In any case, no exercise and heavy eating for four days and I was feeling more bloat of body than I'd started with. I don't need anything more at the hardware store yet, and I was dead tired from an unusual schedule and lack of motivation... so I somehow roused myself to jogging down to the rose garden. But I wanted to have something to write on if inspiration (I hoped I hoped I hoped) struck. I'm about 12 days down on 100poems; sad. I didn't have anything small enough to fit conveniently in a pocket, so I jogged down to the 7/11 -- the other direction, but... not bad. half downhill, half uphill, short but had my heart racing. I'm so out of shape. (call that two and a half to three city blocks...) There I got a small notepad, and jogged and walked to the rose garden (which is most of the way to the hardware store but a bit askew and overall not downhill; ESPECIALLY when starting from the 7/11).
Anyway, (I hope this fits) what follows are notes I jotted down, doing my damnedest to free associate. Four and a quarter tiny pages, front and back.
Before I enter the garden: public (squalor) to public (splendoer)
public street to pulic park. flowery delight enshrouded in? by? trees. outside engines; inside: voices; ringing: birds; I walk gently down the long stairs, down the entrance which is obvious yet hidden, somehow obfuscated from the mind which can't contain in. [sic: the mind conveniently doesn't look beyond facades]
my ears hurt from running; wind, cold, sweat, lack of water? OW. at least I have these ordered lines to meditate on. upon?
[suited business man; released anal fixation; he has soiled his pants]
five steps down, or nine, time already begins to dilate, contract, manipulate itself. The sounds above are softer, muted. cars drive by but people walk down past me, silent. Do theycome to rest, to stay? a vision of a maypole dances past, ground cold to touch yet warm to feel, like the eye of a storm spreading out. [story idea: threes. jouranl leads to journal leads to journal... insanity seems too simple... what?] [I pop my ears. they still hurt.]
at the second gate, the sunshines, purifying... dizzying. the fairy glen indeed, but manicured... touched by human hands, as if to hide or deny the fairy underneath. iron chains run round the inner perimeter... welcome, they say, but beware... it is safe, but only for it has been made so... do not explore the darker recesses; come, look not at us but at the flowers presented, nay, captured for you [sic: for your pleasure]
the sun still hurts. every other ten feet, recessed within taller bushes, lie benches to further trap the roses with mundane humanity. paved walkways create a figure/ground conundrum making us boats touristing carefully sculpted inlets of rosebuds.
above the trees, further out, are houses; but they're the sort where folks who would not look down into the garden live; they do not question, do not gawk; they do not see the things hat happen at night, when the flowers come to life. they don't see the blood on the ground recirculating through the soil, nourishing the hapless creatures chained there for display.
If you look just right, you can almost see them, almost hear them, in the day.
I remember the circle where we planted the maypole, between the fashioned pond and the series of falls it fed, passing beneath us. The moon was high, the wind was cool, the world was silent but for us. what we did is not important but what I say that night...
they'd been chained so long they did not know how to survive free. or perhaps they had no land to go back to.
[What can hide from the science of reason?] [all secrets are found or become inconsequential.] [if they have no caonsequence, no following events, they are gone as the wind]
is there a dryad that rings the fairies, itself trapped but looking after the faries as best it can? or has it been twisted? does it have human disciples, people in its thrall? [sic: I did not see her...] what role the gardner?
up, up from the bench... on to the pain, legs carry. tromp. WILL... UP! I am not ready to return yet.
two benches down: I am tired. sleep beckoned but here I am. I could not discern whether the sleep was my own.
the bees. the bees could almost be the keepers of this place. the faries have lost the knack of breeding themselves; [sic: the bees] fly from plant to plant... or are they the third sex of fairy? they themselves that have three sexes? or perhaps these drones all be, these bees.
There are no other living creatures. no flies, no beetles, no worms but those that have for a moment wandered in and will soon be gone or dead.
there is a rose called lavaglow, captured in 1979.
marmalade skies in the shadow of a cloud glow a radiant reddish salmon... created 2001? patet pending. how do you patent a fairy? it's too much to think that multinational corporations are genetically engineering new fairies for this prison. are they dupes then? fronting somehow? or does this place itself have the souls of fairies and they express themselves into anything that we grow here? or are not all the flowers fairies? or perhaps the flowers and fairies are only more generally related?
the fairies stretched up long iron poles to mimic trees hold my sympathies most strongly.
there, then. the manicured central pool. energy. the birds relax here. can they be trapped? are they watching me or am I watching them? I should move on. I walk home now.
On leaving, a note: the stairs are many and small, somehow inhibiting a longer stride, a comfortable gait. To enter we must relax or hurdle headlong; to leave one must gently struggle.