causes. It did not get enough heat or sunshine, and is now sort of giving up the ghost.
I’m continuing to obsess about my lack of gardening savvy. The problem is that we have too much garden here for me, a non-gardener. I could better deal with one little garden, for this would be a manageable task. But everywhere I look, something is attempting to grow. And these somethings need considerable love and attention.
I can hear what a non-horseperson would say if they, instead of I, lived here. This would be “I’m continuing to obsess about my lack of horse savvy. The problem is that we have too many horses here for me, a non-horse person. I could better deal with one little horse, for this would be a manageable task. But everywhere I look, a horse is moving around. And these somethings need tending to.”
This, again, is where genetics come into play. I never feel overwhelmed when caring for the horses. In fact, I feel fairly calm. I’m able to say “I need to do this, and this, and this.” And I, in a slow and methodical fashion, do it, cross it off my list, and move on to the next thing.
It’s the opposite with gardening. Take weeding. (Please take it.) I get anxious seeing what appears to be an infinite number of weeds. They are everywhere. And they grow faster than they are harvested.
This all begs the question – would I feel the way I feel if there were 28 hours in a day, and the extra four hours were to be dedicated to gardening? I’m not going to find out in this lifetime. But I may find out in the next.
I know I’m not going to die. I’m instead one of the select few who will be carted off by the space brothers. (They’ve communicated this to me through Mr. Kohlrabi, who is now the communicative nerve center of Squalor Holler. Some die and in this way attain life everlasting. And some of us go through the time portal. This is located in the outhouse. So yeah, I guess as with real death, there is some unpleasantness associated with a fictive death.
I’ll have more time on my hands on the other side because the days there on Planet Xorbital are 50 hours long. (Or, so I’ve been told.) Once I get there and get settled in, I’ll put in the above-mentioned four extra hours of gardening a day. But I’m also going to do other things that, because of time, I have not been getting done. The first thing I’m going to do is get a heavy metal band going. I’m going to call it Deranged – my big intergalactic hit is going to be called “Range and Domain,” and is going to be around the unimportance of algebra.
I’m also going to find a math tutor (that is one who has a seemingly infinite amount of time and patience) and resume studying math. Time will be on my side, which is why I’ll eventually pass calculus. I’ll apply to veterinary school after I get the math requirements out of the way. Of course, I’ll be accepted. In fact, I’ll have my choice of colleges since all will want to lay claim to having the world’s oldest veterinary student.
I’ll also have the time to take more photos, learn Photoshop, and also how to matt and frame my work. I don’t know what the light situation will be like on Planet Xyorbitol, but I’ll happily work with what’s available. I doubt that like here, it rains all the time there.
Once I’m caught up, I’ll consider returning to planet earth. By then I’ll have notoriety as being the first punk rocker veterinarian photographer gardener on planet earth. I have no doubt that I can do this, for the space brothers have assured me that this is well within the range and domain of possibility
Tolt Little Raudi (to the tune of the Mockingbird song)
Tolt little Raudi don’t you swerve
Alys wants a mare with vigor and verve.
If it turns out you don’t tolt
Alys gonna trade you for a billy goat.
If that billy goat don’t pull
Alys gonna trade it for a brahma bull.
If that brahma bull turns mean
Alys gonna trade it for a noisy machine.
And if that noisy machine lacks feel
Alys gonna trade it for a pony wheel.
So tolt little Raudi, don’t you swerve,
Alys wants a mare with vigor and verve.
Next: 222. 07/18/12: The Good Weather Blues