End of Winter End of Winter End
Things are essentially simple, right, but they can really seem extraordinarily complicated. Or we, as thinking people, can complicate them. There are layers, right? Constant trade-offs, choices. I mean to write about having a business based in impermanence, beauty, and sustainability, but living in a place of deep winter.
It's all gobbledygook. Try spelling "gobbledygook." Try making 105 bouquets that are basically the same, in the interests of fairness, and try continuing to find them beautiful. Try maintaining enthusiasm, though of course this is the thing that wants doing. The simplest, most uncomplicated thing.
2 tulip stems + 1 ranunculus + 1 stock. Some waxflower + some eucalyptus.
But some bend oddly, some are sparse, and some are on their way to rot. Colors clash. They were all quite expensive to buy. This is a living room, not a studio. These are just two hands. Are there enough buckets? Is there enough time?
Where did these come from? Who grew them? Does anyone want them? What is this endeavor about?
Try feeling really enthusiastic about growing things, but live in a place of deep winters.
Try a bath, when you're done. Try a small glass of whiskey. See the bouquets pop up in the feeds, feed on 'em. Clean up all the tulip leaves and stitch them together in a long line; hang them from the doorway; throw them all away.
Try try try try. Brain keeps thinking, body keeps moving.
Thanks for participating in whatever it is this endeavor is about -- please send observations and criticisms my way, I mean it: You can write them or speak them into the phone or into the air. I like to write and I like to talk. We can even sign our thoughts at one another in a made-up sign language. Or spell them out in floppy tulip stems; I have a lot of those.