The serious plan of a tree.

Sat down at the table in the strangest corner of my kitchen. The tea tastes a tiny bit soapy and I am not sure why it would. Why would freshly made tea poured from a clean pot into a clean cup taste like that? I am admiring how thin the edge of that cup is. Amazing grace achieved through the use of horse urine? Or was it burned bones? I think this is why it is called bone china. The burned bones give it that extra little something. But why is the tea so soapy? Rubbed the floor behind the sofa with some branches taken from the tree thrown out by one of my neighbors. (Made sure to use branches out of reach for little dogs.) I also steamed some of the branches, which really changes the color of the needles but also incredibly transforms the atmosphere in the kitchen. (In a good way. Really.) Just noticed that i wanted to write about the sticks growing branches again. Will i turn into a shrivelled up apple man who is going to repeat a few stories over and over again? (has this process begun?) Will i be able to type them up here? Wouldn't it be interesting to see the same stories progress and turn and wind themselves up like little toys in the middle of the night? the tea looks really rather good now. the colors are fading. soon everything around me is going to be black and white again. (The setting sun does that to the colors.) and tomorrow i am going to take a train... ag-ain. and it is going to be exactly ten years that I arrived here in New York. I had two suitcases with me then. I had sent my computer (a powerful Quadra 800) in a very special grey box, via fedex. One of the suitcases is still in my closet. The grey box is in my living room, covered with a blue blanket. It is now empty, turned into a very strange little coffee table. I think the tea pot here right next to me actually arrived in that same box? Or maybe it did not. I am not quite sure. I am also no longer sure if my plane arrived on the 3rd or the 2nd of january of 1996... Was I in the air right now? Or on the ground? Or where exactly? and the plants next to me by the window did not exist then. No, wait, they actually did. Their idea existed already. The plants have been around for much longer than the idea of humans existed, or so I think... and so the plants next to me, by this window, overlooking what used to be the battlefield of brooklyn, their idea just happens to be here and the idea of me just happens to be lucky enough to be next to them now. And the streams of existence objects and living things are like braids, like very oddly woven braids perhaps, on a head that never stops thinking... or dreaming... or growing... or... Hmm... language allows for some very strange little particles to find a comfortable state together. All on strings of sentences, one after the next after the next. Over and over and over again. And there is no way I could even attempt to describe what that tree in the backyard is up to. I think it has a really serious plan. (Wow, now, did I?)