The first plant I ever planted was a potato. My mother, peeling potatoes, while an eight year-old me, helpfully observed, informed me, that the eye in the peel would grow to be a potato plant. Confident that, this, if true, would be every bit as valuable an ability as magical powers, I set off to the garden to test my new-found knowledge. It worked, and I grew a potato that would later be added to a pot, to be consumed. I always grow potatoes and I always remember that little contribution to my interests, on my mother’s part. I would be a gardener.
This spring, however, I did not plant potatoes. I would have liked to but it was a matter of, principle, and of passive resistance. You see the day after I had tilled my vast garden, I went in to begin the ever enjoyable task of planting, and was met by a large group of swarthy, unwashed, thugs otherwise known as Colorado Potato Beetles. They approached me menacingly, evil intent manifested clearly in their demeanor. I attempted to ignore them, as I planted my onions, while they gathered two rows over plotting amongst themselves. They were obviously as angry as they were hungry. I contemplated presentation of potential arguments to, correct their ideology, to the end that, my potatoes would survive while they did not. Though I am usually quite persuasive on this occasion I lit upon no promising rationalization to manipulate them.
Having planted my onions, I shouldered a few of the aforementioned undesirables aside, and proceeded to seed a row of carrots. I was, “barefooting”, as my daughter had so aptly named, the act of walking outside in bare feet, when she was a toddler. As I mulled this development, I left the garden to the anarchists to seek more friendly ground, on the lawn. Absent-mindedly ambling through a patch of clover my middle toe lovingly embraced a small bee in what I am certain was a purely platonic hug. The bee, as it turns out, was so devoid of affection as to prefer death to this display. My language coloured the yard. Things were not going well and insects were to blame.
I resolved to plant corn instead to starve the bastards out.
Now, if you, dear reader, have continued to read this far, out of some sense of duty or, perhaps just pure masochism, you may have reached the, seemingly reasonable conclusion, that this article is about gardening. In that case you are quite mistaken. You see, this article is actually an act of, sexist anarchy. While anarchy is now, as popular as it has always been, sexism, is less so, hence the need to hide it deep in the bowels of articles unsuspected. For those few of you who have not abandoned the screen I will continue.
For these many decades of contemplation I have lamented the notion, that man had invented language, for the express purpose of communicating ideas without the need for clubs, ( an early green initiative I am sure), but then had proceeded to clutter it, with complexities allowing ideas to be concealed within layers of sophistication, in the interest of turning speech into another club. Albeit wielded by brain rather than brawn. I held, that we ought to use words sparingly, accurately, and efficiently to reduce misunderstanding.
Then I came upon an article, claiming that women speak three times as many words, on a given day, as men do, on average. This led me to devastating conclusions that men had nothing to do with it. It follows then, that language, the single, greatest, most crucial, invention, allowing for civilization to exist was an achievement, not of man, but of woman. Now for the sexist part. My biased observation of the female gender has been that they have a tendency to make things pretty if possible. I am certain there are many exceptions. I am equally certain, that this appearance, is entirely, and deliberately generated by the white male patriarchy,(though it must have been decided at a meeting I missed), but this is the social construct I abide in, and it will have to do, until the new utopia is established. Thus the original sophistication of language seems, to me, to have been, about styling language. Much like the chrome decorations on a car. However, the women, unbeknownst to the men, were not perfect. Occasionally they would utilize the sophistication in their new invention to, cattily, put each other in place and at once demonstrate their superiority over one another ,or men, in intellect and class. ( One or two men may have done so over the millennia as well). Thus today we use language, as often as a tool of restriction as we use it to communicate ideas, thoughts or feelings.
The anarchy, of course, lies in using a great multitude of words, to essentially say nothing useful, or cohesive at all. In this article it is demonstrated, by the use of the first three hundred and seventy-nine words to say,( I planted corn instead of potatoes, because of the potato bugs, and got stung by a bee).
Yes, I am a verbal anarchist, unlikely to change my ways, because, unlike the Queen, I AM, amused.