Saw this fellow in a gigantic aquarium last week, and couldn’t resist getting a close-up. He’s an old sturgeon, about the size of a small child, and his whiskers are fraying a bit at the tips–but they still work, I’d bet, and better than most.
Age brings experience and calm, and that is its beauty. Each day you accumulate brings more of all three.
Have a good weekend, chickadees.
Let’s just put it this way, dear phone astrology app:
You’re not wrong.
I got an astrology app for my phone, mostly because other people were posting the small daily notifications and they were hilarious. It certainly didn’t disappoint, especially that particular Sunday.
I am never lacking in fear. Sometimes I think I feel little else. But fear must be a spur instead of a wall–don’t let it stop you, let it drive you. Of course, there are utterly reasonable fears that keep us from running amok or running stop signs, but a healthy appreciation of consequences isn’t quite fear. It’s survival.
In any case, my friends, be bold. Go ahead and feel the fear, it’s all right. Just don’t let it stop you, especially when it comes to making the art you were put here to create. Nobody else can do it.
So get going.
My neighbor came home with way more cherries than they needed after visiting a valley farm, and–because they are amazing–I got enough for a pie. And my writing partner lent me her cherry pitter because she’s cool that way.
Of course my favorite favorite pie is lemon meringue, but who has time for hand-made meringue? Cherry is my other favorite, especially with mountains of whipped cream.
I also get to eat myself sick in the preparation phase of piemaking, so there’s that. Never underestimate a good cherry pitter, my friends, and have a lovely weekend.
This the the rhubarb Odd Trundles kept digging up. For some reason–maybe he thought he was helping me, or that the poor plant had insulted his mother–he just had it in for the thing. I’m sure its position in a damp, shady spot had a little to do with its struggle, too.
But for six straight years, this motherfucker refused to die. It clung to life like a heroine with a gun, and finally I transplanted it to a nice spot with three-quarters sun and no Trundles.
And this year, it’s at it again. It simply refuses to quit.
Things are extremely stressful chez Saintcrow right now, what with publishers refusing to pay me what they owe and the bank consequently threatening to take the house. But if the zombie rhubarb can survive all the bullshit, I suppose I can too.
I’m not going to be outdone by rhubarb. I don’t even eat the stuff. If it can cling so tenaciously, though, the least I can do is put it in a better spot.
So onward and inward, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Let’s kick Friday in the teeth, my friends.
Can you spot the B? Not the bees, there are a ton of those, but the giant fuzzy goober who worked her way under this mass of greenery in pursuit of what must have been an absolutely fantastic smell?
Yep, there she is. That’s my big old fuzzbutt. I often lose my joy, but somehow, she always finds it–this morning, she tried to search for it up my nose, and it hastily reappeared on a spate of laughter as I tried to keep her questing schnozzola out of my mouth.
Dogs, man. We don’t deserve them.
Two fine fellows–one quadruped, one gastropod–met upon a driveway. The quadruped sensed a delicacy and prepared a good chomp.
Fortunatley, a biped noticed and dragged the quadruped away. The gastropod went about their business unmolested–probably to eat the biped’s hostas, which is a funny way of thanking your savior.
But we’ve all got to eat, one way or another. Boxnoggin was dragged into the house and given a treat along with much bellyrub, I was content with toast, and the snail wandered away on their lone stomach-foot, in search of greenery.
I wish them well.