Monday, July 28, 2008
Never Coming Near What He Wanted to Say

Combing aphids out of the runner beans at 5:45am, sun slowly leaking up into the sky. Cool wind, that peculiar dusty light that says, "Fall." Green tomatoes on massive vines, a few beans setting here and there. Cats distributed throughout the jungle, just waiting for the first pigeon or crow desperate or dumb enough to come after the sunflowers. The whole overgrown balcony totally visible from the street, green and tangled in contrast to the rest of the building's flawless white facade. Complaining strata council members and downstairs neighbors bought off with promises of fresh squash and heirloom tomatoes. The sneaking suspicion that the garden symbolizes many other CJB-initiated projects, which rapidly overstep "boundaries," much as glacial rivulets overrun their banks. My complete lack of social aplomb, viz. yesterday's discussion of the working classes' infiltration of what, at least in Vancouver, remains an upper-middle-class playground. The possibility of creating a parallel structure that reproduces only the best features of the social system it mirrors. The refusal to continually facilitate others' creativity for free. The critique of others' productivity only as an aspect of one's own practice, which is what I suppose my friend R. means by "writing as an artist."

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