suck it, monkeys
Month: May 2010
pay-per-view
More flagrant than ever before, the garden this spring has been one raucous and debauched carnival of lawless bacchanalian flower sex. Someone asked me how the yard was doing a couple of weeks ago, and the only adjective I could think of to describe it was pay-per-view.
That the bees are back doesn’t hurt: there are more wanton workers barnstorming the sepals, looting the pistils and bracing the stamens than I’ve seen in years. I blush yet at the thought of the countless bodies clumsily adjusting their undergarments, stumbling out of the garden dizzy with the perfume of sex, telltale pollen smeared on their collars.
Of course, that’s nature’s nature every spring. I’m just tuned in to it more acutely this year than any other in memory. I’ve been sublimating pretty hard in 2010, thanks to an especially lusty curiosity and cunning, and an abundance of free time, botanical variety, and midday mead. It all came to a climax today when I realized just how oh-so very badly I want to lay down with this one:
Can that be so bad? Can this particularly innocent instance of polymorphous perversion really have a price? Will Courtney be jealous?
Persnaps, but let this be her consolation: my botanical tryst is short-lived. Alas, this beauty is exceedingly ephemeral: try as I might, I can not preserve these petals. Vivid colors fade, perfect posture wilts, ardor will languish.
And yet!
For whiners like me, there’s always Autumn. The fruit borne this fall will be just another form of the same biological ecstasy, though more visceral and less hysterical, more nourishing and more sustaining, and far more enduring.
Thank you, pesto, for making winter worth living through.
braggart proclaims “no need to smack your mothers,” puts foot in mouth
Remember last fall when I promised the 500 bulbs I planted on either side of my walk would make you want to smack you mama? Well, in honor of our mothers on this very special day, I am happy to report that there will be no call for smacking, no call whatsoever.
For what was to be my bright shining glory, my “suck it, monkeys” moment of gloating, has passed with a nary a taunt. Because in my infinite foolhardiness, I failed to take into account the fact that the sun would move so damned north for the winter, so that the peak of the roof would shade varying northfacing sections of the bed as the sun passed from east to west. So in addition to the black parrots blooming a beat later than the rococo, the rococo opened progressively from one corner to its opposite over the course of a week. The net effect was that the first to open dropped petals many days before the last opened theirs.
A whimper moreso than a bang.
Even so, it would take a cold hard profligate motherscratcher to complain about how 500 tulips happen to decide to open. That’s me. Sheesh. Scratch scratch mom. Happy mother’s day.
jumping on the visual bandwagon
I’ve spent a lot of free time this week looking at page after page of a few new (to me) sites devoted solely to images (ffffound and dethjunkie and yimmys yayo) and while I’ve got my complaints (yawn, steve, when do you not?), I have been so inspired that I started to wonder late last night if I wasn’t meant to be a visual artist, that while I started out with an obsession with language I really have been much more visually oriented these last few years, and that maybe I oughtn’t start making pretty stuff that exists off the page.
I ought, but, I know in the light of day, not at the expense of language. So while I’ll return to the regularly scheduled programming next post, that doesn’t mean I can’t throw up a few pretty pitchers sans the chit-chat right hereandnow.
