City-folk: Friday afternoon at the Spears-Letter residence; is it still winter, somewhere?
We've been working on this patio for a while, pretty much since Wilma tore it up and made us have to deal with it. It's our little slice of the city. Planes going from/to Fort Lauderdale airport roar overhead; the trains chug and hoot a few blocks away; we hear the steam-blasts of the ships in port. Across the street, this weekend, is the stomp and shout of the Greek Food Festival, at the big blue Greek Orthodox Church (the only intrusion into our patio's sky-view). The city's other voices speak constantly too: dogs bark, parrots squawk, hedgers buzz, soccar players shout in 10 languages from the park just next door, dance mixes shuffle-thump from some enthusiastic driver's car...
But when we hang out on our patio, I mainly hear the gurgling fountain and the wind-chime, which is made of bells, and plays musical fractals for the ear. The ocean breezes travel the length of the patio, end to end, and tease the leaves of the skyvines -- and now the passion vines too.
In a way, I feel like I've been dreaming of this patio for 30 years. I love nature, but I am an admirer, not a consumer. I don't want to own nature. Or use it. I want to hike through it, breathe it, smell it, maybe get it all over me, but then, I want to go home. And home, I have discovered, is a place of man-imposed order, and simplicity.
My cat quivers at the sight of a cricket on the wall. He rolls and purr-owls, with orgasmic satisfaction. The cricket flies; he blinks, he yawns, he finds a sunnier spot to sleep in. That in which he delights, he does not need to destroy.
More pictures at my blog