SmartNourish™ 2ND FOODS® Purees – Spring Garden Vegetables with Brown Rice

You notice

Two filled mittens have hung since birth. One grasps a bib, outlined in blue.
And half of a black-walnut shell adheres to the other's peripheral fuzz.

Do you believe in unseen hands? Or choices at all?

A voice enters at two octaves:

"You'll only wear one!"
"But I don't know which one!"
"You're too old now, not to understand. Neither can be seen abstractly!"
"So I've got to decide?"
"Uh-Huh!"
"Nuh-Uh!"

Double the half, and make a closed whole, or dribble pureed green mush down your chin.

Look at the Wave!

Evergreen:
Evergreen by Murdhee

Hula Hoops (Rough Draft) for Beka

Below are two tracks from this rough draft of a compilation CD I made for my friend Beka. She is far away for now. I hope she is enjoying summer in the winter, and daytime napping.

fa Perca:

fa Perca by Murdhee


Entretenimiento Aural / Shew Veeha:

Entretenimiento Aural / Shew Veeha by Murdhee



If you like these songs, you can download the whole CD following the link below.

Hula Hoops (Rough Draft) for Beka:

1. Quick
2. belly
3. Sunny Mitsubishi
4. Good Morning Emily in the Ocean
5. And Eye Nose
6. Cruhideak Orchestra
7. Ghost Wobble
8. Nuh-Uh / Yuh-Huh
9. Noic Omocol
10. Tubajo fa Lubina
11. fa Perca
12. House Clubbe
13. Entretenimiento Aural then Shew Veeha
14. Spangled
15. Exbard Parade March
    

New Bed

On the Phone

"So I've been trying to bust into the calendar business for over fifteen years now . . . I know! That's what I said . . . I know! You gotta be kiddin' me! So anyways, I'd been thinkin' to myself, 'who are the major players in this game?'. . . Good question, right? So 'den I took a look over to my fridge and saw it, I had an epiphany. . . a revelation! I says to myself, 'You are such a fuckin' idiot!'. . . I see 'der, right smack dab on the freezah' door that fuckin' picture, you knows da one . . . Da one. . . with da old folks on it. . . you know . . . Whater' 'der names . . . Oh yeah, Fred and Wilma Hobel. 'Sumptin like dat.

Fred and Lois Hoebel

Anyways, 'dey got dat magnet they mail out to the whole fuckin' county with their dumbass pictures on it, just so that people will wanna call 'em and get 'em to sell 'der house. I noticed to myself 'dat on the current years magnet, 'der was a little calendar hanging from it. I know right! Brilliant fuckin' idea! So anyways, I'm just standin' 'der, starin' at 'dis thing, thinkin' to myself, 'Tony, you're such a fuckin' idiot, why didn't you tink-a-dis before! Magnet Calenders!' I know right? That's what I says! It's fuckin' two-tousand-an-ate! So anyways, like I said, I'm just standin' 'der, staring at these two old farts' ugly mugs. 'Den it came to me. Oh! Did iiittt come to me! I'm standin' 'der, and I say to myself, "What the fuck are 'dese two geriatrics' faces doin' up on my fridge?" You know me, I don't like 'dat sort-a-tang. So I says to myself, "Tony, what do you wanna see stickin' like a magnet up on your fridge?" What do you tink I wanna see!? Twenny-Four pairs-a-tits hanging out of neon colored bikinis. One pair for every month! Do you or don't you get where I'm goin' wit dis? No! Not twenny-four pairs of tits on every page, on pair of tits for every month. I swear to God, sometimes I think I outta . . . So anyways, you see where I'm goin' with dis, right? 'Dats right! I reached down into 'da fridge and pulled out a bucket-a-Heineken I had been coolin' off for a while. 'Chu know, to get my day started! And oh my God, I swear to God I must be some sort a genius. The cherry on top of this whhooolllleeee tit-calender ice-cream sundae jumped right down outta 'da lips of 'da virgin Mary, God bless-ah, and into my ears. You know what I thought to myself? This is what I thought. Sure, people like tits, and bikinis, and beaches, yadda yadda yadda. But in 'dis day-in-age, one thing ain't enough for most folks. Hell, even Freddy and Wilma Bobel over 'der got two things going on. What things? Come on, are you even listening to me? Keeping track of 'da days-a-da-week, and sellin' your house! Well, since 'dey already beat me to the keeping track of 'da days-a-da-week, I had to throw in something extra, sumptin' special. And lemme tell ya Cha, it came to me, oh did it come to me. So I'm reaching for my Heineken, and outta the mouf of the blessed virgin Mary I heard my solution. Beer . . . Vino . . . Alchy-hol . . . Da good stuff! People, myself included, love dis' stuff! What goes perfect with Vino? Tits! What goes perfect with tits? Bikinis. What do Bikinis and Vino have in common? 'Dey bof start with da letter "B". I know right? I'm a fuckin' prodigy! So anyways, just 'den, I gave a call to my buddy, you know him, right? Danny Pelegrino. No, dats not his real name, who do you think I am? I calls him 'dat because-a-da-way his always spittin', spittin' up foamy bubbly spit, just like that river or whatever in Italy 'dat they put in all 'da fancy green bottles 'dat 'dey outta be puttin' vino in. Anyways, he's got some sort of "Computer Printer" and loves tits almost as much as I do. So I figured we could print out a coupla-million of 'deese things and pass 'em around all 'da liquah shops in town. I know! I'm gunna be fuckin' loaded 'dis time next week.

