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Someone who was, and should still be, important in my life has died. I just found out this evening that he died on Nov. 28th. I feel: Shell-shocked. And like I need some stuffing.
Rather than face this death beast just yet, I want to point out that moss is very important.
Another layer of moss has grown on the roof of the dwelling I dwell in. It's the rainy season, and cows and horses pelt down from the gunmetal sky daily, hourly, every single damn minute it seems.
The moss is pretty and green, eliciting a descriptive comparison to "wonderful moss agates from the beach," from one who must find creative ways to describe each annoyance.
The main thing to recall about the moss is: DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE ATTEMPT TO REMOVE IT.
This advice was honored by the pioneer who built this home and I know that a curse hovers, waiting to consume the moss-remover, if that One ever comes. It isn't gonna be me, because I talked to the moss and I know the deal.
I believe the moss is symbolic of the future. It is growing in the cracks which the weather and earth-life have opened over time. It faithfully seeds itself into the roofing scars and grows ardently towards its fullest moss-like potential--the ability of the moss to know how to do this is fantastic! The moss knows exactly what work to do, and it--in unredoubtable fact--holds the entire dwelling together so that future generations can feel secure.
The futuristic wisdom of the moss is overwhelming; I cower beneath such power to know how to plan ahead. Its omnipotence and discernment are attributes we all desire, but no one I know is systematically dry and brown in summer and consequently green and lush in winter. There would be little deaths between each season if we tried this. Moss waits for the one final death, and it is only with huge resistance that moss accepts its finale.
Also, existing moss can morph itself into debris which travels far and wide; to seek out and caretake other broken dwellings is its higher call. If you have cracks in your roof, let me know and I'll send you a start no postage due.
Alas, viciously pulling the moss from the place it tenaciously holds onto would be devastating (and very thoughtless). The cracks would be empty, void of filler, and vulnerable to evil elements. They would fill with all the wrong sorts of materials. Some of these materials might be wet. Then, wetness would probably cause leakage into the dwelling. Ugly stains would appear on the ceiling and Grandma's flower-garden quilt would be dripped with putrid water. Undesirable smells would ensue and dwelling maintenance costs abruptly rise.
Quick, kiss and love the moss because it is Good.
Now, transfer this little story to the human body. Especially, the brain-part of us; how we fill those cracks in our crater, hoping nothing important escapes, how we hide our addictions and clutch the moss to us when maybe it would be sensible enough to flee, if we unclutched. Then, some dumb bunny goes and removes his moss and he dies, because that is where Addiction led him.
I cannot stress enough that removing moss is dangerous. I daresay God made moss to chink many a crack on purpose. He is, after all, the original disperser of moss and other plants, and we are the yawning cracks--waiting to be safely filled.
I'm sorry that ---- died. What a way to go, too. All of the moss was ripped off of his body, and every organ burst. I wish I could have hurried to the scene and surely-fast-hurry-up-shit! stuffed his moss back into him. But I can't. Like I said, removing moss invites disaster. You can't go back later and say, "ooopsy, got a little carried away there." No. Because moss-death wrecks the entire structure, and we are given just one structure to last a lifetime.
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