The Vegetable Garden

I like to garden in the nude. There is something about doing this that helps me to feel unburdened. Normally I am uncomfortable being naked around anyone other than vegetables. Maybe this is because I know I do not have to look any one way for the vegetables. I don’t have to be fit or muscular. I can let my tummy hang out. I also know that the vegetables do not want me in any kind of sexual way. They are naked, I am naked- there is nothing sexual about it. When I am naked and working in my vegetable garden I am able to feel like I can escape from the age in which I live. Time seems to vanish and I am left feeling like I could be living in pre-agricultural time where things are less insulated. I imagine a world without clocks and deadlines, a world where my email inbox is not filled with emails awaiting my attention. It is just me, the dirt, the earth, the vegetables and my penis, which occasionally gets in the way.

My vegetable garden is located in the rear end of my backyard. You will walk down a long stone path through a large patch of grass. You will walk under a lattice covered in bougainvillea that is currently not flowering, you will make a left hand turn behind the garage and then you will notice the vegetable garden. You may also notice a man who is six-foot five inches working in the vegetable garden. In the nude. He may look like he has a stiff frame hardened by the onset of middle age with a head of hair that is rapidly graying but do not be fooled. This man still feels very young inside, his mind is riddled with a rebellious imagination that would make any four year old jealous and he refuses to accept the various limitations that middle age may bring.

The vegetable garden is covered over by oak trees and currently it is enclosed in chicken wire so that my dog does not have access to the garden. In the vegetable garden you will find arugula, kale, chard, red leaf lettuce, micro greens, escarole, sage, parsley, potentially poisonous mushrooms, weeds, gluttonous caterpillars and worms. I am continually working to keep out the gluttonous caterpillars and worms because they consume entire leaves of arugula and kale. I also try to dig up the poisonous mushrooms because there is something unsettling about eating vegetables that are resting on top of and growing around poisonous mushrooms. But the mushrooms are everywhere. They are all-pervasive in the garden and I feel as if my efforts to keep them out are futile. The goal at this point is just to avoid interacting with these poisonous mushrooms as much as possible because I am aware of the fact that every garden, whether it is a biblical garden or an atheist garden, has its forbidden fruit.

On both sides of my yard there are neighbors who have their yards. My yard is pretty well hidden from view by a plethora of trees and tall plants. I am confident that my neighbors are not able to see me working in the nude in my garden but one can never be too sure. I am always wondering if I have been noticed. Occasionally I will hear one of my neighbors working in his yard. I can tell that he is close to a fence from which he can get a clear shot of my garden if he makes an effort to look through the tall plants. Whenever my neighbor lets his dog run around in the yard the dog seems to like to bark a lot at the area of the fence where I am just on the other side. It can be a nuisance since all I want when working in my vegetable garden is privacy, quiet and calm. I want to feel like I am existing is the solitude of the universe, free from all sense of time and confined space. I want to be free of a world that consumes what is most alive and free about people and turns it into general feeling of unsatisfaction and mediocrity. But the dogs constant nagging bark is a harsh reminder that I live in the middle of LA in the year 2012.

I am mindful of the fact that I may be seen gardening in the nude. I have tried to erect fences made out of bamboo that would prevent an average sized person from being able to peer over them. I do this not so much for my own privacy but to protect my neighbors from what they might see. I spend a lot of time bending over when working in my vegetable garden and I am aware that catching sight of the rear view of a naked, middle-aged man bending over may have a slightly traumatizing effect. I also would prefer not to be seen in this way. If I am seen by my neighbor, then such is life. I can live with what the potential negative repercussions of this kind of sighting can do to a casual relationship. But I take whatever steps I can to prevent this from happening. The dangers of suburban living are not necessarily overt (like gun shots or break-ins), they are more subtle and have a lot to do with what your neighbors think of you. This is why in most suburban communities everything and everyone looks the same. Everything is kept neat and organized. There is not too much expression of individuality. This is because no one wants to stand out for fear of what the neighbors may think and do. Few things can be more malevolent and dangerous than an angry, American, suburban homeowner.