la oscilación del péndulo de la consciencia colectiva humana entre el pensamiento renacentista y el pensamiento moderno

I'm doing it, I can believe it too! This is what dictionaries and books bring.

It begins.

The basses begin and do that that constantly bowing on multiple strings at a time, not dissonant, but not in harmony. Maybe only two notes at two octaves between them.

The violins then begin a back and forth bowing that starts very slow but gets faster incrementally. They are playing a note at two octaves as well that makes completes a minor 7 chord between them and the basses.

The drums and the cellos start at the same time. The drums go crazy and make you scared and wonder if the earth will swallow you up, or at least if the auditorium will collapse. No "beat".

But, the cellos start playing, very sweetly, some variation of the ascending scale which compliments the m7 chord still being sustained and sped up. When the cellos hit certain notes, the sound gets warm and smooth. But when they hit other notes, the sound gets dark and wavy.

Then all of a sudden, the chaotic drums seem to begin to fall into place. Image that this "drum process" is like a very very very slow motion video of syrup being poured onto very cavernous waffles. Initially, the syrup stays on top and you are worried it will spill over, but then, slowly but surely the syrup sinks into the nooks of the waffle and is absorbed. This is the way the drums sound. They form this pulse:

Low: dom dom |
Middle: dikka dikka .|
Middle-High: cha .|
High: tikka tikka |

Then, and this is representative of the most recent paragraph, the basses who have been doing their thing slide very smoothly from the two notes into two different notes, one being lower than the previous lowest note, and the other being higher than the previous highest note, the violins have reached the pinnacle of their speed increase (which just as it happens in congruent with the drum's pulse), they then do that sort of bowing that allows the last note to resonate a long long time and they just hold really really still, the note they are playing is in harmony with the bass notes. The drums all stop except for one "sleigh bell" sort of instrument that just keeps getting shook. Then the cellos, trombones, tubas, trumpets play an arpeggio of the previous ascending scale. The cellos ascend this arpeggio, and the brass descends to create a sort of inverse effect. While this is happening the flutes are transitioning between two notes, maybe the same ones the basses are playing. And all of the clarinet players have their clarinets on the ground and are oscillating between two different notes, also far away from each other, but they are "sliding" between the notes, it looks like this.

DaaaahhhhDaaaahhhh
D
u
u
u
u
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Then all of the sounds stop, and I resume writing my paper. On to the second movement.

I'm so throwed and I don't know what to do

I drink the coffee with the cardboard wristband. On it, there is a triangle composed of folding arrows, and the word "Green". So just in case guilt crept up on me, that special someone is there to assure me that my feelings are irrational, absurd, unfounded.

"A warm "We've got you covered"."

Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea what would have happened if those feelings got to resonating! Got to echoing! Sometimes I just don't know what to do with myself, you know.

"Like it was said once "I'm so throwed and I don't know what to do"."

Yes, exactly! That is how I feel. And you know, I don't mean to hurt her, I don't plan it out, but when she starts giggling and talking about the woman who painted her face like a zebra, I just have to begin ignoring her.

Why do I do it? Like I said, I don't want to hurt her, to make her cry. . . I guess I want to withhold her possibility of touching my emotions.

