I am the world’s premier inept gardener. Essentially, my yard tells me what it wants to do and I push back as much as I think I can get away with. Every now and then someone sells me or brings me a plant I can’t kill and I cover my eyes and hope for the best. Periodically I shovel, maul and mulch in an eternal effort to keep invasive crap from overpowering the stuff that is out there, a large amount of it inherited from the previous owners. At times a complete excavation has been necessary. There are weeds out there that I suspect came from an entire other planet.
I think I keep this tangle as a method of getting me out in the sun and air when I might otherwise throttle someone or make a similar unfortunate choice, instead forcing me to sweat and expend my more homicidal sentiments on things like wild grape vines. The guy who sat on the adjustable adductor machine this morning — “resting” between multiple sets while watching the fucking History Channel — until I had gone through every other leg set on my agenda, and then acted shocked and offended when I kicked him off, doesn’t know how much he owes to my mulch pile.
The flowers are inevitably a faint surprise.
If there is time I take a book down into the bottom garden and try to figure out where the mutant columbine came from.
Columbines, as you can see, hang inverted from their stems. Last week I watched a bumblebee trying desperately to pollinate one flower head after another from the wrong side until pity so possessed me that I caught myself in the act of turning up a bloom, about to place him-or-her in the right orifice, like a Masters and Johnson clinic sex therapist counseling her most backward client. I came to my senses just in time.