In 2019 I had the flu. One of those lingering, rolling bouts that seem to be over then return to keep you hovering in a vaguely feverish almost pleasurable state, taking too much decongestant so your nose hurts and your eyes get prickly and dry…
My garden. Let’s define terms; ‘garden’ can be misleading, can lead to unrealistic expectations—and nobody likes that.
So. What we’re talking about here is what’s outside the house; a biggish amount of rock-filled ground hacked from surrounding woodlands…
When the final curtain falls, or the lights go dark, it’s over.
The play is done; the actors take their calls, leave the stage and scramble to change out of costume. All that’s left for the audience is a confused and fading memory.
Scene: A large bright room in a Manhattan apartment. Jimmy is arranging stacks of staff paper: Arnie sits at the piano, watching.
ARNIE: (prompting) Sam wants you to do something.
JIMMY: If he’s helpless.
ARNIE: Yes?
JIMMY: Arnie. Helpless.
Likely she’d have denied it but I remember—if I can trust myself—Saturday evenings, like it was an event, my mother would sit down with the dog and a box of Black Magic chocolates to watch the telly. She spent a lot of Saturday evenings alone. My father was a jazz musician…
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Deny
OK