Azaleas and ants

We've seen neither hide nor hair of the squirrel guy in a week. I've not earthly clue where that saying came from. Anyhow, we can only assume that he has given up as well, tired of chasing the little hellions from the safe haven of our attic. I suppose we'll become accustomed to them in the end, perhaps have them over for a BBQ, which, of course, will be a tremendous trick as we'll roast the little suckers over the coals.

I probably wouldn't do that, but one does wonder occasionally about the sadistic side of human nature. Why, just this afternoon I sprayed a batch of ants with vinegar in hopes of annihilating them. As it turns out, vinegar is akin to giving ants a mineral shower, and I'm certain that one or two of them were wondering if they would be charged for the pleasure of my vinegar bath. Well then, what do you do? My dears, I wandered back into the kitchen and put on some water in the tea kettle in hopes of boiling the bastards alive. We tell stories about children who burn ants with magnifying glasses, worrying over the state of their souls and psyches, but I wonder if the same rubric applies to adults? Anyhow, as I was sitting out on the front porch in the late afternoon sunshine, admiring the extraordinarily pale nature of my bare feet, what an unpleasant sight, I began to wonder if I should be planning to kill 100 entities with boiling water or not?

Were the ants impinging upon my territory in a way that made me feel threatened? I mean, it's not as though the little brutes were digging in our cane sugar, they were just enjoying a brief repast on the sun warmed patio as I was. Could I rightfully enjoy that pleasure myself, basking in it, while doling out death to hundreds of these little fellows? No wonder the Lilliputians were so ornery.

I'd like to know what you'd do before I reveal my own shortcomings. I suppose people have come up with any number of arguments in either direction that would seem on the surface to be equally compelling. So, go ahead, picture yourself on the back porch in the sun, though perhaps substitute your feet for mine, and apply a pedicure post haste, so that you might enjoy the sight more than I. What do you do? What is your philosophy on life? Taking Life? Why? Why? Dig. Dig. Dig as I dug in the garden this afternoon giving up when it became clear that some of the roots of the omnipresent weeds had clearly reached China. Where did that saying come from? digging to China. So odd.

Well, I decided not to enact mass murder upon those wandering little fellows, whose industriousness began to wear me out when coupled with the afternoon son and the planting of an azalea. Egads, by the time I was done digging a hole, mixing soil, watering, and finishing with mulch, I felt as though the plants were some very close relative. I can see why people get attached to gardening. The mere thought of that plant dying would reduce me to some state above tears but perhaps approaching mild depression.

I could go on for hours about the dreams I have for that little, uncouth azalea, but I won't bore you with the details. The same can be said for my trip to Home Depot today. Their is nothing quite like spending the best part of your Saturday in a Home Depot. I'd go on at length, but I fear, like most modern writers of the post post modern era, that I've been scooped by someone writing the script for a Will Ferrell movie. Enjoy. So true. ">

I don't know how on earth people who do hard physical labor full-time don't spend the next sixteen hours sleeping. Three and a half hours in the sun, digging at roots, pretending that the new push mower works adequately, and reading bed time stories to my azalea were enough to leave me ready for a hot bath and a nap. At times I wish I was an old English lady, so I could request a hot toddy as well, perhaps I'll get there someday.

I hope that your Saturday was something approaching the unalloyed brilliance of mine. If it wasn't, have no fear, Home Depot is open on Sundays as well. Perhaps you'd like to pick out a flowering pear tree, or toss some mulch on the floor of your condo, hell, a tree grows in Brooklyn correct? Get your hands dirty. It feels good.

Fiction (cont.)

Julie, the fourth party member, stood at the edge of the balcony, legs crossed at the ankles, right over left, gently swaying. Her face had a slight asymmetry, if I’m recalling this correctly. I notice these sorts of things even when they are practically imperceptible to the naked eye. She was wearing a pair of black strapless heels. Make and model unidentifiable, needlessly impractical given the company. I’d guess she was twenty three or so, a few years younger than the other major players, new to the city, probably lonely. That’s projection, I know but alienation is sort of a prerequisite of the modern American lifestyle and can be inferred without too much risk. Her skin was deathly pale, and that commingled with her unstable posture brought to mind Eve from Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” though perhaps I’m inserting this sort detail retrospectively as I’m aware of the judgment that was to follow. It’s immaterial in this case, which side of the debate you fall on, Paradise Lost or an injunction against debauchery.


Have I mentioned that extreme emotional arousal interferes with the memory function of the hippocampus? Ergo; this whole scenario that I’m piecing together for you could be, not even willfully, inaccurate.