" "Would you ask a dolphin how it swims, or an eagle how it flies"

"No"

"That's right you wouldn't! Because that is what they were made to do!" "

Mohw tea vah see Ohn ayce Too-Juhs

Is it your desire to influence public consciousness?

By influence I mean change.

Maybe.

Oh! You've done it again, remember what was said many many moons ago by your friend?

Yes! Maybe that is what it is now for!

You don't have to squiggle, scream, or shout!

Oh yeah!

So is this one of them?

I think it might fit into "every easy to forget idea that could change you".

Is it still an idea?

Nuh-uh. I think it is true!

All This

All this for being "tardy".

Whine.

Lehs

Muddy

Murdy Hits

Dog People:

Dog People by Murdhee




Next to Kids' Shoes:

Next to Kids Shoes by Murdhee



Follow the link below to download "Murdy Hits". Including the two songs above, three skits, and artwork.

Murdy Hits:

1. Our Town (Rock This) (Skit) ft. The Way Back aka D$
2. Dog People
   
3. Moon Child (You're Going To Die) ft. Mern aka Merk
   
4. Next to Kids' Shoes
5. Aplausos Llanuras (Skit)
   

Slide

Could you whisper in my ear
The things you wanna feel
I'll give you anything
To feel it comin'

Do you wake up on your own
And wonder where you are
You live with all your faults

Chorus:
I wanna wake up where you are
I won't say anything at all
So why don't you slide

Yeah we're gonna let it, slide

Don't you love the life you killed
The priest is on the phone
Your father hit the wall
Your ma disowned you

Don't suppose I'll ever know
What it means to be a man
Something I can't change
I'll live around it

Chorus

And I'll do anything you ever
Dreamed to be complete
Little pieces of the nothing that fall
May put your arms around me
What you feel is what you are
And what you are is beautiful
May do you wanna get married
Or run away

And I'll do anything you ever
Dreamed to be complete
Little pieces of the nothing that fall
May put your arms around me
What you feel is what you are
And what you are is beautiful
May do you wanna get married
Or run away

Chorus

HABIT

A few words from William James so that the next time I am feeling opaque, I can remember.

" Dr. Carpenter's phrase that our nervous system grows to the modes in which it has been exercised expresses the philosophy of habit in a nutshell. We may now trace some of the practical applications of the principle to human life.
The first result of it is that habit simplifies the movements required to achieve a given result, makes them more accurate and diminishes fatigue."

" The next result is that habit diminishes the conscious attention with which our acts are performed."

" If the period between twenty and thirty is the critical one in the formation of intellectual and professional habits, the period below twenty is more important still for the fixing of personal habits, properly so called, such as vocalization and pronunciation, gesture, motion, and address."

"The great thing, then, in all education, is to make our nervous system our ally instead of our enemy. It is to fund and capitalize our acquisitions, and live at ease upon the interest of the fund. For this we must make automatic and habitual, as early as possible, as many useful actions as we can, and guard against the growing into ways that are likely to be disadvantageous to us, as we should guard against the plague. The more of the details of our daily life we can hand over to the effortless custody of automatism, the more our higher powers of mind will be set free for their own proper work. There is no more miserable human being that one in whom nothing is habitual but indecision, and for whom the lighting of every cigar, the drinking of every cup, the time of rising and going to bed every day, and the beginning of every bit of work, are subjects of express volitional deliberation. Full half the time of such a man goes to the deciding, or regretting, of matters which ought to be so ingrained in him as practically not to exist for his consciousness at all. If there be such daily duties not yet ingrained in any one of my readers, let him begin this very hour to set the matter right."

"the phenomena of habit in living beings are due to the plasticity of the organic materials of which their bodies are composed."

