God moves in mysterious ways. I ought to know. Yesterday my motor-mower wanted to give me a message.
Hmm. That was pretty weird — even for my esoteric tastes.
How? I squatted beside the thing and noticed a small LCD screen I’d never seen before. As I watched, it flashed some sort of error message, then quickly disappeared. Intrigued, I leaned closer.
And that’s when I saw it: one of those little envelope things — a white icon on a bluish background — screaming you’ve got mail, in the same sort of way that certain movie did.
I’m a curious guy. Double entendre noted (so don’t bother, ok??).
I stared at this icon of the internet’s own Mercurius and got more — well — curious. What the hell. What the hell did my motor-mower want to tell me? What cosmic cataclysm demanded this kind of substrate? The whole thing felt faintly ritualistic, like you don’t get summoned unless something’s seriously broken.
Because that’s how it works, isn’t it? One only visits the gods if one has an insurmountable problem, or an existential threat. People used to lie down in caves to hear them — incubation, the old Greek way — waiting for the message to arrive sideways, in a dream, with just enough ambiguity to ruin your week.
So there I was, squatting beside a machine designed to assault vegetation, wondering if this was my cave.
What if I touch that icon? Will I get the message this machine-god desperately wants to give me?
So, I did. I mean, what could the epitome of modern utility have to say that was of any substantive interest?
I hit it.
Blue flames snapped from the engine exhaust, and a long whistle rose up — the kind the ancient Greeks talked about: a cosmic flute, the sound you’re supposed to pay attention to when you lie down somewhere dark and let the world rearrange itself.
I listened.
It seemed I needed to reconnect with the earth. Cut all that grass-stuff out — the metaphorical hemp that was getting in the way. Bring the ground closer. Give that old blade something to do.
And then—
the screen blinked one last time. A final, petty commandment:
EMPTY GRASS CATCHER
Which, honestly, was either excellent advice…
or the most brutally accurate spiritual instruction I’ve had in years.