Two things conspired against me this week in preventing me from getting anything much done in the garden – rain , and pomphilyx.
The rain is good ; the pomphilyx, not. The pomphilyx sounds like a mind boggling not to mention unholy trinity between a pommeranian and those cottage garden staples of stock and phlox ,but no. Just a really shitty lurgy of the hands , a spin off derivative of your bog standard eczema – your Pomphilyx Knotts Landing to Ezcema’s Dallas.
In short , it fucks your hands up, makes them burn, itch, go stiff – they break out in shitty lumps that look like warts (but aren’t) that have shop assistants looking at you like you eat your own shit when they hastily flick your change back at you.
Most of all though, it makes the most mundane and basic tasks (turning the tap on for example, or cutting a piece of bread)excruciatingly painful to the extent where it is just easier not to bother. Hence no hot garden action for the last few days. Books instead.
Just before I started this blog I was reading (for the second time) Neither Wolf Nor Dog by Kent Nerburn. I am wary of speaking about this book ,I don’t know if I have the words , or if words should be used. I would urge that it be read. It affected me profoundly.I got my copy from Amazon.The least that I can say is that it is a book about a journey . The author , Kent Nerburn is not First Nation (”Native American”) ; the real star of the story (Dan) , is. Not so much a book to talk about ,rather a book to go and read.It is one of those books,that will stay with me forever, long after I finished reading it, as it has actually changed my world view in some ways , and given me confidence in my existing beliefs in others.
I am currently reading ‘Gypsy Boy’ by Mikey Walsh. I used to work in schools supporting traveller children in the classroom.Helping them learn to read,mainly.
I often wonder how the children and young people that I worked with are these days.
The girls must all be married for sure as they must be around eighteen years old now, with one or two children maybe. The boys I am guessing have mostly taken their expected and inevitable places as young gypsy men in their communities.
Reading ‘Gypsy Boy’ , my thoughts are not only with both the author and his experiences but also with those girls and boys who I used to work with.
May the road rise to meet you all.