I went my my friend and her mom to an art museum's spring flowers show, and it was spectacular. The flowers make the art look dull and dead in comparison. Some bouquets are architectural, some are echoing a particular painting's colors, some copy the shape and form of the painting and some express the feeling of the work. The imagination these florists exhibit is amazing. There must be at least a hundred or more bouquets, some huge, some tiny. It was crowded, but worth the effort. It was traffic laden to get there, the parking lot was full, but somehow we ended up with a space, and the crowds enormous, but it still feels like a treat - a party you so glad you attended. My mind is filled still with images of strange orchids, white and lavender lilacs, tulips of amazing variety, roses, each one perfect, and every flower, succulent and branch or greenery under the sun. Runniculas were everywhere, bright and hothouse looking, picking up the light in the rooms.
The roofers are banging away, and the end may be in sight. They'll finish Monday and then do the gutters. Maybe. I have, up until now, avoided having debris rain on my head, stepped over tarps and tools and rubble and managed to get in and out of my house without harm. I can now read with the house shaking and a noise like and earthquake. I am not yet coughing. All is well in demolition land.
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