I'm not a fan of pulling weeds. It's not about the work. It's about the emotions. I can't pull dandelions without thinking of Ray Bradbury. I can't pull a weed without appreciating that it struggled to push up through the desert rocks. I can't pull a weed without being aware that it has a name, a genus, a species and a purpose.
Is it simply unfortunate geography for weeds, to grow in this neighborhood that frowns upon them? Or more precisely, that frowns upon humans with weeds between their rocks?
I tried that explanation with Orion. That nothing was wrong with the plants, but that they grew in the wrong place. He says that makes no sense. He is right.
How does one explain lawn morals to a Poppet?
Possibly I should put up tiny tombstones with names of the plants. My neighbors would likely frown upon that too, but I would've made some sort of point, at least to myself.
Possibly ONE DAY I can live somewhere else, that is mine, where weeds can have their season.
The birthday party went extremely well. I must get permission from parents before posting more photos. But it was a long day of play and bouncing and cake. And me hoarse from pretending to be the alien haunting the bounce house. I am a child inside. I will always be willing to humiliate myself for giggles. If I'm smart.
My hand is tired. My sculpting hand is my 'main' hand, is my signing hand too. It was great to see Larry, though we were signing in completely different rooms and had not nearly enough time.
I sat for hours with Peter Beagle and we talked and listened and discovered a something that we need to make together. The something actually sort of presented itself, very much like magic.
I'm very happy to be working with him again. Of course I am.
He is Peter S. Beagle.
And it is my great honor.
Copies of Strange Light, Strange Roads and Strange Birds are available in our ebay store.