First Days of Spring

Rain, gloomy weather, flowers, termites. What more could you ask of spring?

Yes, I'm dealing with termites, as mentioned on my other blog, thus not worth mentioning here.

Spent the day at home with the termite inspector/fumigator writing in the studio. I'm actually in a pretty good mood, but I imagine it takes some getting used to, this working from home. I made a go of it, as I have before, but it's just so... lonely? Ah, a writer's life is lonely, unless you're stuck on a godawful TV show with a bunch of people in a room for 12 hours straight. (In that case, I'd prefer the loneliness.)

The irises have come up - they haven't been attacked by the snails just yet, but I know it's coming, it always does. Sad, but the snails love them almost as much as I do. Maybe more so.

The daylillies are coming up, which the snails could care less about, as well as the California poppies. I don't know how it is every year I invest in a big bag of poppy seeds and I'd be damned if I see more than 10 in my yard come spring. Either I'm not doing something right or there's some very full birds flying around out there.

I'm going through something (aren't I always?) which is neither quite forwards nor backwards. It's limbo almost.

We went to Eaton Canyon on Sunday with the kids for a good long hike. We were disappointed when we went in and saw the little river was empty, but it turned out we just had to hike a bit upstream 20 minutes or so to get to the water. Ryan met some 3rd graders and they spent time catching water bugs and looking for frogs.

Wendy and I talked about water and how drawn people are to it. We were so sad to see the river empty downstream, but joy came back when we saw it rushing over rocks and couldn't wait to get down near it. Much like fire, you feel strangely drawn toward it. It says something about safety, about being home, having your basic needs met. And it is just so wonderful to sit by it on a rock and hear the sounds of a splashing, laughing brook.

We should have stayed there but decided to follow the boys up on an adventure to the waterfall (pictured at the link above). We started 10 minutes after them and Lord knows arrived how many minutes later. The trail had been washed out in all sorts of places and I found myself trying to balance Abby on my front and a ten pound bag on my back (I was stupid enough to bring the Sunday Times) while trying to climb from rock to rock over the stream. Wendy and I did work pretty well together to get her across, but as the afternoon came on, the fog lifted and we were being beaten by the sun. Us with no hats or sunscreen. Did I mention my children are almost see-through they're so white? Regardless, I was the only one who got burnt. Right where my hair used to cover my forehead.

The waterfall at the end was really, really disappointing. Everyone was there picnicking and there were wrappers, bottles, and pieces of sandwiches everywhere. There was also tagging (graffiti) in places all over the waterfall, a legacy of some of the idiots in this city. In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Robert Pirsig says of his visit to the Grand Canyon, it was odd NOT to see a bunch of beer cans piled up at the North Rim, it felt false. Just because that's how crappy it had become.

Well, maybe he should have come to the falls with us, because this certainly did look like crap. The kids, of course, didn't notice it - which is one of those wonderful things about children. They only see certain things and have trouble noticing people sleeping on the streets, taxes, murder, robbery, etc. But, honestly, I have trouble explaining those sorts of things to them. ("Hey, kids - you're not going to believe what kind of horrible world we brought you into. Sorry, but your Mom and I really, really wanted to have kids around so we wouldn't get bored. Catch you later.")

The hike back was better, mostly down hill and we knew there actually was an end in sight. We saw two deer and a woman who was, I kid you not, hiking with her pet goat. I have no idea what kind of person has a pet goat, let alone hikes with it, but there she was. (She wasn't interested, if you're wondering, in talking about the goat, mind you. I imagine every person she passes asks her about the goat and I was just one more. Maybe she should disguise it as a dog.)

I love being outside, that's the truth. And I love being busy. Both of which are a little problematic when it comes to the life of a writer, which is mostly spent indoors wandering through your brain for something good. A) Not outdoors B) Not particularly busy

Aw, hell, Frustrated Gardener, Frustrated Writer. What's the difference between friends?

90 Degrees and On Fire

The smell of night-blooming jasmine and smoke of the nearby burning Griffith Park are intermingling. The sun is up late, it seems like summer.

How long was it since I was a boy?

Just reading Rolling Stone (please don't ask, it was a gift) and going down memory lane with R.E.M. Reading Michael Stipe say, "We don't look much in the past, we're so excited about the future," and I wonder myself how long it's been since I've said as much.

I'm traveling backward some days, with my head in my hands as it were.

The scorching heat and high desert winds have set blazes 6 miles from my house and across the river and one of the nation's largest freeways (the 5). It happens a few times a year, with bright orange pictures of flaming hills splashed across the cover of the LA Times.

We found termites, again. In a wood pile I'd left by the giant timber bamboo for the last few months. They were just milling in and out like ants, busy as you please, 12 inches away from my studio.

Well here's a precarious situation, Organic Gardener meets Vermin That Eats His House.

Sorry, everyone, but this is one of those scenarios where the chemicals come on big. I call one of those places that comes and dumps chemicals aplenty down the holes, killing the queen and all her drones.

Does this mean I've failed as an organic gardener? Perhaps. But then again, my yard provides more than its share of fun stuff to do for the average skunk (we have two), hummingbird, mourning dove, and mockingbird. This is just one of those things I really can't chance with the biggest investment I'll ever make.

Termites and Taxes.

Is there any escape?

Beautiful Surprises

You know that poem someone made up about Jesus, the one called Footprints? I just had what I'd call a Footprints moment. I've been using blogger for somewhere over a year now and seeing no comments, even though a few times people have emailed me comments.

Wouldn't you know, just switching over to Google's Blogger a few moments ago and something like 10 comments appeared out of thin air. Posts from friends. I know you're there (hell, at 50,000 new blogs coming up an hour, I can't imagine many others migrating over here).

Oh, thank you friends, for your thoughts, your minutes spent here, your charity, and your posts.

This does leave me at a sort of conundrum, do I go back and answer all those old posts, which no one is going back to read anyway, or move on?

I think I'll reread them, smile, and be off to bed.

Good night, and thank you again.