Blurry and dejected.

Is how I have been feeling lately. I thought this picture to be fitting and cathartic.

I perked up in the garden this weekend doing garden things. Well, first going to the Ferry Building farmer’s market to spend a large sum of money on the following:

an Epi baguette

a bunch of wildflowers

a red pear

10 rose geranium cookies

4 smores chocolate

two old fashioned glass caning jars to add to my collection

a bunch of spinach

and two glasses of Sangria (yep, at 10:30am) that I enjoyed while talking to some guy about books, life, relationships and his upcoming 33rd birthday where he will be in Zurich and did I want to come. (I regretfully declined)

Before I left the farmer’s market,  I walked by a young guy sitting by the street, in front of a crowd with an old typewriter. He was offering a poem about whatever you wanted, for what ever price you wanted to pay. It was a real attraction to the tourists in SF who love those pseudo-homeless hipsters and their crazy ways of making an income. I walked up to him in front of the crowd and shouted, “Frogs!”. He looked up a little stunned. I said, “Can you write me a poem about frogs?” Here’s what he wrote:

french citizens offended by their own stereotypes, amphibian notoriety, power animals eyelids spent ribbitting like almost reptiles of swampy prehistory, we thank your jennifer, inheritor, commissioner of poem, ode to every bodies favorite tadpole, lake the lily pad of a lady as a metaphor for

I gave him $20. since I saw the act of what he was doing more valuable than the poem itself.

Once home I gardened. The pathway (pictures will be coming soon) was never completed and stands out like a sore thumb next to my ‘Benjamin Britten’ roses, salvia, nepeta, euphorbia, borage and sunflowers in full bloom right now. I guess the flowers take no account in my mood as they are as happy and blooming as ever. Little gems reaching for the sun at every chance they get. I sat in the dirt and in my “not for gardening clothes” but didn’t really care. How dirty is dirt anyway? I sat and plopped out the 6-pack chamomile in that fun way you do when you get root bound 6-packs. Tipping them upside down and squeezing their little butts until they shoot out onto the ground. It’s kind of gratifying, like popping bubbles in plastic bubble wrap. I tossed them in my pathway, in between the terra cotta tiles I’m using for stepping stones. I planted them with bare hands, partially too lazy to get up to find my trowel and partially because I wanted to feel the dirt in between my finger.

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