And I'll breathe the dust of cosmos and wild rosebud

Today is my father's birthday. There have been years when I did not celebrate it with him, but I was in grad school at the time, or in different countries. I've called him and sent e-mail. I should have put a card in the mail last week, but I had not yet adjusted to the new timing.

I would hate to be confined to my apartment and immediate environs for eighteen months. I would hate to be without museums and rehearsals and trips to D.C. to see my godchild. I would hate to be in these levels of pain. I have lost so many years out of my life already, I feel most of the time as though the majority of my life has been a waste of waking up; it would hurt very much to add to that. I would rather lose as much time as it takes to make sure of a vaccine and treatments that are not wishful thinking or snake oil than pretend it's safe when it's not. I appreciate my governor being one of the people who don't want to jump the gun. I still wish I'd been able to replace him with an ethical artichoke in 2018, but he might be working his way up to, as phi aptly identified, a turnip with common sense.

Today's installment of the New Decameron is Lila Garrott's "The Prudent Traveller's Guide to Venice (Excerpted), 1872," which I adore. It's so beautifully worked out and so matter-of-fact about how it reveals it.

What kind of law draws the apples to the ground and what kind of love draws the orbits?

I had a Zoom call this evening after work and that wiped me out for the rest of the night, but I did manage to get out of the house before the light totally faded from the sky. The cherry blossoms have done their mono no aware thing and are mostly a pale confetti in the gutters following the windy rain of yesterday.



The weeping cherry in the next yard over, however, has leapt like a fountain into bloom.



This assessment by Yesterday's Print is rather on point. That said, I am charmed not at all ironically by all aspects of this sentence.