A writer, in his Borges mode, crushes daisies with his bare feet, wants to write: trees are big lungs - to prove it, he was going to point out the shadow of a tree, how its branches break into bronchioles, sucking up the air; however the theory collapses when he ponders what exactly does a tree inhale and exhale: the reverse process of anything animal, and a lung, as everyone knows, is pure animalia. Then comes a recovery, into sweet rose beds, colours striking the eye in motion, sitting among pine needles beside daisy heads, bird trills, a vision of a tree springs from the roadside, fills the eyes with thought and greenery, roses consigned to affluent herbs: this tree is the real thing, it�s European, it has green cones, its branches drip like a cobweb dunked in honey, it looks like a web, no, not a lung, a web covering the sky in green - well, the patch of space that would be there in the tree�s absence - a giant spider�s web - except there�s this dark structure underneath (Chomsky), which even a spider web doesn�t need - the dark bits are the branches, but we�re supposed to look for the cones - have you ever seen a branch fall and wondered what would have happened to the people who could have sat there? who would you have sat under the breaking tree? do you know where we are now? In Parnell, on a hill to the side of the rose gardens, sniffing because I�m slightly allergic to the scents created here - here at the instigation of Paula Green who lives close by, who Anne is visiting while I take time to write; I used to stay above Judge�s Bay so can piece the bits out of my line of sight - the corner of the old white church with the picket fence, the bay bisected by the water front causeway; Devonport and beyond, to islands and more islands, until sea dominates to the extent that land is five parts to every thousand parts sea, which raises the greatness of our navigators, and reminds me of the ornamental status of the ti tree here, despite the breath-taking sweet of the scene, the rose lollies, icing cake church, green webbing of pretty trees - it�s like a cuckoo in a deep woods, or a pianist popping from a grave - the place is a mess, a carnival, not serious enough to be funny, not funny enough to delight, not scary enough to frighten the history out into dazzling daylight justice, the justice of putting the place right.
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