pumpkin patch

summary: it means a lot to me to carve pumpkins in the fall. it comes with reflections on my relationships and my history with gardening.

a long time listening

some lyrics from the song a long time listening by agent fresco

air sheathing vast whistling past
all the coats of quaint galore
you, you know I need, I need
more
come purple dusk, remember us
elate the dust anew
oh, it knows I need, I need

pumpkin patch

do you ever consider the difference between the phrases "final nail in the coffin" and "what a relief?" I think neither of these accurately describe how I feel about someone close to me. the first certainly doesn't, it's not remotely like that, though I can imagine a world where we both learned nothing the past few months and didn't grow as people. maybe it lives there, in that world. the second doesn't hit it quite right, either. I'm relieved that things feel okay, but all closure feels bittersweet.

I still want to be friends. I don't know what amount of distance is correct. I can see either extreme and don't want either of those, but the valley between is full of dense winter fog. we carved pumpkins together. we've hardly seen each other since breaking up. carving pumpkins is an activity I enjoy tremendously. I would do it once or twice a week, every week for the rest of my life, if I could. it means I don't have to grow up, not entirely. every autumn season, it softens the edges on adulthood for me. the sky grows dark and we're juggling very dim string lights, two flashlights, two pumpkin-shaped LED candles, and a headlamp trying to make it happen.

she carves a character that she draws for her comics, one that's dear to her. I carve the Tonka logo. my fate spins on a carousel of stars overhead and I meet the gaze of everyone waiting for me when I jump off the ride. there's a chance I might not see you again for the rest of my life. everything moves so quickly, but for a final few hours, it doesn't have to be a blur.

pentax ii, the garden

my first three rolls of film came back blank from the lab. I expected something like this might happen, but I'm still bummed out about it nonetheless. I'll learn my painful first lessons about shooting on film and I have faith it'll be worth it later.

I've been into photography since I was young. I know from experience with digital photography that it's like caring for plants. I share both of these passions with my mom.

it wasn't until I became an adult that I broke my habit of rapidly killing plants every single time I tried to grow them. I can see my past mistakes in the mirror with perfect clarity, but several years of alternating frustration and disinterest ended up finally leading to some success when I was 24 years old. around the age of 23, I took an interest in plant ID, foraging, and guerrilla gardening as part of a broader period of substantial growth that I might tell you about another time.

I lived near an abandoned supermarket whose only visitors were my homeless neighbors and the ducks and nutria that inhabited the nearby stream. in the evenings after returning home from work and on my days off, I transformed part of a mostly barren greenspace between a parking lot and a little riverside trail into something a little more conducive for growth. I planted peas, corn, california poppies, and pacific serviceberry, the latter two of which are native to oregon. inside my apartment, I set up grow lights and grew all kinds of herbs, but mostly basil, chives, and yarrow.

I learned that you can't love your plants too much. growing even basil indoors was difficult at first, and after killing several plants soon after they'd sprouted from seed, it became apparent that getting too attached will result in disappointment and heartbreak. this sounds cynical, however, plants are very eager to start growing. it's just a matter of optimizing the growth conditions. I tried over and over again and finally learned both the right conditions and learned not to get my hopes up too much. just try again and modify your approach. it made me more patient, and just as I learned how far you can push herbs grown in a cramped space with inconsistent watering, I became more resilient in my determination.

once the peas were grown, I harvested them and snacked on them with my neighbor, Donny. it felt incredible. I'd finally done it, and I hadn't just grown anything to harvest, they were vegetables! grown in front of a supermarket! in rough soil that hundreds of people have walked over at one point or another, on earth that nobody has paid any mind to. not many people look at a rough patch of grass in a parking lot and think, "I'm going to grow food there. I'm going to come back every couple days for several weeks in a row to grow food in this place."

