Who Put That There?
Back from hospital, getting staples removed and the surgeon’s blessing to move freely about the cabin of my life, Aunt Lola’s funeral and concomitant ice storm, coughing fever depths of the flu. Raised the shade this morning on my office door, which is all window, and saw that a rosebush I’d cruelly pruned back two years ago not only survived and thrived, but has sent tendrils become blooming canes full of creamy pink old fashioned blossoms all up and over the ugly concrete block wall behind it. I didn’t think it would be able to reach the scrap of lattice left bolted along the top edge of that section of wall, but there you go. Life will have its way, whether I’d intended it to have its way quite right there or not. Looming in the sky above the persistent roses is an ambivalent fogbank creeping in from the ocean. It’s well draped over Playa but not quite committing to crossing Sepulveda and embracing our neighborhood… a tease for proper rain, which I’d rather have more of anyway. So there. You hear me fogbank? Pfft to you until you grace us with a with softly furred view out every window.
Gmail’s got a habit of putting potentially interesting emails into my spam folder despite my best efforts to tell it otherwise. Today two of them from the same source are titled Accepting Responsibility and Getting Out Ketchup Stains. I can’t quite decide if that’s a mixed message or two steps along the same path.
If I were writing this post on purpose, or with purpose, or in a purposeful fashion, I’d have a third random thing to comment on. But I’m not, and don’t.