July at home

If you can't tell by my older and wiser but still young and relatable communication skills, I've had a birthday since we last spoke in earnest. While we're being real, I've missed you. And I've missed my ability to write stories for you. It was poor form of me to ignore you for so long, than bam! I'm teaching a class that your should sign-up for without a hint of a whisper of a hello in between. 

But sign up you did. I was blown away that a class in rural New Hampshire could have sold out in a day, and speechless and touched by your excitement. Although I'm not sure it could possibly match my own. The class will truly be the highlight of my summer and sometimes I wish I wasn't the teacher because I want to take it so badly. We are all students, no?

These flowers came home to Brooklyn from Elmwood's garden last month. There was a single week with peonies, foxglove, columbine, Japanese dogwood, old fashioned roses and poppies. I thought my heart would explode. It did, a few days later, in the manner of a past prime rose with beetles and chewed leaves and petals falling every which way. 

My summer city days are just a stopover in between Elmwood visits. I'm surviving brutal Brooklyn with the help of a old black pick-up truck, $2 fruit popsicles, Frankie Zmetra and a precariously perched AC unit at the studio. I'm consuming heavy doses of internet and fish tacos, because both are in short supply up north. I'm shaking and serving over ice. Repeated as necessary.