The conifer-filled park next to my building is blooming spring green. Shoots. Nubs. Spikes. Little white protuberances. Everything is seeding. Dandelion fluff abounds. Fluffier little goslings waddle along between their ever-vigilant parents. Seedlings, after all, need to be protected.
So it is with my garden, where the herbs are doing fine but the tomatoes are being attacked by something. Tonight I’ll boil garlic and onions and red pepper and make the spray that’s supposed to repel the evildoers. If nothing else, my garden’s smell will make the mouths of passersby water.
Above my sink, one-out-of three avocado pits is putting down roots. It’s the season for putting down roots. Except for me. And the two other avocado pits.
I think I was born to be a gypsy. Have inflatable bed; will travel. Boston, Longmeadow, York Beach — anywhere but where I have to worry about vacuuming and doing dishes and taking responsibility for someone else.
I have this fantasy that my brother will make an addition to his house, to where my mother and I will move. That will be my home base, but I will also spend time at my daughter’s, at the homes of my women friends, and even with my cousins who are planning to retire to Florida. I will finally be motivated to get rid of the clothes that cram my closets and will pare my life down to what I can pack into my car.
This seedy season calls me to freedom. But I blog instead.

I’ve taken scissors to my hair again. It has something to do with dreams. Not the night kind, but rather the kind that have to do with hopes. I’m always hoping that if I just make a few adjustments here and there, it will all fall into place — my hair, my clothes, my life. I often come close. When is it good enough?
There are some who live in a world of dreams. I think today of Chris Locke (Rage Boy), who blogs of fevered flu-fueled dreams. Who dreams of ways to survive in a world that seems to send suicide bombers into the center of every dream. He just wants to find a way to survive.
That’s what b!X is trying to do with his Portland Communique. Survive. The same end, but different means, different motivation, different dreams.
The little house in the corner of a big corner lot is a dream to which scissors have been taken.
I’m wishing a good hair day for everyone.