[Yes, the EZLN and zapatista translations are tucked into the Library now. And I simply must find some time to start working on the Conservatory].
I’m still not feeling up for waxing scintillating on Events, instead I had the oddest, and most irrational, of thoughts.
A few bouquets.
For the Conservatory, eventually, but for now to various and sundry who truly deserve armfuls of peonies, larkspur, old-fashioned roses, lilacs, sweet peas, violets, mignonette, heliotrope, and many other perfect blooms.
The words I’ve been wanting to hear, but hadn’t, were finally spoken this evening. You might wish to read them, if you didn’t hear them. Keith Olberman. One of the last voices of sanity left on the airwaves hereabouts.
Speaking of grace and thanks, and I know they never receive enough of the latter, once again, a heartfelt, gracious curtsey to the Frente. The ladies and gentlemen there do universes of work, every day, almost always unsung. You see their website and their list, but there is so very much more, especially right now.
Enlace, always. They are exactly what they are and what they say they are. Their hours are endless, they make everything possible and I would build them an entire garden if I could. A moonlit one at that.
Our anonymous and not so anonymous commentators who lend me heart. But this evening, most special garlands, and petals at the feet, of the astonishingly intrepid and delightful penguinrocket, for plunging in where I can barely stand to tread.