the metaphor of the garden

 

the mirror or map of the garden and gardening:

callisto's garden summer

we really don't need another map, but this one is so beautiful, let's dwell in it for a bit --

although sitting at a desk writing an abstract philosophical tract might seem to lack the overt sensory appeal of gardening, those with sensitive senses can smell the roses and appreciate the fresh air, savor the metaphorical sweat and dastardly dirty fingernails, we even, as in a real garden, make friends with the drudgery and monotony, as they're so productive, and when you indulge them you don't have to feel guilty taking in the metaphorical sunshine that can be brighter than the real kind. 

Meanwhile, in both cases  the incessant* journey organizes (and disorganizes) itself into a winding path to and from and to and from... a small clearing for rest and reflection.  In both cases, the terrain has previously been used mainly as trash dump, and so I sifted deep into the metaphorical, just like the physical soil to remove the trash and weeds.  Nothing seemed to work for years.  At one point I came into a dramatically gigantically, very ephemerally flowering phenomenon (in the real garden a peony plant, in the metaphorical one a fresco by Giotto),  which demanded the spot with the brightest  light.  The only way to make sense of the terrain then was to create a winding path around the flowering phenomenon.  The giant fragrant luminous phenomenon, blooms suddenly and briefly, though the leaves, or what's left is large and lovely.   In retrospect I see, in short, that the path was to the resting place, not the finding, the finding appeared on the way to skirting its seeking, the finding both warping the path and fostering the finding of itself.   How clear and unfathomable as the spring air after a rain!  

*as with real gardening, when you pass go, you collect 200 dollars, and if you get too many monopolies, give some away to keep the game going, likewise keep returning half of your cash to the bank.

plot before callisto's bones became the garden
named after her

callisto's garden summer

the resting place overshadowed by more written or physical leaves with phallically suggestive fruit vines, hanging lasciviously in front of the eyes as one meditates on what has so far transpired.  

callisto's garden lascivious cucumber

while you gather all flowers and fruits you can, you metaphorically and/or actually garden all season, and then it all falls apart, and then you start again, oh yes, all that applies here -- you don't want to get this over with, you want this last forever -- which noun fully known, not just peeped at through a highly filtered peep-hole, seems to be a verb, so if your knees don't bend to plant and weed, just go away. 

callisto's garden summer

A "master" and professor I know of what they call critical theory, even though it's just one kind not critical enough to admit that, told me his knees don't bend, but I'm not too worried.  The more they resist, the harder they fall.  The recent, most favored theories are clearly bursting at the seams and spilling their guts all over the place, ready to  mud slide down the hills, kiss the rediscovered earth, soaked in their salty sobs, as the pining pines opine: that's enough! we aren't seaweed.  Be sure to kiss these poor old theories and thank them and pass them onto those who need to go through them, and don't be too impatient with them. until they dig in their heels just crying for a kick in the pants -- 

It is both a science and an art, this garden's beauty like that of many living things serving its need to survive and thrive, by attracting mates and symbiotic companions to encourage pollinators, attracted not just by sights, but sounds and smells -- breathe in!  the mongrel discourse smells like roses! --

callisto's garden summer

and if roses really don't thrive in this climate and are a world of trouble -- actually they aren't in Red Hook -- but the very fussy varieties in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden do give the rosarians a world of trouble, still, they bring in visitors who help fund the enterprise, so although the garden seems a flagrant fake flaunting its frivolous frippery in defiance of the actual slimy scary brutality of nature, a tale of sound and fury signifying nothing, it is not so.  Though there's much murder and marauding in the shadows and even in broad daylight, it is a festival of masks and camouflages and subterfuges, all  the cacophony melts for a split second into a symphony, though to hear it you need to develop ears as attentive as the aforementioned eyes of Ted Williams, who, as I hope you recall, saw the stitches on the ball as it

 crossed the plate

Good work reader weeder!  Feel the ache a little longer... then take a break, then come back to ache and be bored and fall off dreaming some more, and yet, strangely, gardening is as pleasurable as the garden, even more so...

callisto's garden summer

the wind brushed lake of gardening melting in and out of the mutating garden is a near perfect mirror and map in many details of the divine comedy of the ineffably grounded thought herein, whose near perfect abstraction is just what appears -- or fails to in the pitch black -- after a spaceship takes you to the far side of the moon to blot out the earth and awaken you to the actual existence of this heavenly wonder before returning you to the earth to behold and appreciate the golden roundness (as opposed to one of those Martian blobs) as never before.

THAT WAS ANOTHER METAPHOR  --  FOR THE THING ITSELF CLICK ON --

http://themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com/2023/07/all-work-in-progress-unless-terminal.html

date changed to privilege 

kerry rose shear (veronika) krvs at me dot com