Repotted a few of my plants. Really only because I wanted to make a mess. To be honest my experience with gardening is more like a plant version of that show “Survivor.”
Some process behind the cover story for a recent issue. The people who work at Hull’s must have wondered why I was in there buying map pins every day for a week.
Happy Labor Day! Scored some bananas for $20/each.
Another sideproject in process. Sidenote, kids: If they don’t see a swastika, they’ll see a reproductive organ.
And now I have no reason to leave.
I had a back-to-school nightmare last night. Which is weird, since I’ve been out of school for over a year. Weirder, since it was middle school. Weirder still, it wasn’t my middle school. But I’ll stop there.
Right now I’m watching a group of freshmen and their parents stagger down the street with stacks of plastic bins. They’ve staged a coup on the sidewalk today, and left in their wake a trail of cube refrigerators, box fans, and eight-headed lamps. They’re very much in the way of everything. Oblivious because they’re Yale students, and because this is the day their lives change forever. I remember the surreal detachment of freshman move-in. There was so much to do, and it all happened so fast. The realization hit when you finally lay down in bed that night: And so it begins.
I have mixed feelings about not starting school this fall. I won’t miss the research papers, exams, homework, or showering in flipflops. But I do, kind of, miss the pace. There was something thrillingly stressful about pulling off a presentation after pulling an all-nighter, acing an exam you were certain you’d fail, wondering if you’d eat anything that day that wasn’t wrapped in cellophane. And that righteous feeling you’d get every other Thursday when opening paychecks from the two on-campus jobs you managed to hold down, as if the door to the Real World was ajar and you could see the light.
I’m well on the other side of that door now, and can say that it’s no glittering porthole. You’re still you, only now you (might) have health insurance, direct-deposit, and a duvet cover (because they’re so adulty). And while the situations might be different—you have to wear nice pants, act like you know what you’re doing, email everyone about everything all the time—the real world is more or less the same world you grew up in. Maybe another post to come on that later. For now, good luck to the students and teachers starting classes this week. Remember that everything’s an experiment. And please stop jamming the sidewalk.
Happy zinnias because…Wednesday.
And in the silence, all was sound.
Love weekends at home : )
Had a hand in this issue.
So much generosity, so many pretty things to see and read. Thought this was a dream, but there are no wild animals chasing me.
Long-needed lazy afternoon with this wise hunk. Restored by sun, silence, and country roads before heading back to the city!
If you want to write a real poem,
first write a sentence
with a word you’ll never use again
then take out–almost—all
of the punctuation
and break it
in places that look
and maybe even indent a line;
and last give it a title
that has nothing to do with the poem