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Winter is a brutal gardener, despoiling summers finery to rot where it falls. We too, need a weeding out, a culling, a gardener. For the garden has become a strip mall. Our uncle William Burroughs wrote of a White Cat, who comes to judge, and from whom, nothing can be hidden. Our white cat is, in the words of Lowell George 'a child of electric lightning', in the midst of summers huge storm, whilst magenta lighning wiggled like a live net of electric eels, she lay on her back, squirming and powering/conducting the heavens. Sometimes I too have conducted bad weather, rode the lightning so to speak. Here is one such squall.