We drove to the nursery to get some extra mulch for the bamboo, but all they had left was the red-cedar variety, which despite my love of the artificial or ‘unnatural’ (as per JK Huysmans’ Against the Grain) is not something I can ever imagine wanting under any scenario: it’s just too tacky, and makes me feel bad for the nearby plants who have to stare at it all winter. Not surprisingly, the nurseries are in full swing for Christmas season, and had many cut trees, wreaths and poinsettias for sale. For purposes of Christmas, however, I’m pretty much Jewish (at least in terms of the old joke about Chinese food and movies), so I didn’t feel any pressure to partake, beyond snapping the above shot and enjoying the scent of the pine. I don’t really exchange presents with anyone anymore either, which is also a relief, but one good thing about writing a book is that (in theory) I’ll have a default present for almost any occasion going forward. ‘Happy Birthday, here’s The Metropolis Case!’ I’ll say, or, ‘Oh what a lovely new apartment! I bought you a book I thought you might enjoy! Or at least you can put a plant on it or something?’ Or, well, maybe not.
Between the clouds and the slanting light, the sky was very dramatic today. The steady wind across the river made the water look pebbled, as if you could peel off the top layer to expose something smooth and reflective underneath.
I got a haircut this morning, and took a GPOY (with George in the background) when I returned from a run; if my face looks frozen, it’s because it was.
For some reason, Elektra seemed terrified as she sat next to the white rose.
Dante and Zephry joined her on the table, but we couldn’t quite get them in sync for the shot.
Saturdays are often like this, in my experience: there’s much to enjoy, so long as you set aside any hopes of perfection.
