One of the peculiar things about Los Angeles, is that it is not the slow the creep of sunlight that rousts one from peaceful slumber, rather, it is a ceaseless buzz of lawn mowers, edge-trimmers and grass-blowers. Any resident lucky enough to own or rent a patch of grass seems to be engaged in a constant battle against it. And in this war they have enlisted their foot soldiers-- eager gardeners who show up on every block at the crack of dawn to trim and snip and cut lawns already well trimmed and groomed. I ask you, what do these people have against grass?
I love the smell of fresh cut grass, but these over trimmed LA lawns remind me of a some of the overdone plastic people roaming the streets. It just ain't natural. And the lawn offensive can sometime illustrate just how divided life is in this balkanised city.
I love the smell of fresh cut grass, but these over trimmed LA lawns remind me of a some of the overdone plastic people roaming the streets. It just ain't natural. And the lawn offensive can sometime illustrate just how divided life is in this balkanised city.
This little patch of green straddles a space between my neighbor's and my place. My landlord is a bit more lax about his gardening and so, by neighborhood standard, our patch of yard is a jungle. So here is this tiny swatch of grass, stuck in a liminal space--neither here nor there--in between. In the war on grass, no territory is safe. Neutrality is weakness. Sides must be taken, lines must be drawn. Divisions must be made clear! Did the soldier of garden who wrought this abomination even take a moment to ponder the aesthetic consequences, or call on King Solomon for guidance? Alas, it is clear he yielded to the purr of his gas-powered mower and the call of the next lawn waiting to be stripped of its green!
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