The garden is my favorite place to sit because in here nothing dies. This is life and life eternal, the endless cycle of blooming, wilting, tilling, plowing, and back to blooming. When the flowers fade away, they just pop right back again.
Flowers are not people, nor are they animals. They are hardly vegetables, meant for eating and suckling and nourishing the rest of creation. No. The flowers in my garden are there to live forever.
Karl hates our garden. He likes the cacti. His favorite spot in all the world is on the biggest one in our yard. Old thumby, we call it. The succulent resembles a hand giving a thumbs up to the sky. “Great job,” it says, “thanks for the flood of water from the torrential rains. I really appreciate it.” I don’t like that cactus. I think he’s mean. But Karl can sit for hours, his sweet ass nestled on the tip of the thumb, clapping his hands and calling out “oh sweet liberty!”
The cacti are not like the flowers. They are more like turtles, stuck in their own shell, secluded from everyone else, and growing slowly, moving slowly, always there. They never die because they never live. All they do is survive, slurping the detritus and remnants of life all around it. Scavengers! That’s what they are. Purposefully biding their time and waiting for the mement to strike again. We have sixteen of those bastard weeds scattered throughout our lawn, most of them on the inside. Every day I look around and wonder. Did they just inch forward? Are they approaching my geraniums?
My flowers do not die. Some might think that they do. But they don’t. They just hide. The ground is their bed and when they get frightened, they hide under there. They hate the winter. I think cold winds horrify them.
The bees like the flowers. Together they form friendships and clans. I like when the bees come. My flowers sing when the bees come. Some say that buzzing sound is made by those bugs. I know better. That buzzing sound comes from the flowers. It’s the sound I make every Thursday night when Karl’s around. It’s the sound of pleasure.
Bzzzzzzzzz. The bee goes inside the flower. Then the magic happens. The bees leave and the noise is heard. Bzzzzzzzz. The flowers sway, the wind fans away their rising temperatures. They sigh, swoon, and wait for the next bee to enter them.
Soft sounds and sweet vapors to lure the pricks. That’s what life is about! The flowers are life!
The cacti do not get the bees. All they have is Karl. They are flesh covered in sterile erections, staving off others, anti-social to eternity. They are opportunity cost and inflation without the benefit of community. They have liberated themselves into the ground, but refuse to join the group. They are all dicks.
Flowers live. When they hide, they come back. They look alike and act alike. For all I know they are different each time. I can’t tell. But they get to fuck and live again. The are not at the liberty to leave. But by gum do they have fun. I like the flowers.
And then there’s the fountain. I never knew what to make of the fountain. When I sit in my garden, I can admire its beauty and its design. It sticks out of the ground, erect and flowing. It gives water to the flowers and lets them live on. I think the flowers like it, but I don’t think they trust it. The cacti like the fountain. That’s why they inch forward. It’s free water and new life to them. But they can’t handle either of those commodities.
The fountain has been spewing for months on end now. Always crystal clear water. The invisible hand that feeds its children. It’s this invisible hand that guides the garden and allows the flowers to live. Nothing dies here. They’re not allowed to.
Until the fountain starting spewing the Red. The flowers do not like the Red. The shy away from it, looking towards their neighbor, fearful of its secrets. The Red scares them. The cacti ignore the Red, but it is there to stay. The bees don’t come near the Red. And then they avoid the flowers. The enter garden has become blacklisted. My flowers are sad. I think they need a wall around the Red to keep it away from them.
This is all Scott’s fault. He ruined my garden.
I got up and retrieved my hoe from our garden shack. It was time to do something about my garden. I bent down to begin my tilling.
A noise blared from the driveway. A car pulled up, a black pickup with golden rims and purple stripes. The license plate read “Hoagie.” The bed was filled with cans. Out walked a man, belching in the sunlight. He wore a Ron Paul ’08 t-shirt. He looked up at me and said “Nice cactuses. Do their stingers hurt?”
What a prick.
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