Thurs., June 17, 1999
Plato: Every man should plant a tree, write a book, father a child, and build a house.
Aristotle: And what about women?
Plato: Oh, every man should grab a few of those, too.
[Sounds of Diogenes laughing hard and wine spewing from his nose]
- Transcript of secretly taped conference call between the ancient Greek philosophers and Linda Tripp
I planted a tree today. An oak tree, no less. A volunteer that I rescued early in the spring from a spot inappropriately close to my house, put in a large pot, and have just now transplanted to what had been a crop circle in my lawn.
This in the wake of the realization that my life is just too busy right now for me to deal with alien visitation. Better to just destroy the evidence, turn up the radio, and hope for the best.
I believe what I planted was a white oak.
"Of all the broad-leaved trees in North America, oaks are the most widespread, occupy the greatest variety of habitats, and comprise the largest number of species (58 trees and 10 shrubs)."
That's according to "The Reader's Digest Guide To North American Wildlife" - as fine a collection of articles ripped off from better publications as you're likely to find anywhere - so you know it must be true.
Ahh, but it feels great to have a winning botanical on my team again!It's been awhile. When I lived in Dayton, Ohio (1983-86) I had about three sycamore trees growing in plastic milk containers set on my south-facing bedroom windowsill. I'd found a seed ball at a local park, brought it home, broke it up, planted the parts, and damn if they didn't sprout. In a year or so, I had foot-high sticks happily making leaves indistinguishable from those of sycamore trees found in the wild. These sticks even dropped those leaves in the fall!
Amazing things, sticks.
I still feel bad that I dumped them in 1986 when I moved to my current hometown. There simply wasn't room for such things in the tiny place I was moving to, and besides, I was stupid enough to think that growing trees in windowsill milk cartons was not an appropriate activity for someone whose long-term goal in life was to marry into a royal family.
O, youth - thy name is Idiocy!My '86 move also forced me to get rid of the only house I'm ever likely to build. It was a scale model of a Victorian mansion composed entirely of hacksaw-cut popsicle sticks. I suppose I'd used a few thousand popsicle sticks in the couple years I worked on it. Alas, I'm really not sure of anything about it, anymore, except that it went a lot faster after I learned you don't have to eat popsicles to get the sticks - they actually sell them clean and popsicle-free in hobby stores.
Oh, well. I hadn't even finished the first floor, anyway....I've done a bit better in the book writing department.
My first was called "How To Use A Toadstool" and aimed to be the definitive reference work on the subject. Did you know that toadstools can literally be used for everything from carpeting to emergency room puppet shows? Well, maybe someday when I find a publisher, that will change.
Another book I wrote was entitled "And So I Left." It detailed, in semi-fictional form, my full-fledged flight from reality.
A real stretch, eh?
Opening two paragraphs:"AND SO I LEFT. I ripped off my old skin and I left after grabbing my shoes and my boots and my flippers and my skis. I stenciled myself 'FREE' and I went to my truck and after tossing my Keds and my cleats and my pedometer and my childhood tricycle into the back, I headed on out and away and I left, rarely to return. I slammed the door and I turned the key and I put the pedal to the metal and burned rubber and I left just as soon as some little blue car passed out of my way, some little foreign job I'll probably never see again and which won't even matter if I do. 'Cause I left - that's the important thing, the thing to remember, the heart of the nut, the pièce de résistance. I gunned the engine and I left, even if unlike Kerouac I did obey all pertinent traffic regulations as I did so. If I nonetheless violated one or two, it was unintentional or out of ignorance. I don't think it was more than one or two, but I was in a hurry, and there are so many, many rules.
So I left.
I took a right out of our driveway and I was on my way. I might have gone down, but the ground kept getting in my way. I might have flown high, but I don't cotton to heights. I turned right and I went straight and I kept going straight until I was out of gas and then I got out of my truck and walked until I was too tired to walk anymore, then I ran...."What's that you say? That's three paragraphs? Sorry - I promise to do better with my counting in the future.
Last summer I started a new novel called "Parasites of the Sun." Each chapter focuses on a different character, one step further along in the plot. First chapter was about a woman obsessed with sex. Second chapter was about her coach/husband, who may have murdered her for not being a team player. Third chapter was about their gay son, who may have framed a guilty man for the crime. The framing of a guilty man is the deliciously ironic heart of the story, you see. Other chapters focus on the tired old prosecutor who hates liars more than murderers, the gay son's blind girlfriend (an intern at the local newspaper), etc., etc.
Unbalanced wheels within wheels.
If I'm not plagued by any more crop circles, maybe I'll find time to finish it someday.That leaves fathering a child - something not even Plato can convince me to do.
I used to think that the only possible reason to have children was to create more ears to enjoy the Beatles' "Revolver" LP.
In fact, I still do.
I just don't believe anymore (as if I ever did) that the ears created for this purpose have to be directly descended from my own.
Lots of new ears are being created every day with no help from me at all, after all. If this ever ceases to be the case, I might change my mind, but only after scientists prove once and for all that animals aren't as permanently entranced by "Eleanor Rigby" as I am.
And provided I can find a mate who doesn't mind making love to a guy wearing bulky old Koss headphones....Lest that nasty image be the one that lingers, I've mercifully decided to close with the following one of Ohio's now-blooming chicory.
No need to flood my email box with thanks as doing good really is its own reward.
Back To A Simpler Past
(Hint to Amy: "XYZ" is little boy code for "Examine Your Zipper")
(All Material Not Previously Unleashed On An Unsuspecting World © 1999 by Me)
