As
I deal with the hustle and bustle of this crazy, mixed-up, modern
world, one dream provides me with solace. I dream, like most
red-blooded males, of being Tao Yüan-ming, the famous poet and
chrysanthemum grower of 365-427. Ahhh what a peaceful life it
would be: spending all day outside tending to flowers, which
really just means waiting for the rain, and now and then jotting
down a few words with a metaphor or two, purporting to be a poem.
The actuality of the day would involve just sitting outside and
reading. What could be more perfect? You may argue that it
wouldn't be all that easy. I would argue back - with the last
word, I hasten to add - and say both being a chrysanthemum grower
and a poet would be as easy as falling asleep on a washing
machince. (It's easy. Trust me).
How
many chrysanthemum growers do you know? I know one. And he died
in the year 427. If you are the only chrysanthemum grower in the
world, then you lead the field, you define the field, you are the
field. If you say this is a bad year for chrysanthemums, and
they're all gonna die, or even if you say that the half dead look
is the new style, who is anyone else to argue with you? If they
try, kill them, or at least slice their legs in half. So I have
to plant a few seeds once a year. So what? I can take time out of
my busy day to do that. So I have to water the flowers if it
doesn't rain. So what? If it's really that hot, I'm going to want
to water myself anyway; it'll take very little effort for me to
chuck a bit on the flowers too. So I have to weed from time to
time. So what? I'll just reshape my dream and be a famous poet
and chrysanthemum and weed grower. See? Piece of piss. Life is
beautiful. Being a poet is just as easy. The hard part is being
known as a poet, but once you are a poet, you're set for life. In
my apple pie daydream, if you'll remember, I already am a famous
poet and chrysanthemum grower. I am a poet. If I write words,
they are poetry. Argue with me and I'll kill you, or at least
make you read the kind of shit that I churn out. Fuck you all.
I'm left with a sweet, relaxing life, far far removed from the
electronic hum that passes for life nowadays. Sw - as they say -
eet.
Wouldn't I be left
craving more, though? Isn't that the problem with any hopes and
dreams: that something always turns round and bites you on the
arse so fucking hard, ripping out a chunk of bleeding flesh?
Yeah, perhaps. But then I think what possibly more could I want
than peace, quiet, solitude, bad poetry and flowers? What more
could I crave? Nothing. What could possibly fuck up this dream?
Nothing. It's not like those other flawed dreams that always end
up failing through every fault of my own. Now all I need to do is
travel back in time, leaping from life to life (but nothing after
that) striving to put right what once went wrong. Hoping that
there won't be a next leap, and certainly hoping that the next
leap won't be the leap home. I want to just close my eyes and lie
amongst the chrysanthemums and sleep for days on end. That, to
me, is life lived to the full. That is all I want. It shouldn't
be too hard.