the roses reach for the trees

It has rained here now so hard and for so long that the trees swoop down to frolick all along. The gardens are swollen. My heart's an avocado.

Currently reading:

Birth: The Surprising History of How We Are Born

By Tina Cassidy

war is so romantic

The roses are just the beginning. They bounce like playful lions, like pudgy babies, like Victorian women with plumes stuffed in their bridled dresses waddling along cobblestone. The roses are free, light bushels of beauty, bella, bouncing uteri, to peel back those softish shells.

They are stronger than we think.

It has been raining. And raining and raining and I have been wearing strange things to adapt—short pants, rubber shoes, a practical raincoat, a fever. When I arrive, my face and hands are wet, my hair is flat as my hood. Everything is green. Mother loving green. I have visions of gorillas and doves and my own bare feet and grass and love. I forget that I am walking to work and jump into puddles just to feel free. I long for the time when strolling for hours in the rain lead to cuddling in a hut with a fire and a feast.

There have been a handful of earthly disasters—a cyclone, an earthquake, a sink hole in Texas, world wars. The tornadoes in the Midwest may have made the air toxic. The air is toxic. Still, I felt my heart open if only a convex mirror and have missed garlicky kale and chocolate covered anything among other things that make me generally nauseous. I met a nice boy.

While the world is a fury and I am receiving jpegs of my heartfelt cousin dressed in guns, Jenna Bush got married in front of a limestone cross and a Methodist minister and took her Henry's name in a simply lavish dress. Since when does the president not cry. Since war.

I viewed the Post's photo gallery fluffed with cream-colored things and veils and angel wings and the very last photo captured a climactic view of a celebration—rainbow flags and light blue luminaries and people dancing in the middle of some calm desert under the bones of a billowing white tent and glowing trees. It looked so jovial and sweet and everything I once thought of a celebration of love, of ribbons, until I realized that American weddings might otherwise fund more meaningful things.