"If habits are due to the plasticity of materials to outward agents, we can immediately see to what outward influences, if to any, the brain-matter is plastic. Not to mechanical pressures, not to thermal changes, not to any of the forces to which all the other organs of our body are exposed; for nature has carefully shut up our brain and spinal cord in bony boxes, where no influences of this sort can get at them. She has floated them in fluid so that only the severest of shocks can give them a concussion, and blanketed and wrapped them about in an altogether exceptional way. The only impressions that can be made upon them are through the blood, on the one hand, and through the sensory nerve-roots, on the other (Isn't this C R A Z Y?); and it is to the infinitely attenuated currents that pour in through these latter channels that the hemispherical cortex shows itself to be so peculiarly susceptible. The currents, once in, must find a way out. In getting out they leave their traces in the paths which they take. The only thing they can do, in short, is to deepen old paths or to make new ones; and the whole plasticity of the brain sums itself up in two words when we call it an organ in which currents pouring in from the sense-organs make with extreme facility paths which do not easily disappear. For, of course, a simple habit, like every other nervous event--the habit of snuffling, for example, or of putting one's hands into one's pockets, or of biting one's nails--is, mechanically, nothing but a reflex discharge; and its anatomical substratum must be a path in the system. The most complex habits, as we shall presently see more fully (Later in the essay, page 13), are, from the same point of view, nothing but concatenated discharges in the nerve-centers, due to the presence there of systems of reflex paths, so organized as to wake each other up successively--the impression produced by one muscular contraction serving as a stimulus to provoke the next, until a final impression inhibits the process and closes the chain."

Abner Jay`

Thank you to Dylan for showing me this song this morning. I like the introduction so much, because it follows such an understandable train of thought.

"Folk music is high class music, though there is a lot of low class people singing it. Matter of fact, most so-called folk singers don't even look like folk. Folk song tells true stories, but terrible stories. Because folk are terrible. Terrible songs make big songs. Why do you think kids like rock and roll? Because it's terrible! Do you think they are going to listen to the Philadelphia Symphony? A hundred and one strings? Why do you think I like Cocaine?"

Spiritual Parallelisms

Just for kicks.

When I'm Ready

Jaimahnyh Shares With

Los Pasos Perdidos

Ah! Los Pasos Perdidos by Alejo Carpentier must have been the true reason I ever decided to learn to speak/read/understand Spanish. I am imagining that "future" Matt whispered something to "14 year-old" Matt, convincing him to "get on with it!". Anyways, here are my favorite excerpts so far.



"Ahora me sentía casi colérico frente al disco que giraba al pensar que mi ingeniosa —y tal vez cierta — teoría se relegaba, como tantas otras cosas, a un desván de sueños que la época, con sus cotidianas tiranías, no me permitía realizar. De pronto, un gesto levanta el diafragma del surco. Deja de cantar el ave de barro. Y se produce lo que yo más temía: el Curador, acorralándome afectuosamente en un rincón, me pregunta por el estado de mis trabajos, advirtiéndome que dispone de mucho tiempo para escucharme y discutir. Quiere saber de mis búsquedas, conocer mis nuevos métodos de investigación, examinar mis conclusiones acerca del origen de la música —tal como pensé buscarlo alguna vez, a base de mi ingenios? teoría del mimetismo-mágico-rítmico —. Ante la imposibilidad de escapar, empiezo a mentirle, inventando escollos que hubieran diferido la elaboración de mi obra. Pero, por falta de hábito en su uso, es evidente que cometo risibles errores en el manejo de los términos técnicos, enredo las clasificaciones, no doy con los datos esenciales que, sin embargo, tenía por muy sabidos. Trato de apoyarme en bibliografías, para enterarme —por irónica rectificación de quien me escucha— de que ya están desechadas por los especialistas. Y cuando me voy a asir de la supuesta necesidad de reunir ciertos cantos de primitivos recién grabados por exploradores, me parece que mi voz me es devuelta con tales resonancias de mentira por el cobre de los gongs, que me varo sin remedio, en la mitad de una frase, sobre el olvido inexcusable de una desinencia organológica. El espejo me muestra la cara lamentable, de tramposo agarrado con naipes marcados en las mangas, que es mi cara en este segundo. Tan feo me encuentro que, de súbito, mi vergüenza se vuelve ira, e increpo al Curador con un estallido de palabras gruesas, preguntándole si cree posible que muchos puedan vivir, en este tiempo, del estudio de los instrumentos primitivos. El sabía cómo yo había sido desarraigado en la adolescencia, encandilado por falsas nociones, llevado al estudio de un arte que sólo alimentaba a los peores mercaderes del Tin-Pan-Alley, zarandeado luego a través de un mundo en ruinas, durante meses, como intérprete militar, antes de ser arrojado nuevamente al asfalto de una ciudad donde la miseria era más dura de afrontar que en cualquier otra parte. ¡Ah! Por haberlo vivido, yo conocía el terrible tránsito de los que lavan la camisa única en la noche, cruzan la nieve con las suelas agujereadas, fuman colillas de colillas y cocinan en armarios, acabando por verse tan obsesionados por el hambre, que la inteligencia se les queda en la sola idea de comer. Tan estéril solución era aquélla como la de vender, de sol a sol, las mejores horas de la existencia. «Además —gritaba yo ahora—, ¡estoy vacío! ¡Vacío! ¡Vacío!»... Impasible, distante, el Curador me mira con sorprendente frialdad, como si esta crisis repentina fuese para él una cosa esperada. Entonces vuelvo a hablar, pero con voz sorda, en ritmo atropellado, como sostenido por una exaltación sombría. Y así como el pecador vuelca ante el confesionario el saco negro de sus iniquidades y concupiscencias —llevado por una suerte de euforia de hablar mal de sí mismo que alcanza el anhelo de execración—, pinto a mi maestro con los más sucios colores, con los más feos betunes, la inutilidad de mi vida, su aturdimiento durante el día, su inconsciencia durante la noche. A tal punto me hunden mis palabras, como dichas por otro, por un juez que yo llevara dentro sin saberlo y se valiera de mis propios medios físicos para expresarse, que me aterro, al oírme, de lo difícil que es volver a ser hombre cuando se ha dejado de ser hombre. Entre el Yo presente y el Yo que hubiera aspirado a ser algún día se ahondaba en tinieblas el foso de los años perdidos. Parecía ahora que yo estuviera callado y el juez siguiera hablando por mi boca. En un solo cuerpo convivíamos, él y yo, sostenidos por una arquitectura oculta que era ya, en vida nuestra, en carne nuestra, presencia de nuestra muerte. En el ser que se inscribía dentro del marco barroco del espejo actuaban en este momento el Libertino y el Predicador, que son los personajes primeros de toda alegoría edificante, de toda moralidad ejemplar. Por huir del cristal, mis ojos fueron hacia la biblioteca."

