Not much time today, so I took a little stroll around the garden looking for pops of yellow against the manic green that’s taken over after the last weeks of rain, nothing but rain.
No adjustments other than cropping.
I got a cactus last weekend. You probably already know this because I won’t shut up about it. It came in a sand art planter that screams 70s so much, I have named the plant Jonathan Livingston Cactus. I just checked my phone, and it contains fourteen pics of Jon. Fourteen. More pictures exist of this cactus than of my baptism. I cleared out a space of honor on the plant shelf in my kitchen window then ran downstairs to see if passersby on 9th Street could see him. They could. I IM’d my buddy Damian, who is some sort of plant whisperer, about care and feeding. A little bit of water every other week and plenty of sun. Then I went to bed, content in knowing I had given a cactus a good home. If I remembered dreams, I would say I dreamt about pushing Jon in a swing garlanded with gerbera daisies.
Upon waking up Sunday morning, I got my customary swig of Diet Coke out of the fridge, and he was there on his shelf being all cactus-y. I imagined myself telling people things like “Oh, that’s so Jon!” I wondered whom I could call that morning to tell about the cactus but decided that maybe 8am on Sunday wasn’t the best time for breathless cactus news.
Then the wheels started turning: What was I doing up at 8am on a Sunday? Don’t I have a life? Has my life shrunk down to the point where purchasing a cactus becomes a life event? Remember when you had dreams? You don’t deserve a cactus like Jon!