I could probably not have done so had she been wired to an
electroencephalograph,
showing her hopes and fears and loyalties.
She was my friend,
but when the day came I took a saw and calmly hacked her down.
I heard her make no cry,
but afterwards she watched me, wounded, from the ground
before dying.
Part of her corpse still lingers in the compost heap, watching and
welcoming me no more.
The situation was ridiculous.
My friend was eleven feet nine inches tall,
much of her protruding through the greenhouse window,
which, therefore, I could not shut.
What about my other friends?
Those others inside, who were troubled by the draught?
What also about my well-ordered civil service life style?
It seemed inconsiderate of my sunflower, selfish almost, to jam the window open, and her heavy flower did not even bother to follow the sun
although her leaves tried their best to do so in an off-hand sort of way.
Let’s face it, though,
plants, too, are bound by their priorities,
which in this case consisted mostly of beavering away assiduously,
creating that one great inscrutably smiling flower from manure and air and sun.
So what price a philosophy which permits slaughtering a friend who smiles?
And, indeed, who should be blamed for getting involved in incompatible
friendships:
friend jungle and friend garden in one home?
Moreover,
is it practicable to make friends with too many vegetables
without hopeless confusion of one’s loyalties?
One problem, though, is that friendship does not always grow to order.
Its seeds drift in the wind and sprout where they fall,
unless slaughtered.
Does one put friends in order: one .. two .. three .. ;
three being for slaughter when become too large?
Who is God around here anyhow?
RAE, 21 December 1975
I could probably not have done so had she been wired to an
electroencephalograph,
showing her hopes and fears and loyalties.
She was my friend,
but when the day came I took a saw and calmly hacked her down.
I heard her make no cry,
but afterwards she watched me, wounded, from the ground
before dying.
Part of her corpse still lingers in the compost heap, watching and
welcoming me no more.
The situation was ridiculous.
My friend was eleven feet nine inches tall,
much of her protruding through the greenhouse window,
which, therefore, I could not shut.
What about my other friends?
Those others inside, who were troubled by the draught?
What also about my well-ordered civil service life style?
It seemed inconsiderate of my sunflower, selfish almost, to jam the window open, and her heavy flower did not even bother to follow the sun
although her leaves tried their best to do so in an off-hand sort of way.
Let’s face it, though,
plants, too, are bound by their priorities,
which in this case consisted mostly of beavering away assiduously,
creating that one great inscrutably smiling flower from manure and air and sun.
So what price a philosophy which permits slaughtering a friend who smiles?
And, indeed, who should be blamed for getting involved in incompatible
friendships:
friend jungle and friend garden in one home?
Moreover,
is it practicable to make friends with too many vegetables
without hopeless confusion of one’s loyalties?
One problem, though, is that friendship does not always grow to order.
Its seeds drift in the wind and sprout where they fall,
unless slaughtered.
Does one put friends in order: one .. two .. three .. ;
three being for slaughter when become too large?
Who is God around here anyhow?
RAE, 21 December 1975