I have a small garden, a place in the sky five floors up that keeps me sane even though Margaret Atwood said something to the effect that gardening is an irrational act. I suppose she’s right when so many frugal apartment dwellers have shamed me with eye-rolls about the need for a garden. Those of us who go through the hardships of losing plants and hauling compost in the concrete jungle know that it is a need. Plants, soil, bees and even earthworms seem to be replacements for chemicals missing from apartment brain, an undiagnosed condition that too many of us suffer in silence.
Selfies. If it wasn’t so profoundly absurd, it could be funny. Preening for preening’s sake, harmless innocuousness, carefree self-indulgence, or is there something more to this unquestioning self-as-centre mass delusion, which has consumed the connected world?
Continue reading Selfie as simulacrum
Something strange happens to me. I go to this place, the closet in my head, where I can’t read or write or even watch television the most passive of things to do. I feel restless and uninterested and skim over blogs in freshly-pressed desperate to feel a prick of the old interest I have felt before. The only time I am happy is in my little garden where in a deep well of Indian summer heat, sunflowers are blooming a hot, glad yellow. When I look over at them from the living room, I feel a prick of interest, of life, perhaps even passion. That warm yellow is life itself and this colour that bees adore leaks into the dark closet where I have gone, it stops me from deadening away inside. Life is if anything feeling interested in things, not this hiding away and curling up in corners far from a world in which you feel alien.
Continue reading The in-betweeners