"El caso era que Extieich había logrado imponernos una serie de prácticas emparentadas con los asamas yogas, haciéndonos respirar de ciertas maneras, contando el tiempo de las inspiraciones y espiraciones por «matras». Mouche y sus amigos pretendían llegar con ello a un mayor dominio de sí mismos y adquirir unos poderes que siempre me resultaban problemáticos, sobre todo en gente que bebía diariamente para defenderse contra el desaliento, las congojas del fracaso, el descontento de sí mismos, el miedo al rechazo de un manuscrito o la dureza, simplemente, de aquella ciudad del perenne anonimato dentro de la multitud, de la eterna prisa, donde los ojos sólo se encontraban por casualidad, y la sonrisa, cuando era de un desconocido, siempre ocultaba una proposición."

"Y cuando sonara un timbre sería el despertar sin objeto, y el miedo a encontrarme con un personaje, sacado de mí mismo, que solía esperarme cada año en el umbral de mis vacaciones.

El personaje lleno de reproches y de razones amargas que yo había visto aparecer horas antes en el espejo barroco del Curador para vaciarme de cenizas."

"Y una fuerza me penetra lentamente por los oídos, por los poros: el idioma. He aquí, pues, el idioma que hablé en mi infancia; el idioma en que aprendí a leer y a solfear; el idioma enmohecido en mi mente por el poco uso, dejado de lado como herramienta inútil, en país donde de poco pudiera servirme. Estos, Fabio, ¡ay dolor!, que ves agora. Estos Fabio..."

" Miré las caras que lo rodeaban: caras sin rasurar, sucias, estiradas por una borrachera que había pasmado la muerte. Los insectos seguían entrando por los caños y los cuerpos olían a sudor agrio. En el edificio entero reinaba un hedor de letrinas. Flacas, macilentas, las bailarinas parecían espectros. Dos de ellas, vestidas aún con los tules y mallas de un adagio bailado poco antes, se hundieron sollozando en las sombras de la gran escalera de mármol. Las moscas, ahora, estaban en todas partes, zumbando en las luces, corriendo por las paredes, volando a las cabelleras de las mujeres. Afuera, la carroña crecía."

Two Amazing words that I think sound beautiful:

Manoseadas: This word is used to describe things like rocks or instruments that have been affected by the touching of hands over much much time.

