The Fifth Season.

My neighbor Jorge had the sense he was of sophisticated ilk, yet he was more primitive in nature than he led you to believe. It was of vital importance to him that he remained touching the various aspects of his own psyche that mercy was inclined to carry him up the hill of decency. He had never possessed the secret that every man was a priest unto himself. That when man enters a bar or enters a church they are searching for the same thing. He spent his natural life in unnatural pride. He wrote many letters to his mother telling her of his great nature that compelled him to lose himself in all manner of visions. Visions that were no far reaching than his thoughts took him. His mother kept all his letters in a neat bundle and was kind to judge and glad to hear. According to Jorge his mother was a laugh without a joke and was susceptible to her duty of her place in the world.

  ''Do you know your place in the world?'' Jorge asks

''Only that it is somewhere'' I said.

A man's attitude to reality is what creates his seasons. Jorge was in his mad season. His stomach speaking a different language to his heart. He was suffering from the fatigue of thought and the rumble in his stomach a sign of higher promises.

Each morning Jorge would knock and be bearing gifts. It was either an invitation, a well-meaning gesture or a morbid pleasure in the eyes. The shadows of which stung those that caught its stench. A circumstance of his birth. Which may seem strange if there were no signs and symbols giving it away.

'' Mrs. Winslow is on her last judgment and broke her leg while cutting the hedges in her garden'' Jorge told me.

Jorge's garden was obedient to the nature of its owner. The obedience is higher than its intelligence. The grass is greener on the inside. At the angle of flesh, the grass was being punished. The rest of the neighborhood were hostile towards the garden. The only appreciation came from creatures beyond the spectrum of earthly perception. The neighborhood cat was the only mortal bodied being who could distinguish between this world and that of others.

''I hate that cat.'' Jorge would say. '' It's a pest and should be shot. Infact, all cats should be shot''

The cat would always play in the garden. The cat was in his fifth season. The cat had nothing but the forbidden lure of that which reveals more than it conceals. The cat knows there is nothing to conceal and so sits quietly neither in or out. Leaving corpses by the way side.

''That Bloody cat! Showing me up.''

  So out of spite Jorge decided to cut the grass.

It was the day before Christ's birth and whatever was ready to die was going to die. It was the first day of spring and the last day of earth.

The garden was stripped bare.

It was as if the space was now explaining itself.

Jorge decided to grow some seasonal vegetables. He had a respectable knowledge of gardening and planting seeds. He planted lettuce, carrots, kale, broccoli and beetroot but nothing grew for the light had changed.

Jorge wrote a letter to his mother telling her his predicament:

Dear mama,

Nothing is growing.

Send rain.

His mother replied:

Dear Jorge,

No need for rain. We have entered a new season. The light has changed. The light has changed...The light has changed...

The letter did not reach Jorge for now they were living in different worlds.

Jorge in the wood and his mother in the forest.

Reviews

[Vectra Mendonie]

It was a really interesting read. I could tell there was meaning behind it for you, even though it didn’t hold much for me. I liked it. Good job!