an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Something's wrong

with spring. It's just over 50 degrees, dark, windy, and the house is cold, and the plants on the porch are wilting from their cold nights. I have seedlings on the kitchen counter waiting to take root, but the frost hasn't given up. The heat in the house just kicked on. Did I mention it's dark?

May in Tucson is a scorcher. SPF 50, sunglasses, AC all day. I'm dying to put on something short and sleeveless, to go barefoot and to go swimming, to put my hands into warm wet soil. To smell rain on hot pavement. When it rains in the desert it smells like wet rock and rosemary and the rain is warm. Once again: desert homesickness. Something's wrong with me.

I'm wondering if I should try to meet Charles while I'm home? If you're reading Charles, let me know. We could talk Buffy.

"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers