Two week anniversary of oily hair, stinky armpits, hard limestone, and bloody fingers.

Just passed the two week mark, and Wild Iris is still the frustrating, painful, amazing entity it always has been. Progress on "Rodeo Free Europe" has definitely slowed, although I can now consistently one-hang it, and hopefully it'll go down soon (so I can move on to "Throwing the Houlihan", and other crazy cool things). But here's a little something I wrote up, that I can't really think of a good transition into, so hopefully you all enjoy my ramblings! (I don't have service to upload pictures at the moment, so they'll be in the next post.)

Said the flower to the tree, "Why so tall?" The tree, in response, simply turned its wizened gaze to the mountains above, rising from rolling plains like the teeth of a slain monster. Said the tree to these mountains, "Why so far? Why is it that I must live in your shadow, and not upon the snowy peak above, reaching towards the heavens?" And the mountain, in a low, gravelly grumble, looks across the cliffs which flank its slopes, and asked "Why so steep? Must my summit be a destination for only the elite, guarded by the trials of a your precipice? I grow lonely here, you know." And the cliffs did not respond, but as their gaze turned to the meadow, one could intuit their question- "Why so colorful? Are the depths of grayscale not enough? What exactly is it you hope to attract with such showmanship?" In answer, the meadow giggled, a gesture born upon the winds sweeping across it, an airy , playful voice, and gazed upon the bee flying over its waves of wildflowers, laughing with pleasure when it's ovoid body alights on a fragile petal. 

Said the bee to Man, "Why so awkward? What strange necessity causes you to walk upon only two legs, without even wings to bear you to your destination?"

Said flowers to Man, "Why so hurried? What is so important, in that mass of lights in the valley below, that you cannot stop for even a moment to appreciate the canvas I have painted beneath your feet?"

Said boulders to Man, "Am I but an obstacle to your goals? Must your chisels and fire whittle me down to gravel which you may walk upon?"

Pled trees to Man, "Why must you cut us to the ground? What greater purpose may our deaths serve? Are your concrete jungles truly more beautiful than the ones of wood and leaf they replace?"

Screamed mountains to Man, "Why must you level us? May our symbolism of strength and resilience ever serve as inspiration, and not a threat? What purpose may we serve upon the ground, when we once reached towards the heavens themselves, inching our way towards the blue ceiling of the sky, where we hoped to one day scrape away the clouds which gather there?"

But Man was too important, too needy, too hopeful, to ever be able to hear. And in deafness, he too suffered, though only the silent concrete around him could ever bear witness.