Tiovivo: Carousel or Merry-go-Round. This word is peculiar because when it is broken down into its two parts (tio) and (vivo) it means Alive-Uncle.

"El segundo foco se mecía sobre la casa de la Lola, donde Carmen, Ninfa y Esperanza aguardaban, en blanco, rosa y azul bajo faroles chinos, sentadas en el diván de terciopelo raído que había sido de un Oidor de Reales Audiencias. En el ámbito del tercer foco giraban los camellos, leones y avestruces de un tiovivo,"

Sniff Sniff

Finje

The year's at the spring,

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;

The hill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn;

God's in his Heaven -

All's right with the world!

Yo! Woke up early because Emily was here. Made a skillet with spinach, potatoes, and eggs. Ate it with many cups of tea because Emily only drank half of hers and the whole of what she brought. Played D's and A's and A#7's to her beautiful song "Shark in the Ocean". Waved my arms and said "Oooohhh!" a lot. Played many more D's and A's and G's and C's with Peter in different rhythms. Made a recording of that. Arranged everything from the January sampler, with a bass and snare sound I think Dylan made, real nice. Recorded the "Forest Dreaming" song and made a regular version and a backwards and sped up version for fun. Here they are.

Feen Hey by Murdhee

Feen Hey Chopped and Screwed by Murdhee

I left this open to post all day. Meanwhile, Dylan, myself, Free, and Pete worked on music (Dyl's emotion cave and my emotion explosion) and came up with a very much better version of the songs above.

Tennis Ball Meditation

I was on the train today, and had a good realization. I have a tennis ball in one of my stretchy side pockets on the bag I take to school. I have been keeping a tennis ball in there for a bit. I found it one day on the sidewalk and planned on making a present of it for Annie. Then I realized how new and clean it was, and how slobbery it would get as soon as Annie got a hold of it. Then I realized that I am always finding tennis balls and giving them to Annie, and there must be at least three hiding about in our house. Finding new tennis balls all the time is only perpetuating the habit of letting myself and Annie lose the ones she already had.

Anyways, I began twirling the tennis ball around in my left and right hands. I then realized how uncoordinated I am. I made it a goal to be able to twirl the tennis ball in both of my hands, so that it spins an equal amount in its rise, air, and return. I did this both ways on the train and found it to be an awesome way to zone out, and concentrate fully on something physically happening. I wonder what this does, and will do to my mind.

Forest Try

Here is my first (second) attempt at this forwards-backwards way of organizing very old chords onto the January sampler. Mixed in below (hopefully) the 3-1 ratio of the chords are the pseudo-geometrically organized sounds of our house and outdoor noises.

Forest Try by Sleepover

I also found some photos I took awhile back and noticed some faces in some of the light-shadow relationships.

Otonyal Labyrinth

Yo! I am manifesting my first labyrinth. If all goes according to plan, meaning Peter brings home enough small brown paper bags, and I find a good deal on tea lights (saw some recently, 100 for $1.99), the labyrinth will be walkable on the Autumnal Equinox.

According to the U.S. Naval Observatory (via NWS), fall will arrive at 10:09 pm on Wednesday, September 22nd.

I'll be using what the Labyrinth Society refers to as the Classical 7-Circuit Labyrinth a.k.a. "The Cretan Labyrinth" as a model. While a maze is host to many paths, allowing the walker to make directional decisions, a pure labyrinth only involves one walkable path. The image above is more or less what I am trying to re-create.

I am most excited about the location where this is going to happen. My friend Dylan showed me one day a very unusual triangular roundabout, on a street that dead ends with the high and noisy 90/94. If you are wearing size 13 New Balance sneakers (Grey), then the dimensions of the triangle are:

Base: 70 Lengths
Side One: 48 Lengths
Side Two: 52 Lengths

The labyrinth, which in form is a circle, will then be contained within a triangle. The triangle exists within the Logan Square neighborhood. For the stretch of my imagination, I am enjoying visualizing a circle, within a triangle, within a square. This goes along with the Zen creation myth.

I have been to this triangular area maybe four times now, and I feel generally good about the area. I did my most invasive and destructive work so far today, pulling out most of the weeds, doing an initial litter sweep, and sweeping up small debris and plant remains. Below are two photos of the space, and one of the aromatic pile of weeds.