Culpa

I could apologize for my absence, for I seem to do it a lot, that absent thing, mindedness, at least, yet I have not found an effective way to express remorse when I forget for the millionth time. (Yeah, there's a scoreboard.) But this isn't one of those times. On the face of it.

I could make a list. I thought of doing such. Not to-do but what is and was. But then I said to myself, "These are things that are happening —oops — have happened to me. Don't spoil the moment by composing." There's an old joke in that, which I won't repeat for fanning flames. Besides, the metaphysical often does not fly.

Still, I should mention that my name has seen ink two —no — make that three times this month. Four, if you consider proximity. Granted, not all of it rubs off; and, if it pays off, I will be mildly surprised. (Ah, future tense.)

Which reminds me (Admonition in the back of my head/voices from the past for an awkward paragraph transition.) of a moment of reflection I thought to share, when I first made the connection between hope and faith, dare and double-dare, if you will, which led to a bad decision despite a solid enough concept, for I neglected to take into consideration that b-buddy, Need. As in unmet. As in compensatory, that which distinguishes us from the apes, regardless of whether it is our fucking passion or passion fucking. It's a deep hole and therefore we concentrate on the light.

Or ignore it, like the sun, and keep on that path. Case in point: The Young Farmers. (Mind you, the rule stands that if I criticize another, I must lay a similar foible at my feet/feat.) So much we have given, gladly, for I see no reason for others to spend money on mistakes we have made, nor for past successes that, regardless, failed to produce more than one dollar per hour as a most-possible wage. So, when our six cucumber plants produce a full bushel more than we can eat or offer to neighbors, it is right for me to give them to the YF (ah, thought I had given up on the practice, eh?) to sell at the market, especially when they have suffered crop failure and bug bites the city folks cannot ignore. (Another parenthetical: If I had not stepped away to tweet a caustic remark or two, I would not have noticed that this paragraph began and ended with "ignore." Feel free.)

As I was saying... Besides the cucs, there was a bit less than a bushel of summer squash (twelve plants, mind you, faster growing fruit given to waste when unharvested for a few days), for which they appeared grateful in the form of a good number of biscotti on our doorstep today. But we are still on yesterday, when thanks came in the form of words about the soaker hoses that made management so much easier, the extreme noticeable via the plants that did not get watered by another means and died. No time. Not that we didn't provide them with enough hose.

We did it so much better and it did not matter. There isn't much more one needs to know in that regard. There is, however, a story that will not leave my mind, almost a persistent fever, the impression so, cells lost until all we have left is impropriety. Cells? It may not be a matter of pathways and such at all. The garden invariably has weeds lest one disregard most else that should matter, and it will come in good time.

And so, I must keep my promise, the oath of humility, or contrivance, I cannot be certain of motivation but I shall strive to keep it current:

The Rule of Three-Fifths