20/APR/2010
... Well, by grass, it was like a beaten track,
... Well, by beaten track, it was more like a mud path,
... Well, by mud path, it was more like a gravel street,
... Well, by gravel street, it was made of bricks road.
The brick road was run down with many potholes,
... Well, it had just been raining, so they were more like puddles
... Well, by puddles, they were over spilling with each other like a small pool of water,
... Well, by a small pool of water, it was slightly more like a pond,
... Well, the pond was more like a reservoir,
... Well, it was in fact Lake Garda.
In your mind you're thinking, blue skies, still mirror-like water, not to dissimilar to the mirror lakes of New Zealand, small dwellings hugging the side of the hills but no, It was a miserable, wet day, extremely grey and misty, couldn't see further then a couple of meters in front of you.
... Well, not that i could see much of it anyway, because I was stuck looking at a tree trunk, so my vision was very much banded. Grey Garda, Tree Trunk, Grey Garda... Continued.
I can't remember why this vision stuck in my head, but that's all I remember from my year in Europe, a tree obstructing my view of slightly less than inspiring view of local attractions, but then being a dendrologist, it isn't really a surprise that timber crust has been burnt onto my retinas, so bad in fact that people start looking like trees, not in a good way either.
You, viewer of this very text, might find this confusing as I chose to study trees for my entire adult life, so seeing everything as something I 'enjoy' could come across as a blessing, if I was a chocolate-maker, seeing everything as a refined sugar or cocoa based product would become with a gleeful reaction, like colour-blindness but object-replacementness.
But, having this condition was met with the same response much in the same way as a window fixer man would've or perhaps a shit-cleaner, to be honest I've never known of such a job as a 'shit cleaner', but if there is one, he wouldn't enjoy this condition, though most poets are pretty miserable, perhaps they have this condition.
Shite-ku
everything is shit
item, doodad, mass, gizmo
it's all shit to me
I hate trees, ever since I got pushed out of a tree by a tree and I broke my leg and I had to have a wooden splint, it felt like the tree was mocking me, for those 6 weeks, rage grew inside me the only rest from the rage was when Autumn came, until I could take it no more and I had to work something out to fix the problem.
So, I've spent my life, trying to work out how I can bring these vile chaos fueled freaks of nature, down to the ground like freshly cut timber by an arboriculturalist, buying cases of matches just to watch them burn, stealing handfuls of pencils and throwing them away and playing 17 hours of pooh sticks a day, and occasionally hammering copper nails into them in order to give them a slow and painful death.
I need more ideas otherwise, I feel the trees may win and my life would've been all for nought...
[Ed: After publishing this article the author was crushed alive by a falling life-sized replica model of The Flyer II]