it's not perfect, though. it's not like I learned some fundamental truth of the universe. it's not like this really heals your heart. one day, some guy comes through with a weedwhacker and cut my serviceberry bush in half. its home was inside a clearing where I'd removed the surrounding grass, obviously transplanted and marked by pink survey flags, just as I'd demarcated my row of peas. by then, it would've taken some effort to sever and splinter the midpoint of its body with plastic wire like that. I asked him about it, and this 50-something year old man, with his dirty orange-and-navy blue tank top and olive green cargo shorts barely clinging to his wrinkled and sunburnt body, lied to my face about it under the setting sun on a hot August evening.

he didn't even do it the courtesy of finishing the job. I have some hope it somehow recovered, but not much. I did cry about it that evening. there's something about coming so close to tasting a fruit you've never even heard other people mention. it's native, too, and would be one of a small handful of native plants growing along a section of a river surrounded by swathes of invasive grasses. years later, I can still remember the look in his eyes when he realized he made a mistake, but didn't have the heart to own up to it.

I'm not entirely over it. I am, in the ways that matter, but it still saddens me to think about. I'm thinking about if I could have any one picture back from my first three rolls, which it would be. sitting beside the Platte River, blessed be her name, I watched my best friend cut up paper with a big, scary knife. there is a still image from that moment that remains in my mind, one which marks that moment: October, in its floppy sun hat, perfectly framed with the knife in its hand. and on its face, the breathtaking smile of sick satisfaction it gets from some activities. this image is colored by the faded glass of my camera's viewfinder. as a whole, this picture's home is inside a clearing in my heart, placed delicately beside a serviceberry branch and everything else that has ever mattered the most to me at any time in my life.

soups

the other night, I made dinner with a girl I'm seeing. she's an incredible cook. it was a mushroom, leek, and fennel soup that may have been one of the finest things I've eaten. my roommate is undergoing surgery soon and I'm planning on making some soups later this week so she'll have something nice to eat while she recovers. she insists that I only have to make extra of whatever I'd normally be having, but being both in a financially tight spot right now and knowing just how terrible one feels after a surgery is motivating me to push myself to make something nicer. plus, I'm inspired by this girl's cooking prowess, and it'll give me a chance to try a few things so I can impress her later as we move into the cold months.

there are three soups I'm planning on making this week. the first is a butternut squash and leek soup. I've made something like this once before, years ago, and it was very nice to eat in the fall. the second is a roasted red pepper and lentil soup with a couple fresno peppers in there. last is a white bean and fennel soup. I'm hoping it makes up for me not being around part of the weekend. but either way, I want to make sure she has something that tastes good and keeps her warm.

shows & movies

I've been meaning to get out to a local show for at least a year now, and while I've had the opportunity to see live music besides that, I haven't actually gone to see any local bands in the last year here in Boston. before then, I saw Paper Lady at the cantab lounge, but otherwise it's difficult to actually get out to the shows I want to see due to my work schedule and due to everything interesting in Boston happening on weekdays.

I finally get out and I physically arrive at the venue to see Sin Offering, Innocent, and Rigorous Institution, but just before the show began, I decided that I didn't actually want to be there that much. unexplained change of heart. maybe I didn't want that show that badly. instead I went to see One Battle After Another and I had a blast. I really enjoyed seeing older Leonardo DiCaprio as a weed-smoking commie father figure.

gristle association report

I asked several others the following question: what is the best word you associate with the word "gristle?" I collected several responses from far and wide over a period of 24 hours.

these were the responses collected, in order:
grease. char. brightmeat. brine. fat. throbbing. fat. sinew. bone. grease. girdle. trim. gnawing. bone. fat. sinew. throbbing. int. grit. mouthfeel. throbbing. gnash. viscera. meat. grain. tear. fat. ogre. meat. bristle. throbbing. teeth.

transsexual data demonstrates that of 32 respondents, exactly half provided a unique answer. the most common answers were throbbing and fat, tied at 4 each. my favorite response was brightmeat, which I felt to be the most innovative and unique association.