I’m putting my house in order at the most incremental, cellular, specific object level. I must touch everything. Everything bears scrutiny. From the overlooked piles of intention to jumbled drawers and cupboards. I am caught up in the throes of outright mania for order– sorting, sifting, unstacking, and arranging everyday objects, glassware as well as curiosity cabinets full of odds and ends collected, squirreled away for years.

Partly this is evaluating stock for the theoretical etsy store, which I can’t seem to get off the ground– and partly it is just the hoarder’s habit of acquisition and utterly grudging parting from mundane yet enamored objects.

balcony garden, redux

All I want to do is sit out on the back porch with the finches and breezes and swinging chimes, snacking on hummus and reading escapist novels– but I’m chased indoors by the broiling sun.

To work. Preserved by air conditioning and sucking down jars of cold water.

Just now a voracious gust attempted to yank the propped screen door off its hinges. Then suddenly everything is still, heart-shaped moonflower leaves swaying as if spent.