A lottery of sorts and smuches
This morning I had a linger with Garden Girl. She says she is a figment, an amalgam, a moi and a pense. A smuch. I asked, what is a smuch? She said it’s a typo and I kept it. I am attached to a lot of my typos and so I understand that she means as much as you want things and people and words and thoughts to be, you can have them be. Garden Girl believes in magic and blessed rocks but ony with one syllable for the blessing. She also believes in good. Surprising though, she believes in the lottery. I ask. She says because it gives me a reason to get up each morning. She explains that there are many things to wake up for but this one particular reason is so benign in a sense, or a pense, as to be free of associative disorders. I did not entirely follow this.
See the sky? she asks, that is not your answer to all of your questions. That makes no sense at all. Well that’s because there are no answers to any questions. Reality is an alignment of letters. the lottery is an alignment of numbers with a sprinkle of coincidence and a lot of hope. What about the bad? The waste of money, the negative connotations of gambling, the labeling, the disdain of others. There are not answers though so none of that has a toehold in reality. Garden Girl does not believe in poseurity or quantity. She believes in smuches. She lets slip, not as a litany but as falling leaves, that which she gently yet firmly eschews.
The pope is mad. At me? No, about the frog. But yes, probably also at you. When were you last at his church? Heaven knows. The duck however likes the portrait you did. That makes me feel good. Cling to that.
The morning is the only morning of the day and Garden Girl does her best thinking then. She tells me that she meditates. And watches the squirrels go by and sometimes stares at the squirrels to no end.
Garden Girl is bound to hold that ewer for ever and evermore. She does not ask why. She understands that it just is how she was sculpted. Or assembly-lined. She is not sure of her origin. She knows that is a ewer because of crossword puzzles. She has no ettui but she knows that it is a “Fr. needle case” (5 letters), and not a “var.” of any sort. Some things are bound to happen. Like people making out in back rows of theaters. I tell Garden Girl about the makeout row. She asks me not to quote her on that.
The red light enjoys the company of the blue. And that there are less cars it must halt in the morning. It is like a holiday perhaps.
That car is going somewhere. It is hard not to, when there is a dest8ination and means and routes. Even if it has no destination it will get there. It is for the most part its only noise.
A pense box, perhaps. Weeping, reflecting, apart and a part. Watching Garden Girl. A smuch as it is.