You may have noticed me getting somewhat sidetracked in writing by unimportant yet invasive events this week, like an increasingly debilitating back pain and our car being rejected in the obligatory technical inspection, making these already faltering logistics even more complicated and our beloved middle of nowhere more nowhere, especially since our back up car for different reasons isn’t available either, but who am I to be that bore when yellow’s yelling and we have every reason to be cheerful, with a whole week of wonderful spring weather in the offing and plenty of plans to spend those days profitable outside, fuck realism.
With a mind set on being fully productive but a body painstakingly protesting, I blame the drugs I take for that for derailing my stratagem into reading about Terence McKenna’s life and work, being the advocate for the responsible use of naturally occurring psychedelic plants, literature that I would normally stay away from given my predisposition to addiction and my very Dutch down to earth mentality. His conviction that we lack the intellectual vision, the ability to change our minds, somehow color-coordinates with the currently prevailing thought at Les Pierres that all we envisioned during the previous winter months will magically externalize themselves somehow.
Yellow flowers were my mother’s favorite, irresistible enough to make any car stop abruptly if picking seemed possible, no matter the inconvenience caused by her outburst: “Yellow ones!”.
I surely did not inherit that fondness and usually rebuff their insipidity, the overpowering jocundity that screams fake and predictability, but when Ivory subtly pointed out our emerging daffodils, their clear and convincing evidence of impending warmth took over and turned to heart.
Pain or pills, I finally gave in to embrace these yellows as a reversion to all the archaic values, our bursting Forsythia being the ultimate statement of reassurance and resurrection.
My back will bolt after that, I hope.