singing songs on our International Harvester Lo-boy tractor.
I am particularly melodious when the rotors are trimming the grass. I suspect this love of backing noise affects me in creative ways even today.

I used to take a swingblade to weeds. I remember when the swingblade was invented. One year, my brother and I spent weeks cleaning a fence with a hoe and a shovel. The year the swingblade came out, we spent hours on the same fence, and trimmed it neatly.

The thing I came to learn in life is that life is full of weeds--and some of them are fascinating weeds. But you can't let the weeds win. It may seem like a relief, this drowning in weeds, but you can't let the weeds win.

But I heard a poem by a man who imagined what it would be "if the weeds win", and so I remixed his poem into a song called "if the weeds win(gurdonark remix)".

It's not all weeds. They don't always win. Sometimes a tropicana rose bleeds through.
Treaure the rose, even if thorns and ragged weed-leaves nick the blood to the service.
Clear the weeds, and there's all sorts of lovely things hidden within.

I bought a five dollar watch at Big Lots today because I really do want to know what time it is, and I really do care.