How is a Basil Sprout like a Writing Desk

I particularly like the part of evening when the sun pours onto the streets at a dramatic angle and signals it's intent to depart. I suppose it does something similar in the morning, but I'm not often around to observe it. Except on the rare occasion that I am, and then I particularly like that part of the morning as well.

It's interesting; as the world gets bigger by way of my own education and then instantly smaller by way of a text message, I wonder how the dramatic angles of the sun affect writers and noticers of things in other parts of the world. And then there is the balance that swings wildly between my obsession with gratuitous things and my desire to live simply that others may simply live. None of these things, however, are really all that central to the point.

The point, in his case, has something to do with how to reconcile the two following facts: 1) I am certain that nothing even remotely interesting has ever been written about a garden or plants or plans to plant plants in a garden and 2) All I want to write about these days is my garden.

I want to write about petunias and how they grow together like a zany band of silent, cartoon trumpets and the way my ivy leaves are stubbornly yellowing no matter how much I protest. In fact, I want to convince you that my garden is the product of a zoo of characters and wills, and how I must pander to each of these finicky creatures as individuals in order to keep them happy, healthy and pure. I want to capture the fugacious first day of spring in a beginner's space, in which generations of seasonal blooms are passing tales and rituals down to the buds who will bloom in summer and must carry on the righteous traditions of impatiens past.

YAWN

It's like telling incidental stories about your ridiculous cat to people who have a child; or like telling incidental stories about your ridiculous child to other people who may or may not have their own ridiculous children. It's personal, and unless personal information is scandalous, it's dull, and I can't imagine I'll find much scandal in the young, sprouting cucumbers or the slowly wilting tendrils of my overgrown boston fern.

I never really considered the British old lady demographic as a viable audience (not that there's anything wrong with British old ladies.)

So, it's not that I haven't been inspired to write in the past 13 months, it's that I can't stop thinking about how hibiscus flowers represent truth and I can't write about things like that and still take myself seriously as a writer.