Not Petunias (above)
Petunias have a habit of attracting drama
Especially below the fold of web domains. Could it be the rich compost that helps it grow; melancholy. Even in the digital realm plants could press esc or shift to move to a new tab page. Look at freshly thrown seeds on minimal screens. Lean, font’s with diets of pressed orange juice. Yet frequent reminders of eco-systems recently visited are always displayed first. The one’s abundant in overgrowth, something even a well seasoned gardener find’s difficulty in passing up. Some heirloom seeds may just be germinating. Ripe figs could be falling with no one to catch them. Or Buddha may be found giving Dharma under the Bodhi.
Flora and fauna alike must be careful to take full responsibility. Choosing to either observe or take part in the theatre play. As roots these days have wonderful opportunity to rid themselves of deep embedded realities and swing from hyper linked vines to emergent layers of consciousness.
As far as some quacks are concerned, sniffling their bills amongst garden beds looking for juicy slugs with backpacks. Or gorging on ones that left their lunch packs at home. At the bottom of the canopy, some organisms try to create with left over fallen leaves from places where new ideas are photosynthesised and kissed by the sun. Some bottom dwellers are fantastic sculptors, utilizing old play dough. Choosing to either make pretty cupcake towers or turds. Or if witty enough, a combination compostable creation, see poop cupcakes. Are these foe as detrimental to the ecosystem as we play out? The unbiased truth is that all of us travel up and down the scale of the layered jungle persona. Sometimes were are nothing more than Dirt Devils. Packaged frameworks with qualities such as…
- intelligent step avoidance system
- quiet and unobstructive
- climbing easily over heating ducks
- competent in tight spaces
- efficient filtered dust systems (except when over worked or habitat provides too much dust)
Although spending too much time in one arena can’t be healthy.
In the dirt. One may receive some nutrients from the bellies of other critters and or leaf matter, that were knawed on at times of no sun. Where lively parties of gut flora dance sipping cocktails of Kefir and Kim Chi tapas are served. Ideas and revelations pre-digested, fragmented and fermented for easier digestion.
In the sky. One may loose itself in lightness. Observation. Analysis. Where dreams and newness break open like butterflies out of cacoons. But are yet to fly, freely, before instincts rivet their core to search for pollen, and their inevitable death. Or become addicted to this way, forgetting the full spectrum of sensation. One may forget the slimy, earthly realities, that are needed to form strong Achilles tendons within acute angels.
Not utilizing the full spectrum of life weather may cause some sections of the canopy to become under nourished. Attracting just butterflies is pointless. Where by, simultaneously attracting a Bullock’s False Toad may give truth to an otherwise nonsense name display. If ‘angry birds’ were called ‘happy birds’ would it have as many downloads? Keeping things just pretty can be a bore and limp as plants left unwatered in the Christmas break. And well leave limp accounts for the senile and their doctor visits. Petunia’s aka people actually prefer shocking stories with excessive drama. Listening to others and also taking part in their own.
Jaws filled with shovel teeth having a dig behind closed curtains, wiping clean their face, to perform. Afterwards deflating their own digs at Q&A’s. Regarding rumours ‘apparently’ read in comments based around personal perceptions on the matter. Realising their is truth in what they are saying. Stabbing the false percussionist within with its excuse to ‘please everybody’ (additional reading material The Disease to Please). When really it’s more selfish than that. Spilling such truths in front of the curtain could compromise their temporary lack of loneliness. Even if subjects are limper than first thought. And provide no real benefit to their lives, except maybe smelly compost. But maybe petunia’s aren’t even that truthful to themselves. And fill domains of their own kind with fiction….