When I am done working in my vegetable garden I like to sit on a wood bench that I made. I will sit there for as long as time and my back will allow. The bench is made out of a long slab of cheap wood and two cinder blocks which keep it erect. In the nude I will sit there quietly, focus on my breath and watch the various things that fill in the space of my backyard. I will watch birds fly around in the big blue sky. I will observe the avocado and lemon trees. I will take pleasure in watching the large palm tree sway around in the LA sky. I will focus my eyes on the green grass. When sitting on that bench it feels as if I am feeding my eyes. I will occasionally tell the barking dog on the other side of the fence to shut up. I try not to think but just watch everything play out in front of me. If it is a warm day I am may try to lay out on the bench and get some sun. If it is a cold day I will usually find a blanket and drape it over my goose bumped body. I will sit on that bench for hours and watch the disappearing sun turn the sky orange and then black. I will watch the moon and stars illuminate the blackened sky and then when I get hungry or too cold I will usually get up and walk back towards my house. Some people may think I am spending my time doing nothing, but to be terribly honest being naked, hanging out around my vegetable garden and being free of any sense of time feels like one of the more worthwhile things that I could do with my life.

Eating Alone, Again.

Clamming Up!

I made clams for dinner. When I was at the market I decided to buy seven innocent looking little-rock clams. I would take them home and cook them up into a nutritious meal. I new that clams were high in copper and lately I have been feeling like I need to eat more copper. It would be healthy, simple and hassle free.

I had never cooked clams before. I recalled what my father once told me years ago about cooking clams. “Wash, scrub, brine and boil until the little suckers snap right open!” When I began preparations cooking the clams I noticed that one of the clams suddenly opened and then shut. I was startled because I had forgotten that clams are living creatures until they are killed by the boiling water. Suddenly eating clams for dinner seemed a little less appetizing to me.

There is almost no boundary between my sensitivity to the mystery of life and my phobic terror of it. In my greatest moments of pleasure I always feel that at any second something can go terribly wrong. I was excited about the idea of eating clams for dinner until I realized that they were alive. I live in a culture where I am very removed from the process of having to kill the food I eat. Suddenly, I was the one who had to do the killing- and this felt strange. As I washed the clams under cold running water I could swear that I felt them moving inside their tightly clamped shells. My initial reaction to this sensation was to drop the clam into the sink like one does when they are suddenly repulsed by something (in Hebrew the same word is used to connote both “awe” and “fear”). I became so discouraged about the idea of cooking/killing the clams that I wanted to take them and set them free in the river beside my house. But I had spent eleven dollars on them- and that felt like to much money to just throw away.

I added a small amount of white wine and lemon juice to a pot. I put the pot on the stove and turned on the burner. I could feel my heart beating in my neck as I imagined myself suffering a terrible sickness or worse, dying from eating the clams. I recalled the horror stories that I had heard about various people who had become stricken with terrible sicknesses after eating clams. I added some butter to the broth which was beginning to boil.

With one hand shaking and my head filled with uncontrollable thoughts of impending doom- I added the clams one by one to the boiling broth. In the back round I could hear a Beatles song playing on my radio. “Hey!! you got to hide your love away,” the lyrics said. I covered the pot with a lid and went to the sink and obsessively washed my hands which I was concerned were covered in a deadly bacteria that I had once read about people contracting from touching clams. As I washed my hands I could swear that I heard the dying screams of clams. Sounded like a high pitched cry. I opened the lid to the boiling pot and noticed that all the little suckers had snapped open their shells except one. This one hung on to life, unwilling to surrender. I meditated upon the clam for a moment as I waited for it to snap open its shell. It did not. It remained shut unwilling to let go and be at peace. This clam reminded me a lot of myself.

