Storytelling ; seeds


There in the red brick, red light basement bar, contrary to soil or body or mind, we were laughing about failed attempts with women and the importance of planting seeds with words and intent. Lots of red eyes in that place. Must have been the closeness of walls and the bodies shoulder to shoulder that reminded me of the memory.


A small pack of sunflower seeds (to be grown not eaten) picked from a spinning black holder when I was nine. I buried them all and cared for them meticulously. Only one breached the surface. It grew mightily over my head and I forgot about the rest.

The metaphor blooms.

There was still more left in my flower when mom brought home a dalmatian, full grown so naturally I hated it compared to my creation. Dogs sense that sort of thing, so it ripped it from the stalk – irreversible.


What I told you was that the memory, that flower, was exalted by its end, and I was glad I never saw its apex or withering. You applauded the validity of the story and I stopped then. What I kept to myself: I haven’t planted anything since.

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