So The Wife and I planted some flora. Nothing special, some herbs, beans in a little patch next to the door, and, guess what — some fucking flowers, too. All of this is kind of a big deal, because it means that I’ve conquered my inner Schweinehund and actually drove to the store, bought earth, seeds, and pots (and even one of those hanging tomato things) and did the planting thing. All the while that little voice (well, it’s not so little) in my head going: “This won’t work anyway. Why fucking bother. You’re spending money and time, get all excited, and then it just won’t work and you’ll be sad. Why not spare yourself the disappointment?”
Obviously, you get a lot done with that kind of attitude.
So the seeds are sown, some earth got tilled and weeded, and next weekend I’ll put the flowers in in front of the house. We did some today in a window planter and planted the herbs, too. The Wife got a hyacinth but we left it out and some animal burrowed around in the pot. And either the burrowing or the watering caused it to rot.
So the hyacinth is already out of the picture.
Actually, I’d have loved to work on putting seeds into the ground this week, but I am on a work retreat deep in New England tick country until the end of the week. So, here’s knocking on wood that I won’t catch Lyme disease and get retarded.
To keep my eye on the ball I brought Michael Pollan‘s Second Nature, the first book that he wrote sometime in the early nineties where he talks about what an awesome gardener he is. I also packed a book by James Lee Burke to even that out.
Fuck, I just noticed that I can’t open the window.
I already feel like I’m suffocating.
How am I ever going to be able to sleep here? I need air…fresh air…