I put the clams in a bowl along with the broth and squeezed fresh lemon on top. I set my dinner table for one and put salt and pepper beside my spoon and fork. The smell of clams reminded me of my youth. I sat down at the dinner table with my bowl of steaming clams and with my fork I grabbed one of the clams out from its shell. I held it up to my nose to make sure it did not have a rancid smell. It smelled like the sea in winter time so I put the clam into my mouth and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. And chewed. And then swallowed. It was delicious but I was nervous. Negative thoughts ran laps around the inside of my mind. What if the clam that I had just swallowed was bad? What if I get sick? I started to have visions of myself dying alone on my living room hardwood floor. My body began to shake like one who has crossed the point of no return. I took a sedative pill and drank a beer straight down. In times of anxiety- beer is the only substance that can calm me down.

I was frustrated because I could not eat the clams in peace. I wanted to enjoy my meal which smelled so good. Instead, I was in panic and already beginning to feel nauseous. My nervous system was turned upside down and would not allow me to sit still. Was I feeling guilty because I killed clams? Was I uncomfortable about cooking clams because I knew nothing about how to do it? Why was I clamming up? I searched for clues to my anxiety but I was able to come up with only one answer. Ditch the clams. I stood up from my dinner table and took the bowl of clams outside with me. I looked up at the moon which was full and then walked over to my neighbors house. I poured the bowl of eleven dollar clams into my neighbors cat food dish. She has seven cats and I figured that at least the cats could enjoy them. I ended up eating raw carrots and nuts for dinner and then going to bed early.

An Introduction To The Complete And Edible Works Of Shmear

Every word I write you can eat. The point of my published works has always been to appease my readers appetites. Ever since I was young, I have wanted to create books that could be eaten. As a child I could always be found snacking upon the covers of books from my fathers collection. I would chew on Shakespeare, Milton and Emily Dickinson until I was found and given a terrible scolding for doing so. I longed to eat books up until my sixteenth birthday when I finally decided to create and edible work of my own. When I told others of my idea, I was thought of as a fool. “Oh Smear,” people would say, “such a foolish young dreamer.” Despite the antagonizing criticisms- I continued to pursue my invention with the dedication of a fiend. I wrote for hours a day, sometimes skipping out on meals until I finally had in my hand the finished manuscript of what was the first edible book ever created.

I ate my first book. This was the problem. When my parents had asked me about the book that I had spent years and years writing all I could tell them that it was gone. When I had told them that I ate it they looked upon me as a young man who had lost his mind. I was twenty two at the time and was subjected to all forms of psychological examination. I was even subjugated to the confines of a hospital for many weeks for telling a psychiatrist about my invention. “So what was this edible book about,” the psychiatrist asked me. “It is about all the desires of a young man wrapped up into edible pages of a book. The story is told through a narrator who is a young runaway who has left the confines of his comfortable home to seek out authentic experiences. He falls into all forms of disreputable vice and at the end after returning home, in a fit of furry he kills his father and has sex with his mother.” “Ah I see, so we are suffering from a demented form of the Oedipal complex are we not?” All I could do was look into the eyes of the man who wanted to convict me and say, ” I only wanted to eat the story of youth.”

After weeks secluded away in a psychiatric hospital and months spent examined by various forms of analyst and therapist I was deemed to be suffering from a form of hyper-intelligence. The prescription for my cure was that I should be kept away from all books and writing. I was kept for months in my bed with my hands and feet bound to my bed. “It is for your own good Shmear,” my mother would remind me each day as she brought me food. I could see the tears welling up in hear eyes as she untied one of my hands from the bedpost. “If we do not keep you bound we know that you will read, write and eventually loose your mind. This is for your own good,” she constantly tried to remind me.

After months of being bound to my bed I was able to break free from the shackles that not only enslaved my body but also my mind. I packed a bag and left for good the home that I had been brought up in. With little money and no destination in mind I set out on foot as far as my feet would allow me to wander. Through rural villages and small towns I made my way until I found myself in a large city called Vice. There I stayed for many years, working as a dish washer by day and writing my edible works at night. When I was done with my writing for the night I would wonder the streets of Vice, committing thousands of sins in my mind until sleep would overwhelm me and I would be forced to wonder home to my small studio on Transgression Street.

