‘The Dangerous Nature of Dandelions.’
Preface to ‘Book One: Seedling.’

Hazy sun dappled Summers that fell like plump red apples from the limbs of Springtime, a force of environment, a force of being. Nature pervaded our days as we lived them and still now, our memories of those long gone times. Lulled by the rain dripping from the eaves in the dark nights of November, plonking and ticking in the silence of my head wrapped pillow; the mad hatters party of self playing pianos and grinning clocks. There cannot be, I see now, a memory from those days… a feeling or an experience that does not carry with it a deeply ingrained image of nature, a fragrance, birds trilling and insects whispering.

As I got older these forces seems to have dwindled, becoming less and less a structure of memory and the awareness of it saddens me, no, not quite saddens but disappoints. Last years’ clear blue skies become grey and dim, out of focus and last months environment is all but gone leaving only memories of feelings of dread, the struggles of life or a hangnail, maybe an orgasm that took too long to happen, or worse; didn’t happen at all. The older we grew the more self absorbed we ultimately became, and apathetic. The fate of a human race that think, that follow, that believe.

I existed in the valleys of my own folly, for as long as I could; valleys of what I thought were overgrown with nostalgia and the idealisations of the past, but that was because I was told that it was so. Eventually even those distractions took hold. The ultimate truth of those valleys were that they were abundant with the sensations of nature, overflowing with the life of insect, beast and bird. Soft fragrant breezes of pine and smouldering oak carried me on lazy fingers of timeless direction through forests, neighbourhoods and pastures. Seldom in these valleys of folly did I ever come across another human being. It was and still is, safe there. There is no requirement of any kind and I am not expected to believe a single solitary thing, concept, or notion. There is only nature; the tree, the butterfly, a wildfire or a rainbow and me.

Only nature doing what nature does. I tried once to define what exactly it was, that nature does do, and came to the conclusion after many long years of battering my brain and mental intellect into warped coils of confusion, that it only does what it does and that no description that I could come up with was sufficient, that any description presented to me by intellects greater than mine was useless, busy, and pretentious. I did not long to be pretentious so I gave up the entirety of the exercise of trying even though the wanting always stays with me, as does the disappointment and the heavy black sadness one can only acquire as a result of a grand fall from grace. A speed of light fall that isn’t even comprehended until bone splitting contact with the ground is achieved.