Saturation of color

It is a beautiful day (it is supposed to rain for the next couple) and I worry that I have not spent it well. I went seed shopping. I am giving those shirley poppies one last chance to enter my garden. The package mocks me, easy, so easy, it says. I have yet to see one, and I have tried plenty. My son had me buy zinnias year before last, looking at the photo,ugh yuck, I thought. Now, zinnias bless them, are easy, I soon found I thought them quite beautiful. I planted them agian last year, and added cosmos (very easy), to the list of seeds that I love. Most of my plants, I bought as plants. And they are the only ones, I can see coming up so far. I have planted so many seeds over the years, that I tend to hold out hope, and let the weeds that come, take root too strongly, as I whimsically pretend something I planted is on its way.

The roses. 4 have definitely returned, 2 seem doomed (dead), and 2 seem undecided. The peace roses, my favorites, fall into the undecided catogory.

The iris (what is the plural of iris?), though coming up, look to be in bad shape, I should move them. (to where?)

I went to the used book sale again today. Three measley dollars in my pocket, I had to scrounge around to find 50 cents, to buy the second paperback. I have a check in my purse (for the book sale), my husband gave it to me brokenly, under the sheer force of my will. But I find I haven't the heart to use it. "We'll have to sell the house" he says "I'll have to get a second job". All I want is some lousy used books, I think to myself, ranging from 50 cents to four dollars. There are only about 5 more books that I want there, but surely they will be gone by Friday, half price day. But I can not pretend that I need them. And for used books their emotional price tag, seems a bit high.

For I am just sitting out here, halfway in the sunshine, half shaded. My laptop does get the internet out back (just not outfront. ??). And I don't want any used books enough to go get a job, and not be able to sit here right now. There are plenty of books at the library.

At the booksale, there were some art books. I didn't buy any, but paged through.
Matisse, I liked the photo of him, with the white doves he kept. Something wonderful I saw in it, like he was perhaps odd in some ways, but entirely himself.
The painting, in the book, that caught my attention, was the yellow cow, by marc franz (I think that was the what and the who, I will never stake anything on my memory). Strange that I should like it so much. Such vividness, such saturation of color. Are not you, the you, you were yesterday? Two years ago, I would have thought it horrid. Each day, between then and now, must have been a step in this direction. Each increment so small, I didn't realize I was moving. My liking for certain works of Chagall, starting last year, was the only step I noticed. Always so pastel, and soft, the colors that please me. They could be impressionistic or realisitc ( not abstract), but they always whispered, even while they sang. That is how I have always been. ( as far back as my memory of me goes).

Even the garden, originally full of soft purples, has given way to even more delicate pinks. What shall I do, if I wake up tomorrow, and instead of seeing it as ethereal beauty, I find it washed out and faded? This is a project of years. What if, in time, I find myself filled with a desire to have my eyes saturated in color, with this garden all light pinks and palest yellow?

It seems unlikely to happen based on the past. There are no tones of red or orange (not intentional ones anyway), and no hot bright pink (my eyes, they burn my eyes). It has always surprised me, that I don't care for red flowers. Don't most people like them? Even those red roses, the signature of Valentine's day, I don't care for them. Woo me with pale pink, fading to a center, of cream or light yellow. I like variations, modulations in color, as part of a whole, played out in subdued hues. Red cars, red flowers, seem to showy, too needy, too having to have attention. They don't blend and harmonize with my inner palette.

But what if I change? I mean, I seem so static, always the same, year in year out, but then one day, I find, a massive, vibrantly yellow cow is an object of great beauty (I so didn't see that coming). Well if that happens, then, I will just have to plant flaming annuals, all around the other flowers. And anyway, I am making some different color areas (beds), for that very reason (shades of purple on the one side of house. If I want it to pop someday I can add in orange, or yellow,or apricot, or red. There is an area, I am saving, incase I become interested in red). There is still room. And, I am not changed, I still love the pastel colors that whisper, I just also now like, vivid explosions of color, that dance, and sing louder, and deeper, and with another kind of vitality, a different way of being in the world. But a whole garden like that? That would never suit me. But to leave spaces open in my garden now for such notes, that is something I should surely do.

To one who does not garden, it might seem odd to spend so much time, thinking about color, but a garden is an endeavor toward the future, (it helps to have a vision, a cohesive one), some things you plant this year, wont bloom till next. Sizes, colors, textures, all build on each other to create a whole, that wont be fully realized today (the little tree you plant, wont reach its full beauty till years and years from now). But a garden is also for today, to be enjoyed every year along the way.