Velociworld

WILLOWS, WEEPING

Legend has it when you plant a weeping willow someone will die. Why that is, I have no idea, but I sorely wanted to plant a couple by water's edge, and so I did five years ago, and named them after my mother and the Velocibride's uncle, who had perished a few weeks before my mother.

I was being proactive, gaming the cosmology, because my planet spins around the Velocirules, not the other way around. Or so I convince myself. I don't believe in superstition anyhoo, but you never know, do you? There are bizarro thingies at work out there, and it could be that in the Grand Scheme I have the intelligence equivalence of the cockroach scurrying across the floor at the String Theory convention in Palo Alto, so it is always best to hedge one's bets.

Back to weeping willows. I planted them, right at the water's edge, so they could suckle upon glorious H2O, and sink tap root. There is nothing cooler than sitting under a willow tree, with laptop or sketchpad. I feel like Lord Fucking Byron when I do that. All that is missing is a rowboat, a parasol for my lovely lass, a straw boater for me.

I won't do that, of course. I'm not that fucking gay. But I love the willows anyway. They handle breeze with aplomb, gale with rectitude. Although, and this goes back to String Theory, which the East Coast Posse calls the Unified Field Theory, I could do without the packmule herd of fire ants that find the crack of my ass so delicious on these bucolic occasions. A minor quibble, sure, but no one likes to see an ass with pus welts on it. Even Lord Byron.