With Nothing Left To Do...

The jugs of water, the spiral sausages, the laundry, parking the car in just the right place. I decided to entertain myself with a little garden work between the squalls. 

Grandma's tea has grown aggressively this month, reaching above the sill.

It will get whipped, no doubt, but its a tough ol' bird.

 The gaura droops under the weight of rain. Or is it the heavy atmosphere?

All our recent rains have also driven the max sunflower to rocket despite my hard pruning in July. I tied it into a bunch so that it can thrash as a unit. The side yard is a tangle of overgrown and under-performing plants. Almost all of the NEWFS native perennials I bought a year and a half ago have either croaked or underperformed. I suppose it's too hot here for plants raised in the eastern forest of Massachusetts. Meanwhile the blue asiatic dayflower and pinkish-white smartweed are flowering in abundance.

It wasn't until I started picking up the remains of sexual activity in the woods of Prospect Park with the Litter Mob that I understood that the paper towels I find in the side yard garden are the remains of sexual activity on our corner. What delight. As I worked the yard today, I flung each rag onto the sidewalk. Then, one by one, neighborhood ladies (the old school) emerged to hang out, chattin' it up about hurricanes and flowers, flooding streets and lousy gutters, which trees will fall and how my landlord caught one prostitute pooping in the front of our building.

A squall came on and we returned to our buildings. I took a shower.