I’ve been planting flowers lately
It’s all I can think of, to be of some use.
I’ve always done this around this time of year
I am not rushing to fill in the beds and containers
As I usually do.
This year, there is no urgency to get rid of winter,
uncertainty slows everything down.
The garden shovel entering the soil felt familiar
I dug out last year’s roots, and clumps
of soil, hard packed from months of being frozen solid
Something we hear a lot of these days goes something like
“well, it’s not just you, everyone is being affected the same”
it feels like a salve being applied to a wound, the comfort of
Then you go home, close the door to the day
And the wound flares up.
If you’re not in the game, then there’s nothing to get that concerned about,
free from the illusion of control.
Suspended animation the “temporary cessation of vital functions without
After two months of our restaurants being closed, we reopened into
harsh new reality.
we reopen, and those same vital functions of our businesses
are thrust into the environment with less than half the oxygen.
The body of the business begins living off reserves, depleting itself.
Yes, we are all in this same shared condition
But when the door to the house closes behind
The aloneness with pain cuts deep into the flesh,
The surface point where our physical body meets the outside world.
What is it inside the experience of isolation these days that is
unleashing so much
The earliest days of covid infused purpose into our lives.
Like an alien invasion, we are immediately confronted with an immense
force. We have no understanding except the larger presence which now
dominates our every moment has also provided much relief from all the
situations we avoided, the conversations we keep putting off and the
decisions which are too difficult to make.
I’ll be back in a few
Gonna sit and think…..
Write as if no one is going to read it
Originally the story I was writing had it all
A brutal mafia hitman who was 100% vegan
A raw food yogini, Jewish grandmother from Miami beach and a beautiful
German woman laying in a hammock on a mexican beach.
Whenever I have been asked “so, what kind of work do you do?”my
stock response has been,
“I’ve been serving carrot juice to the community for over forty years.”
Like the juice itself,
it reduces the story down to it’s essence
I was writing it, hired a coach and began over fifty chapters of content
Then it all stopped
It’s hard enough to try and understand what the story actually was that I
was writing. It all fell apart after we closed all of our locations when
Covid arrived. It was march 16th 2020
When I tried to continue the story without Viktor who I could no longer
afford, giving me direction and assignments weekly for 4 months, I found
what I was writing evaporated.
A global pandemic, laying off over a hundred staff,
closing all of our locations, changed everything.
I don’t even know what that means…
Yesterday, Uschi said that I have a “symbiotic relationship to the
restaurants”, inferring an unhealthy dependence which I had developed
over 45 years, towards the work I inherited from family and expanded
over my working lifetime.
Absolutely. It wasn’t a job, or work. It was my life.
Enter,” be careful what you wish for”.
In my mid fifties, I began inquiring within myself the desire to understand,
“who am I?”, if I don’t have the businesses that I’ve had been so
Well, in the spirit of reporting from the front lines of existential angst, I
have no fucking idea.
It’s much too cliche and one thing I’ve learned is cliche’s kill everything
written around it.
Then I remember that asking “who am I?” is not really a very interesting
question, and any answer would self destruct immediately.
There has to be better questions than that.
Back to zero
I sit with my glasses resting low on the bridge of my nose.
Actually, not on the bridge.
That was just being lazy
They sit close to the tip of my nose
A posture I always had some story about when I saw others
doing the same. Snooty, arrogant, effete, something along those lines.
This writing spot I return to each morning looks out through a glass wall
towards the painful beauty of a mid spring day
This screen where these words live require me to look through my
glasses while the trees, ferns and dense woods outside need to be
The proper placement of my glasses …….
Is there a point here, one worth what precious time is left in this existence?
Looking out at nature surrounding home, lies peace.
Except for the fox crouched low, waiting for just the right moment
The remnants from fall lay beneath the ferns sprouting through
The layers of composting maple and oak leaves feed the growth.
Who is it today that is speaking out here.
Father, some composite character,
a blend of all the great writing advice I’ve been reading
over the past months?
The soil inside lays ready
It’s not waiting for anything, it’s soil.
Made from desire, loss and beauty.
I am on my knees
Every other position does not hold
In the sunlight on the cement floor sits a ceramic vase.
Raku fired by a famous ceramicist.
I have loved it for decades
To the left sitting on a book shelf rests two ceramic pieces which I threw
my last semester of college. I was a sociology major.
Technically not well constructed, the lower walls and bottom too thick
shaped by hands which had yet to develop enough confidence to trust.
The glazes were random acts of trial and error
These bring tears
One brings uncontrollable laughter
I turned it over to see how I signed the bottom while the
clay was still fresh before firing.
Etched is “SOL 2012”. I made this in the spring of 1977
This was a joke I told my future self 43 years ago
I just got it.