It is the first morning of May on Harris Creek. It is late spring with late spring's green and budding flowers ready to burst and then the madness. I can tell you, it is a bloody business, this gardening. To impose order on the madness of sex and growth is warfare. Many die and I grow weary by August longing for the fall into winter's sleep. So I feel a certain ambivalence as I look out upon this green and the white swan gliding through the still surface of Harris Creek.

These reports from Harris Creek are word productions; the one who writes them and the one who reads them is similarly a product of words. Strictly speaking, there is only writing/reading, production without products. The products are by-products, after-images which appear due to the time lag in perception.

When I awaken in the morning from the dream, I plug-in to this word machine. If the machine were suddenly to vanish, I would vanish. I only exist insofar as I am plugged-in; otherwise is the dream. But the word machine does exist, upon every morning that I awaken. Writing/reading is gardening, the imposition of the order of time/space, upon the unconscious, the unordered. If I do not awaken from the dream, it is.