Thursday, 10 May 2018

Corpses in the Courtyard, 1, 2, 3:
ascensionem columbæ

The assumption would have been alone by way of the stumps on the one end and the felled lying about on the other had I not seen for myself the red-robed ultimate arbiters of arbor taking to their task. What I had happened upon appeared by my interpretation — as accurate an estimation allowed by my years of experience about this abode (as well as one of those profound, coincidental catching of a moment where the caught caught my having caught them) — to be precisely when they had realized they were ill-equipped to literally uproot these nesting quarters. Therewith would the hacking commence.

These days or not, experts are not engaged. There are no experts. There are bidders who send their promised cheapest to accomplish things deemed necessary by someone or another who would rather not spend more, making an already needlessly terminal arrangement more malignant.

What I assumed (in spite of contrarian ken) was that it was to be just the one tree that would be coming down — the oblique one, which had come to be so as a result of the last time cheap labor'd been loosed in the yard, erecting and de-erecting the scaffolding. During those assemblies this one tree ironically had become a convenient resting place, a brace for the heavy parts of the support system built for the next cheaply subcontracted wave of labor. The heavy bars and battens would lean against that once not leaning tree, if only temporarily, to, if not damage, permanently disfigure it.

Where my assumption'd lain false by a third I discovered upon my return. It was a visceral visual assessment, for sure, but it was not until the following morning that the implications of the three felled trees would ascend to the auditory cortex by way of the vacancy of the Columbiform'ed cooing.


Let me not be the purveyor of the false assumption of so many, that the big bad Other is, as monolithic lone-wolf, alone rapaciously irresponsible. Time is money. The way I spend my time, too, has an effect on who can live where and for how long. It is how cheaply I increasingly desperately seek my sleep.

While I'm not a believer, I do believe that money in whatever currency is the root of this evil. These values afford the wicked abuse of the accumulation of wealth. The hierarchical structure is indeed unfair.

But if your care is too expensive, there is a practitioner whose time is too precious to care. There is a relatively fair-waged technician who won't spend his free time scanning for your ill spots that would need to be uprooted. This is the dirt out of which these conditions flourish. And if this were not enough as we speak, it is I who am not out comforting the uncomfortable in favor of forcing my metaphor on you the afflicted.

So it is in the tradition of the Assumption of the Christ that I pronounce unto you by way of the rhythm & melody of that sequence of coos, now ascended out of "my courtyard" to find a home, I hope, in another one:

"We all are guilty. We all are guilty. We all are guilty. W—"

Courtyard Crucifix - 2018

„Es gibt kein richtiges Leben im falschen.“ —Adorno