Flavigula

The sad tree shelters the hammer’s progress.

The parasite which sucks oil from the earth in the middle of what my mother calls the “Walking Park” here in Seminole stands oblivious and mechanical over a small tree (dubbed The Sad Tree by the Smaller One). The actual name of the park is the SS Forrest park. It was constructed, I believe, in the 80s during tortured times at Fort Stockton High School (for me).

I should have written the opposite, really. The hammer is actually sheltering, if one could call it that, the tree. Regardless, they are both out of place.

They are both artificial.

By artificial, I mean out of their environment. Both placed by humans. The hammer is more blantant in its artificiality, but the tree, having to be constantly irrigated lest it wither, is in a sadder state. This is akin to your frail grandmother having been born frail and during every second of her decrepit life being hooked to life support.

If some system of isomorphic neurological structure exists inside this tree which gives it a sort of consciousness (though alien to our own), it is screaming for euthanasia.

The evil hammer pounds away as the Sad Tree possibly observes. It will break down into constituent elements one day much further in the future. Or if the explosives are effective.

The head of the table is behind me pulling my strings and I grapple equally for control and obedience as the seated ghosts fling themselves at a meal.

Ghosts are the fleshy remains of dessicated bodies ground into meal for processing into breadstuffs. These fleshy remains drift through the world, passing in and and of the minds of the undessicated as all beings with souls do.

As all food does, the breadstuffs created from dessicated beings is processed slowly in the minds of the undessicated. We use it to expand our mental faculties and once the nourishment is finished, the taste slowly wanes into forgetfulness. The neural passages grow, sure. Other breadstuffs from the dessicated further nourish. Tastes are archetypes which remind of old meals. Therefore, each living creature, once processed, is filed away under a hierarchy of tastes.

Categorization is the only way to cope with limitless stimuli used as food.

Para-phrase:

… when the city had stretched its metal web from pole to pole, leaving green things only in the wells of immortal minds.

The Fall of Earth City by Hawkwind from The Church of Hawkwind, an album that I’ll listen to at this very moment.

The conservatives rule in Texas even among the proclaimed Democrats (liberals? eh…). I have just been involved in a mass killing of organic creatures for no other reason than to maintain both useless aesthetics and anthropomorphic superiority/isolation. All possibilities of pests entering a certain perimeter has been rendered nil. Any infestation of green, herbivoric material, by means of slaughter, is no longer a concern.

This abstracts out to putting convenience above biodiversity. The monobiopsychosis of the state of Texas (or the State of Texanship) sees all life beneath it if that life intrudes on the whimsical habits of modern life.