summer sundays

I live in a kickball town.
Now, i know that Vice has talked trash on small-town, hipster kickball leagues. And until this spring, i'd never been to a single game (despite having worked jobs in multiple business with kickball teams in the last 5 or 6 years.) A couple of weeks ago, i was lured to the night-time game at our Municipal Stadium to watch a rousing game of the drunken sport.
When school lets out (as our town can also be called a college town,) my city is laid-back & generally more easy-going. Most obviously, a certain percentage of the town packs up & leaves, much to the relief of we that live here year round. More importantly, the weather in the springtime is amazing, especially in sharp contrast to the brutal wintertime we all feel lucky to have survived. So, true to our college town stereotypes, when the weather gets good, the good get drunk. Here, we get drunk at a public park while we make fun of our friends falling down when they attempt to steal second & lose their still-lit cigarette in the dust.
The circa-1947 stadium is only a few blocks from my house, so unlike most of the fans, balancing coolers of PBR on their bike handle bars, i can walk over with the dog as dusk starts to settle into the tops of the trees. Some weeks we come armed with coozies & a case of beer, but there have been a couple of glorious evenings filled with jugs of homemade sangria (perfect for a hot summer night.) Which is not to imply that it's about drinking. Sure, it's fun to get drunk with your friends, but it's also fun to sit around in a crowd of people who are all excited about the same thing. Everyone has been doing this for a few hours, so we're sharing in this community moment that lasts all afternoon.  And that's what i really like about it., that feeling of camaraderie, especially amongst drunken compatriots.

spring? is that you?

Spring has been very slow in arriving this year. Not that i ever enjoy winter, but, when it drags on so long, & so bitterly, it leaves me... bitter. Thankfully, the days are consecutively above freezing now, & alive things are starting to appear. This afternoon, to celebrate, my boyfriend drove me out into the country so i could go to a nursery where my family has taken me to my entire life. For the most part, all nurseries & plant farms produce a similarly pleasant nostalgia, which tends to result in unnecessary hours (& dollars) spent maintaining this green bliss. However enjoyable a trip to a nursery is, no other place can compare to the utter nirvana represented by this plant farm. Two-hundred acres of farm: over a dozen greenhouses, sheep (another blissful childhood memory,) burros, cats... everything alive & happy & beautiful. Bliss.
Sadly, i did not inherit my mother's green thumb. I cannot grow things. At all. I'll admit that it's largely due to a complete lack of sunlight in our antique neighborhood, but even house plants are hit & miss for me. I don't always kill everything, don't get the wrong impression, but it takes a pretty tough plant to survive my lifestyle. The ones that do, last forever. Knowing this, i buy lots of plants, every year. Probably two-thirds of them die, so i like to keep my odds high by getting a large number of them.
To date, the only successful gardening venture at this house has been my spring bulbs. This is the second year for them to bloom, which is enormously rewarding, since i don't have to do a damned thing, & they'll always reappear. One afternoon of hard work, years of enjoyment. It does make me a little mournful when i consider the reality that, once i've left this house, & it is occupied by other, more careless tenets, the tulips & daffodils & muscari that i love so dearly, will be forgotten & trampled beneath cigarette butts & PBR cans. Consistently, i remind myself what an important lesson in zen living this is: Sometimes, after planting a garden, you will abandon it.

a lot.

I talk a lot. A lot. It's not intentional, or something i'm unaware of, it's just something about myself that i have yet to discover how to control (like not flinching when there's a rubber band pointed at me or laughing when people fall down.) Every thing i do, i do a lot. I take photos. A lot. I love a lot. So much, a lot. So completely, entirely, a lot. The only plausible (preferable) explanation that i have happened upon is that i just have to much clutter in the brain box, & not enough organization to conquor it.
I used to write a lot. Constantly, a lot. Until one day. It stopped. I was glad for it, in a way, because, while i had lots & lots of words (like, loquacious,) & a lot of interesting ways to use them, i never really had very much to say. Sadly, this is the same way i would categorize my speaking habits.
SO! In comes a blog. Which, despite the idea of anonymity (of which i am so fond,) has been nearly impossible to write. Nothing to say, i suppose. I have the hardest time starting anything. The idea of finality is paralyzing. I can never name pets, or start sketchbooks. I have half a dozen address books that i've never written an entry in! 'What if i lose that pen?' 'What if he doesn't turn out to be much of a Berlioz?'
But now this is done, typed. So perhaps, talking (a lot,) can become blogging a lot. It's still writing, & it's still communicating. Let's hope it works. Blogging. About nothing to particular, to no specific style or subject. Plenty of room to grow & talk about art &/or world issues &/or how dumb everyone is &/or sex (well, maybe not, because nobody likes a negative nelly, & world issues sure are a downer, debbie.)