Sunday :: Jan 12, 2020

Letter From California

by paradox

01/12/20 0609.41 PST
San Jose, California

I am a badass rose gardener with three beds of 70 canes that put me in the top 50 rose gardens in this city of 975,000 souls, of that there is no doubt, but there certainly is a price to pay, the fame and glory are not free, no. I’m finally done with my winter evolution of trim, clean and cultivate, but at January 9th it’s very late for me to finish and somehow the spectacular petal show coming in April doesn’t hold it’s usual hope.

I fled from one of the worst clerical contracts I have ever experienced in a surreal creepy environment mid-November, hiding on the couch for weeks from the barking abuse from it all (my supervisor would blow up at any second using my adolescent name of Joe! Joe!, Jesus save me) and stewing at the San Jose Water Company when I thought of my roses.

Those filthy rapacious capitalists are just above the popularity of ISIS members in this city, they relentlessly jacked up prices during the drought, and being stupid monopolists who never made a supply/demand graph in Econ recently rose prices again, complaining they weren’t making enough money because citizens were using less with higher prices. Well citizens of San Jose will use even less now, you Trumpian morons, god, please hire a competent economist.

I routinely pay more for water than I do for energy, the bills have to seen to be believed, which of course elicits wearying warnings and complaints of expense. Was it too much to ask to be a gardener in this country without being knifed from rapacious capitalists? Jesus. They’ve also blighted the city, fully 30% of homeowners just abandon their yards because of expense in a city of amazing wealth, the place looks like a dump.

I also sulked because I knew what the winter evolution would do to me, I’m in excellent shape from the bike, stairmaster and weights but it doesn’t mean a thing when it comes to brutal yard labor, like always I was seriously stiff and sore with bloody bruises after finally getting it done.

But done it is, 22 cubic feet of chicken manure cultivated in and five new canes are not free, along with all the water I’m going to spend on the roses this year, but I’m never abandoning the gardens so the budget numbers maddeningly moved around the decision.

I also stubbornly clung to my enjoyment of small good things that are just for me, politics in the United States has gone to absolute hell with climate change inexorably tearing things apart but I can still have my tiny good things, in many ways that has to be what life’s about.

John Cole talked about this at Balloon Juice in his lament for the lousy state of restaurant salads, and Jennifer Rubin at the Washington Post talked about it too in the aim for a simple American life of family, profession and friends. Was a time in America when the President wasn’t an orange ranting sicko who strokes the penis of Putin every chance he gets, citizens had lives of peace where we didn’t have to worry every day when fascists wannabees try to take down the Democracy or start another Middle East war for nothing but filthy lies.

Watching the roaring fires of death in Australia leave Californians uneasy, we haven’t forgotten the horrifying conflagrations of Santa Rosa and Paradise. Word has also arrived temperatures are warmer in the coastal waters, sea urchins have exploited it and are destroying all the California kelp beds, which means no more sea otters soon.

The rains have arrived, thankfully 2020 is not a drought year so Spring will be its usual glory of California bloom and planting, but still there is that feeling that nothing at all is really in a usual state despite the rains, change is coming that we have to try and fix, we’re just sitting here with our thumb up our asses, some day in some way the reckoning is coming, even worse than we’ve gone through already.

I will be watching the sunrise and my canes leaning on my hoe this Spring, as always, a battered, lost individual. Four years ago the full truth of what happened and what was done to me 32 years ago was revealed and internally my life has been blasted apart ever since.

I am nothing of what I could or should have been, there was never a chance at any kind of real choice or dream, and the awful misery was ground into a total hell last eight years with two neurological problems. For what purpose I walk the earth I have no clue, and I’m out of time, there is no way to start over or get a fresh dream.

I carry on with the knowledge being a steward of the Earth and the Democracy has to be worthy reason for staying. That somehow in some way something may happen with real meaning, maybe living with the truth long enough will take away that feeling of being lost and an outsider.

Maybe being in real health again will help, I no longer vomit for 12 hours every 25 days, another torment significantly fading. There has to be a window of gratitude for escaping that. Right?

[small smile] We shall see. I will do my duty this year with everything I have, take my pill and listen closely to my people all year, let there be no doubt of that.

paradox :: 8:21 AM :: Comments (0) :: Digg It!