gate, the gate.
But so relieved to find it! I was. Not until then did I realize the extent of that relief. Oh Christine. Almost I had been lost, lost! He who is lost now art found, alongthe garden path, up the garden path and down the garden path, and from the garden path. I had passed along the garden path.
Without having admitted the awful truth. I had not admitted the truth, that somewhere inside myself I had worried about being lost, perhaps even that I had been lost, and failed to admit it.
The place was a warren. The entire town. They called it a town. It was a large village. What was odd about human behaviour was its divergence from culture to culture, even community to community. It was species-like. Such basics as gardens, how we humans plant and design our gardens. I refer here to Christine. She would have been startled by a mention of my name in reference to gardens. I have no interest in gardens, except insofar as one may escape them. I confess it readily.
One thing she did not do was carry heavyweight bicycles for other people; nephews, grandsons, granddaughters, nieces. The purchase of said bike would not have occurred to her. Had she known this was my intention she would have taken pains to stop me, and would have succeeded (generally a shake of the head was sufficient).
Why had I bought the damn thing. He would not even want it. Youngsters have their own ideas. He would simply look at it, he would look at it.
Where was I? The gate.
Gates cannot disappear.
How strange. There it had been. But now where?
But the sense of fun does not desert us. It is the sense of fun that distinguishes the species. Who ever heard of humorous cats?
Gates do not disappear but of cats there were plenty, in this vicinity. They prowled every corner, beneath table and chair, by the town sewers, sniffing out discarded seafood, jumping onto the table tops with contaminated paws. Half the town populace had contracted kidney diseases which, in a more hysterical society, might have caused fundamental misunderstandings and proven a blight on the tourist trade. Tourist incomers congregated in particular beach restaurants and lounge bars, hoping to gain the respect of the locals. To that unlikely end they fed the local cats. But woe to them, they had misjudged the situation. They would have been as well feeding late-night snacks to a flock of capon chickens the week before xmas. The locals had a saying about cats, and dogs. It was derogatory. I cannot recollect why precisely. Nor the actual saying itself, whatever it was, to do with mouths: excess! They were excess mouths? Perhaps that was it. What else was an animal but a mouth. An excess mouth requires food. Never feed an excess mouth. No animal was worth it. Thus say the locals.
Now the gate; a mere break in the wall, but it was there, truly, an iron gate. And I recognized this from my point of entry.
Vines vines vines. Vines had concealed the gate.
Why conceal a gate? Reminiscent of the Borgias.
I moved to open the damn thing but it would not budge, it would not budge. No, it would not open. Why would it not open? It had clanged shut behind me.I remembered this. Thus I had opened it, only an open thing can close.
What on earth was wrong with the damn thing. It would not open. The damn gate would not open, it would not open.
Gates gates. Absolute tyrants. That was the Borgias. A blemish on humanity.
The snib. I saw it. More of a bolt. A strange foreign contraption with a peculiar release-knob, circular in design. Certainly a spot of oil would have done it no harm. I grasped it with my fingers, my right hand, twisting at it. No luck. I would have to put down the bicycle. But if so having to resume the burden, for it was a burden; oh bring me to the silent shore, one might lay down one’s burden, evermore evermore. The weight was proving too much. It was a ton weight on me, but at the same time, the same time
I could not release the damn snib thing with its bolt and circular
But so relieved to find it! I was. Not until then did I realize the extent of that relief. Oh Christine. Almost I had been lost, lost! He who is lost now art found, alongthe garden path, up the garden path and down the garden path, and from the garden path. I had passed along the garden path.
Without having admitted the awful truth. I had not admitted the truth, that somewhere inside myself I had worried about being lost, perhaps even that I had been lost, and failed to admit it.
The place was a warren. The entire town. They called it a town. It was a large village. What was odd about human behaviour was its divergence from culture to culture, even community to community. It was species-like. Such basics as gardens, how we humans plant and design our gardens. I refer here to Christine. She would have been startled by a mention of my name in reference to gardens. I have no interest in gardens, except insofar as one may escape them. I confess it readily.
One thing she did not do was carry heavyweight bicycles for other people; nephews, grandsons, granddaughters, nieces. The purchase of said bike would not have occurred to her. Had she known this was my intention she would have taken pains to stop me, and would have succeeded (generally a shake of the head was sufficient).
Why had I bought the damn thing. He would not even want it. Youngsters have their own ideas. He would simply look at it, he would look at it.
Where was I? The gate.
Gates cannot disappear.
How strange. There it had been. But now where?
But the sense of fun does not desert us. It is the sense of fun that distinguishes the species. Who ever heard of humorous cats?
Gates do not disappear but of cats there were plenty, in this vicinity. They prowled every corner, beneath table and chair, by the town sewers, sniffing out discarded seafood, jumping onto the table tops with contaminated paws. Half the town populace had contracted kidney diseases which, in a more hysterical society, might have caused fundamental misunderstandings and proven a blight on the tourist trade. Tourist incomers congregated in particular beach restaurants and lounge bars, hoping to gain the respect of the locals. To that unlikely end they fed the local cats. But woe to them, they had misjudged the situation. They would have been as well feeding late-night snacks to a flock of capon chickens the week before xmas. The locals had a saying about cats, and dogs. It was derogatory. I cannot recollect why precisely. Nor the actual saying itself, whatever it was, to do with mouths: excess! They were excess mouths? Perhaps that was it. What else was an animal but a mouth. An excess mouth requires food. Never feed an excess mouth. No animal was worth it. Thus say the locals.
Now the gate; a mere break in the wall, but it was there, truly, an iron gate. And I recognized this from my point of entry.
Vines vines vines. Vines had concealed the gate.
Why conceal a gate? Reminiscent of the Borgias.
I moved to open the damn thing but it would not budge, it would not budge. No, it would not open. Why would it not open? It had clanged shut behind me.I remembered this. Thus I had opened it, only an open thing can close.
What on earth was wrong with the damn thing. It would not open. The damn gate would not open, it would not open.
Gates gates. Absolute tyrants. That was the Borgias. A blemish on humanity.
The snib. I saw it. More of a bolt. A strange foreign contraption with a peculiar release-knob, circular in design. Certainly a spot of oil would have done it no harm. I grasped it with my fingers, my right hand, twisting at it. No luck. I would have to put down the bicycle. But if so having to resume the burden, for it was a burden; oh bring me to the silent shore, one might lay down one’s burden, evermore evermore. The weight was proving too much. It was a ton weight on me, but at the same time, the same time
I could not release the damn snib thing with its bolt and circular
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