bluntie

either the altitude or the distance cause tearing/tearing
a seat by the wing is surely either safer/less safe from a dying point of view.

1. dawn in australia, skinny dry river snake
2. tiny buildings and tiny bridges in london
3. the Pyrenees on the occasion of my great-grandmother’s 97th birthday

4. and Gerhard Richter just because it’s beautiful and sad too

the cats try to help. batting at the delicate sprouts, headbutting my arm, trying to get into my crack as i bend over.
they weren’t there for the humiliation of carrying dirt around the streets though. just in it for the garden dance-off.
the cats are licorice and sherbet. and on the window ledge are nasturtium, sunflowers, sweet pea, rainbow chard, rocket.
bit cold out so i just brought them in for the night.

a little bit of spring in almond blossoming. softness to the wintery spanish hills of Porrera, home to some famed wine. here the grapes are planted in taut stretches wrapping up the mountainous slopes. apparently the wine made here is so good (and rare) because the plants have to try so hard to squeeze out the mineralised moisture from the slate-y soil. vines that work harder make better wine.
this is not my photo; didnt have a camera but it was winter and not a speck of green. so much like parched australia in summer that the icy wind outside was shocking.

Seaside spain in winter: empty bars, quiet streets, tiny rain, empty insitu, graf without youths, no cats or salty after-swin rinses.

oh xaloquel.
romesco sauce:
bittersweet spanish paprika, garlic, almonds (blanched and peeled), bread, olive oil, salt, vinegar
eaten with potato crisps to dip

yesterday i felt like such a crow, today more like a chough, below. oh, the colourway!
the chough is known for its ostentatious flying style and successfully reintroduced to the English countryside. probably wont become extinct.

so symmetrical is the world that here he is once more in my life; the sonic manipulator. direct (gen confirm?) from swanston street to broadway market. the melbourne sun on his foil suit has overcome him and the last five years busking there have paid for his ticket here, ready for a long hot summer in london fields. a tenderly captured  moment, thank you carol.

apparently i cannot put my baby seeds into their drawers outside till after the last frost. when is The Last Frost? I had thought it was over, the second day of spring was 11degrees. my poor cramped sprouts, kept on cotton-wool inside the window. there are those who wear their legs bare only from june to august, and there are those who go from may-day till october.
the third day of spring and a happy birthday to mt nelson; here with it’s full moon over the deep blue and wobbly edge of the river derwent, and with its own late summer harvest. x