Psychedelic Epiphany

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic


Gardens are mystical places whence life-changing mysteries abound ~ V8+ 52*

Submitted: September 30, 2017

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Submitted: September 30, 2017

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Some of the most bizarre experiences I’ve had are 1: being questioned in the bathroom of a movie theater by one of the ticket takers as to whether I poured booze into the cup of soda I had just purchased at the popcorn counter; 2: a totally unexpected discovery I made when I psychotically hallucinated in my garden one blazing summer afternoon. The garden experience happened like this:

I was watching in hypnotic bedazzlement the buzzing honeybees (they have three stripes - bands alternating between golden yellow & raw umber) alighting in the waxy yellow blossoms of the squash I had planted slightly beyond a month ago while musing pessimistically over why the majority of the plants in my vegetable garden were slumping down in the sun and dying. I simply could not figure it out. I had plowed the soil thoroughly, then added fertilizer, covered it slightly before sowing the seed, then, day by day, made sure the garden had enough water so that the plants didn’t dry out and wilt in the broiling sun of the Old South.

As I was to discover, the reason for the lackluster success of my hoped-for vegetable bonanza was due to overcrowding. I had never conceived of such a possibility. I’ve seen glossy photographs in home & garden magazines showing lush green vegetable gardens thickly profuse with huge leafy plants in the cornucopia of bountiful harvest. How do they do that? Perhaps my thumb is not so green as theirs.

The odd method by which I made this profound discovery evolved out of the unique experience of growing faint. I was using a turning fork to loosen the soil around the turnips in my garden. The sun was sultry hot, the humidity suffocating. Suddenly, I felt lightheaded and dizzy. The next thing I realized was that the damp, dark, soft, humus of my vegetable garden was rushing at breakneck speed toward my face.

That’s when, under a huge old moss-covered pear tree, I saw a white bunny rabbit munching blissfully upon a pudgy oily yellow mushroom. The bunny was looking at me with a quizzical scowl as if she thought I were quite out of place. I must admit, I felt out of place. There was a babbling brook near where I lay on the leaf-strewn ground. The first heaps of autumn leaves were providing a bed for me which crackled and crinkled as I vainly attempted to sit up.

My limbs were useless, so I gave up the fruitless endeavor to rise and just lay there watching an amber leaf I had disturbed as it toppled down the precipitous bank beside me onto the sparkling rippled surface of the babbling brook where the gossamer sinuous cordate organic deciduous wafer of mulch floated rapidly downstream into what I somehow knew was Secret Creek.

This storybook Secret Creek meanders through the maple and birch copses to where it gains momentum into a swirling turbulence that empties hither into Hidden Cove which is a brackish body of gray-blue water that widens imperceptibly for nearly four miles until it, in turn, flows out into the icy depths of the vast and boldly undulating North Atlantic Ocean.

How I had gotten to this strange high latitude so far from my Southern vegetable garden I had no idea - I was utterly without clue as to my baffling abnormal predicament - yet that suspicious bunny rabbit with the cataract milky blue eyes & large pink ears kept eyeing me mischievously.

“Keedah Pahk Tahn,” I thought I heard her say, yet a talking bunny rabbit? Surely I was dreaming.

“Keedah Pahk Tahn,” I distinctly saw the rabbit’s mouth move in unison with the spoken words this time. Such a lovely voice, had the cute fuzzy bunny rabbit, musical and soft like the utterance of an angelic creature from on high.

I was very puzzled at the cryptic language spoken by the mysterious rabbit. I pondered if civility and politeness dictated that I should muster some reply. I was about to do so when the deep voice of a burly toad echoed frighteningly from beside me, “They’re too close together,” the hideous fat toad blurted.

“Do what?” said I.

“That’s what the bunny is telling you. It’s likely the confused expression upon your unseemly visage is because you don’t understand that silly confounded rabbit-speak. I never understood it myself until I went across the brook to foreign language school in the cool shady hollow of the great ironwood tree. Professor Owl is the master linguist of the entire forest, you know. The wizened plump feathered beast speaks all languages. He helped me understand rabbit-speak. The white fluffy bunny rabbit with the obnoxiously large pink ears & eerily knowing eyes is telling you that you are attempting to grow them too closely together.”

“Grow what?”

“Your vegetables, of course. What’s that matter with you, man? Has your little plunk down into the amber and umber of autumn foliage knocked the reason from your head?”

“But I don’t understand all this. How am I able to know what you are saying? How did I get here? How is it that you know of the dilemma I’m suffering as per the plants I can’t keep from rotting in my vegetable garden?”

The rough, wart-covered toad rolled his eyes in overt disgust, belched a deep thunderous croak from the wrinkled blubber of his sagging jowls, then leaped sluggishly into the chill clear water of the babbling brook whence, in spite of his cumbersome bulk, he disappeared in his corpulent entirety. A glance back at the bunny rabbit showed she had finished devouring her yellow mushroom.

“Keedah Pahk Tahn,” she belted at me, then, with a few dainty bunny hops, she herself deftly vanished without a sound into the covert at the edge of the brook slightly upstream from where I lay in disconcerting paralyzed befuddlement.

A little waterfall in immediate proximity of the bunny rabbit’s silent egress seemed to lull me to repose. When I woke up, I found myself face down in the upturned soil of my well-forked vegetable garden. Apparently, I had hallucinated while unconscious. It was really unbelievable. For the first time in my life, I had actually passed out. Fortunately, I hadn’t been out long, because I wasn’t wearing a shirt or hat. Who knows how badly the scorching sun would have fried me had I lay there face down in the soft damp earth for any notable length of time?

So, that’s how I found out that the reason the plants in my beloved vegetable garden were dying of fungus rot is because I had planted them too close together. The moisture from the water hose or rain couldn’t evaporate off the stalks and stems, which, as any experienced gardener well knows, spells doom for plants in a vegetable garden. The soil can be damp, yet the plants themselves need to fully dry after rain or watering.

Wild flora might not suffer from the same threat as the delicate cultivated plants which require conscientious attentive nurturing to ensure healthy growth.

By some inscrutable wandering eccentricity of the ambling human mind, I made the leaping correlation between vegetable gardens and human beings. While some people flourish in apartment buidlings or crowded cities, others must have room to grow - which is why they live out in the liberating open space of the rural countryside or the remote expanse of the far wilderness. I wonder how close together moose live?

The published books authored by Sean Terrence Best are available via Amazon.com, Barnes&Noble, and many other booksellers.


© Copyright 2020 Sean Terrence Best. All rights reserved.

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