Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Love is deadly, one way or another; If not the consummation, the cliff. My motivations in all fruitful conversations are highly questionable, but that does not necessarily reflect upon the purity of my true purpose, the depth of my love, or the vehemency of my affection.
You are undoubtedly acquainted with the frutility of analyzing scenarios in particular. The complexity of variables which are potentiate in a peachy discourse precludes the possibility of an exhaustive examination. Hence, I will attempt to lay out an ethical groundwork which will transcend this ineluctable pitfall.
We start with definitions:
1. Peach Tree: A vascular plant of considerable proportions which is imbued with the taxonomic features pertaining to its kind. (I note parenthetically that this appears to be an "A peachorii truth")
2. Peach: that entity which grows upon a peach tree, which has (enclosed in its fleshy diameter) the innate potential of producing another Peach tree, and which is naturally endowed with a special attraction for Humans.
3. Human: that bipedal being created for the chief purpose of living most excellently.
4. Living most excellently: to spend one's day in reflection upon and refection of the peach.
Right Is: "that every action should be to the advantage of the peach tree." (Note: Accountants need to see a good disambiguation of "Peach tree" to avoid confusion here).
For in this manner:
A) That without an original cause shall remain without an end
B) The peach shall fully serve its two natural purposes
C) And Humans shall live most excellently, which is by definition synonymous with that which is right.
Now: M.R.P. acted unethically in hurling herself off a cliff because she did not full fill her natural purpose in life, thereby hindering my attempts to live most excellently, and thereby acting to the disadvantage of the peach tree.
And now, Madame, I hope this finds you in unimpeachable state.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
A certain correspondence of yours regarding the virtues of particular Prunus persicas was very recently brought to my attention. First, I must make quite clear that I, too, am a fellow fervent peach lover myself. Which brings me to the purpose of this present post.
Please, take not offense at my saying so, but had I been in Miss Rosy Peach’s position, I might have behaved in like fashion. Do allow me a few words more on this matter. You rightly articulated the delicacy of scent and general transcendence of the peach; nonetheless, it is my own humble opinion that the camaraderie of which you spoke is perhaps ambitioned by an ulterior motive.
I have yet to discern from whence that motive stems in the smooth talking of Mrs. Smooth on the purity of one Mr. Harry, but provided time and peachly company I am convinced it could be discovered. In the instance of Mr. Soft, I do believe the provocation of his bellowed implications was the aim of your discourse, for it would not be unbeknownst to a fellow of your intricate knowledge of such peaches that a vivacious peach is more delectable than one of a subdued nature.
Let me be not mistaken; I am deeply empathetic for your peachless state at the abandonment of ruddy Miss Rosy. Despair not, though. With winsome words many a peach before has been persuaded against reason’s beckoning. Perchance the blushing Miss Velvet Peach would be a suitable candidate, as it has been told me that she is one for words.
May you find your golden balance and a pristine peach companion when motives have been mended and set firmly on benevolent foundations.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
in the peach, I have found notable beauty, delicate scent, surpassing smoothness, vibrant color, succulent sweetness, and... camraderie. Yes. Speaking precisely here.
just the other day, I noted to Mrs. Smooth (a peach I redeemed from the village market) that Mr. Harry (a country peach from the hills) could be a little tough around the edges, but that he had a heart of gold, right down to his very core. She didn't say anything about it, but peaches are quiet folk by and large, anyways. In fact, only 8 of them have ever spoken to me.
I remember the day well. I was telling Mr. Soft that he needed to stand a little more firmly for his convictions. Suddenly, he began to bellow implications. Yes. Implications! He got so worked up that he had a little bit of a meltdown in my... my mouth.
Another time, I was having a very romantic dinner with Miss Rosy Peach. It was just the two of us, sitting very close, looking out on a sunset on the edge of a cliff. I was waxing eloquent about her many physical, emotional, spiritual, and metaphorical attributes which I felt had drawn us to each other, when she suddenly interrupted and said quite plainly: "I don't think it was meant to be..." and immediately rolled herself off the edge of the cliff. I was peachless: a man peeled of pleasure, pitted against fate.
Fate. That constant eventuality which simultaneously defibrilates our psyche with pandemonium and peace? The modicum is insoluble, the extremity ethereal. How shall we stand still then, while the air quakes with verdant note and screaming color? Perhaps balance is golden.
Perhaps to Peach.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Tim, I must say I was absolutely entranced by your masterpiece. The splotch was so elegantly and naturally placed and the attending decor so perfectly right. I would like to suggest a didgeridoo performance in improvisational style to honor your work. I would further like to suggest on a completely related note that you consider invigorating your perambulating pursuit of peachy perspicuity (not to mention articulacy) via an infusion of this masterpiece in a metaphorical transfiguration of transfiguring, transformational, and perhaps most important of all, trans-genre explosion of true poetic and painterly genius. This exceedingly humble suggestion should be acted upon with all due regard to the extreme height of my general and special knowledge of all interrelated subjects pertaining to the delicate issues and eventualities doubtless now under your consideration as a result of this wonderfully (if I do say so myself) terse and coherent little note. Barry from Kg
Thursday, June 11, 2009
A shop beside the cobblestone sidewalk
Enticed us closer to its door.
Shelves piled high with towers around us
Spoke of blood and sweat of yore.
The pungent odor of
As we scuffled off the terrace
Into the quarters of the seasoned store
This, that, or the crusty one on the tray
Along with the remnant in the drawer
Compels my pate to hallucinate
And the soul and imaginings to soar
What e’er my loathsome hand should find
That it shall devour
A hair breadth from a pickle rind
Or scuffling a shriveled flower
What I would give ‘bout now
To have a morsel just to taste
Only a slice then I would vow
To surrender forever the curdled paste.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
it is of utmost imperative that we stem the antipeachers. their purposes in demolishing the peach and its adherents are incomprehensible, reprobate, and hoggenbottomish. They have drunk the wine of incredulity, and now, stumbling in the half-dawn darkness, they prepare a whirling onslaught of despimolitude! We, the peachers, will fight with every fiber of our peaches, we will throw the rottens out!
Strategy! this, as I lay dreaming (of peaches of course!) occurred to me. we must unite under the peachtree, pandora's perpetual pontificate, strong in stomach, to face the desperate villany which unite under any other banner save that of the peach. Hithertoo, we have known the Grapers, the Mangoors, and the Villihudians to be our enemies. Ah sweet comfort, to know thine enemy! But now, those schisms and offshoots, the Nectarines, and more recently the Pluotians, have drifted to a polar opposite in purpose, united as they are in backspacing our peaches, our peachy lives, our peach pits!
Hurl and Pare, Hum and Flare! Let every peacher sing!
Sing of morning cool, moisture thick, juices spurt, and succulence sweet! Orchard's breeze, blowing warm on waving grasses where the hum-hum's warble in tune with the blue, blue skies. Comfort thick, and softness warm, waters cold, and tears caress for pure-pure hurt of beauty known.
So let the peachers sing, and sing it strong,
So that echoes last, when we are gone.