Friday, June 08, 2007

This is the time of year when things get down and dirty in the garden. The war against disorder becomes fevered, like the temperature, and every part of my maintained landscape is pursuing its own mad desire, and pitting that desire against my own,which is to oppress that desire of the many individuals so as to create a map of myself amidst the chaos. A conceptual whole is made of parts; it is fabricated; a product of artifice. Gardens are not natural. If the gardener were to die, the garden would return to "nature."

Order is imposed on the disorderly. Or, the body must repress its manyness to make one. The body operates on itself. The operation consists of inserting a space of time into the continuum so as to create breaks in the flow. It is a digital operation performed on the analagous body. The gardener and the garden are products of a digital operation.

It seems that when the digital operation reaches its peak intensity, when the smallest hair has been split, then, poof, the operation ceases, and neither a garden nor a gardener is identifiable amidst the flows. Gardens and gardeners are temporary sturctures.