First day in the garden.

I play the role of Shiva, the destructive force.

Clean out the old to make room for the new.

Ask my wife, she’ll say I go too far.


I sure can notice I’m not a young man anymore. I can’t go out there all day and lay waste to the world the way I used to. I got an hour or two in me, and it is an attenuated hour or two.

And intermittent.

Ah, well.

Slowly by slowly.


Still, it felt good to be out in the warm sunshine, my hands dirty and the bulldog watching me from the porch. Birdsong in the air, cool breeze tinged with the sea.

I can’t dig in the earth without marveling at how perfect it is, how ravenous for disassembly and decay and return, return, return. And life rushes up out of it like waves, again and again.

Why do I persist as if fear might somehow protect me? The only place I’m ever going is back home, back into the dark and teeming dirt.

Ain’t nothing wrong with that.


I am after a big pot of beans today. Beans and some crusty bread and some wine.

Pretend like I am a old french farmer.


“Marie! The baguettes!