Hello, February

It feels sinister to send a warm reminder of tomatoes from where I sit, perched in New York, typing on a snow day. Years have passed since I have thought of this corner of the internet, or the internet at all. It has been easy to slip away.

I have been reading Middlemarch. There were two weeks during which I viewed Now, Voyager (1942, Irving Rapper) three times. I swallow one pill in the morning and one at night, after many years where I could not swallow a pill at all. My mouth darkens against the thought of poetry. And this morning, the snow was so soft under my boot steps, I wanted to walk forever.


Last year's peonies (admittedly twenty-four months, not twelve) may be the swift kick in the rump I need to resume my thorny relationship with my fine weathered 35mm friend.


After the (many) overlapping months, I should have something to say. An unnecessary excuse, a monotonous detail of my life that I try to make interesting, flowery language to beget ornate visions of flowers. I was overtaken by hanami season. There were daily cherry blossom viewings. Sakura daifuku. Oukashigure. Cherry blossom sparkling sake. Sakura gum. Grand plans with T. to make a map of all of the cherry blossom trees in New York City with rudimentary watercolors by yours truly. Somehow, it feels like we've seen them all (charting the progress of various gardens, parks, and tree-lined avenues), yet we haven't seen enough.

I wrote the above nearly a month ago, at the tail end of hanami season. Since then, I have locked in my memory evening meetings down Cherry Blossom Lane with tuna sashimi and peppercorn sake, the day spent under the raining Kanzan trees, and more recently, several Sunday sakura-sleuthing jaunts. Wherein, T. & I sadly return to the blossom-bare trees and through the dark olive foliage, we rub our eyes in disbelief, and discover a single pink flower glowing in the sun.