I completed my second book when I had just turned twenty six. It was a longer book that had taken me years to create, but the words were sweet and the story filling. I found a Baker in town who told me that for a cut of the eventual profit he could recreate my edible book one hundred times. This would allow me enough baked copies of my edible works to take around to various publishers for them to try. The Baker and I decided to entitle my second book A Symposium of Edible Words, so that the reader immediately understood that this book was indeed to be eaten.

After dropping “the Symposium” off to dozens of publishers, all of whom worked in the city of Vice- all I could do was wait in anticipation. I drank away the time and spent hours sitting in silent meditation. I thought of numerous ideas for forthcoming books and since I was low on cash I ate the remaining stock of my edible books. Weeks passed without notice and then the letters started pouring in. “Dear Shmear, this is the best book I have ever eaten,” “your words were so satisfying to my mind and gut,” “I have yet to experience such a delight like reading your book and then eating it!!” were some of the comments that came pouring in through my small rusty mailbox. I struck a deal with a publisher who wanted ten edible books in ten years for a price that I could never have imagined earning. That evening the Baker and I celebrated in a den of iniquity- debasing ourselves in every drunken way imaginable.

It gives me great pleasure to be writing this introduction fifty years later. I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would be writing the introduction to the Complete and Edible Works Of Shmear. My intention was never for fame and riches but rather to write words that could be of some significant nutritional value to my readers. I wanted my readers to be able to eat words that would expand their imaginations and support them in a life of creativity and wonderment. Upon completing my first book there was no greater pleasure that I had experienced than eating it. I wanted readers to experience this same pleasure when they were done reading my books. To be able to eat the words and pages that had been stuck in their minds. To be able to eat a text with the greatest pleasure- this was my only goal. After fifty some years of writing and eating edible books, it is my greatest feeling of accomplishment to know that I have filled the hungry stomachs of readers around the world with my delectable words.

Sole Food.

I never knew what sole food tasted like until I felt the heel of her foot in my mouth. It was an accident that I found myself lying supine and naked upon the ground. She asked me if I wanted to “know enlightenment, straight up no chaser”, and I wanted to learn. “Directly abide by my words and you will realize that you do not exist, you never will exist and you never did exist.” “Is this a philosophy?” I asked her. “It is the truth,” she said as she took off her pantyhose. I was hesitant. I could not stop conceptualizing the scene before me. I knew we were separate identities but she wanted to make us one by sticking her foot in my mouth. This is how she found her identity, she told me- “by sticking my foot in the mouths of men.” With an almost unimaginatively subtle push I found myself opening my mouth and watching the sole of her foot make its way over my nose. My consciousness felt threatened but I held back the fear that wanted to get up and run. I focused on my breath and let her foot wonder where it will. “All sense of I is an illusion, a fabrication….and my foot is an invitation for you to find this truth out for yourself. You have no self until your mind inserts a self into it.” “I am uncomfortable,” I hesitantly spoke. “It is only a biological imperative that gives rise to your sense of discomfort, just focus on the sole of my foot and think of it as food,” she said with the calming tone of a spiritual teacher. She stuck the sole of her foot into my mouth and told me “now take your ego which is a defense against the realization of no I, or death- and lick the sole of my foot while keeping your attention away from your sense of I that may feel humiliated…..all that will be left is that which is.” With hesitation I stuck out my dry tongue and slowly began to lick what she called her “sole food.” “Lick, Lick and stop trying to conceptualizer the direct experience, just lick and soon you will be enlightened.” I licked and licked consuming myself with the sole of her foot for at least an hour and when I was done the conceptual formation of who I was- was gone. There was only an unconceptualized state in which my body felt full from consuming too much sole food.