Hoses? Do you now address me about hoses? You wish to know what sort of things I have hosed off, with what volume of water, at what personal expense? How many things from my past, from deep in my past, I have hosed? And had I hosed not merely to ‘hose off’ but to ‘water off’ as well? Had I sometimes used my capacities as a ‘wielder of the rubber’ to promote efflorescence, to promote germination, to effect saturation? Had I in fact made occasional patches of earth a kind of towering flowering king’s ransom? with vegetable chalices, with rubies of birds and chards, with petal headdresses of gold, forged in large part by my water, the water from my rubbery hose? My hose indeed the mighty hammer that I beat upon this anvil of ground to create this shower of petals and barks? This fire cracker my hose launched into the sky of the earth where it explodes in colors like bees. A great horse shoe shaped garden, it was, where my hose length had easy ingress to the all spots it must make sodden, where with a minimal adjustment of my torso I might spray all about, hearing the water fall in thick drops or in a light spray upon the broad leaves, the fat soil. Had I washed the seeds off cars? Had I not poured for the dusty doors of the garage a refreshing blast of drink from my hose, which they gratefully swallowed, feeling rehydrated, refreshed and cleaned? Let me give you a hint, the answer to all these questions is yes….
So when I glimpsed a coiled hose to my right at the side of the house (which I have elsewhere referred to as a shed) I was launched into a fever of concerned thought, what should I do, what should I do? Should I grab it, should I make off with it, should I say “mine! mine!”? Should I do something useful with it? Should I, perhaps, have some sort of thought about hoses or about this particular hose? ought I to fashion some sort of thought? What, what?
Well, what in fact I did was almost immediately forget its presence, though not before it had injected me with a sort of sustaining booster shot of love, as it were, a sort of love of life – ay, thought I, seeing its green coil by the house side, it is I who have been hosed by this hose, coiled though it may be, and my true self arose garden-like within the boundaries of myself once again. Hosed, my friends? Yes, friends, quite thoroughly hosed. Hosed and hosed off. My fear is hosed off, my pride is hosed off, I have become a lush garden of love.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 
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