bush honeysuckle

Granular

I love the texture on these Bush Honeysuckle (Lonicera maackii) berries. Unfortunately, the plant is an invasive pest.

New Jersey, October 9, 2017.

Photo by @mellowcat-artist all rights reserved.

Rebloggers please do not delete caption, credits or links. NO reblogs to NSFW/18+ sites. Thanks.

Bush Honeysuckle

Well, this bush DID have pretty white flowers earlier in the year. Now, there are thousands of red and some orange berries. I have a LOT of this growing on my property. I’ve known it simply as “honeysuckle” ever since my ex’s brother in law told me that’s what it was. He also told me it wasn’t edible.

He was a survivalist and knew what native plants were safe to eat and which one’s weren’t. He and my ex’s sister were very concerned about the “Year 2000 Problem”. They had stockpiled food in their basement that would last them a year because Talk Radio was popularizing the idea that our society was going to somehow grind to a screeching halt when computers were confused by the date change. Unlike me, he also had a rifle and handguns to chase Alice and her friends away. I thought the whole thing was preposterous. And as it turned out, January 1 came and went and with rare exception, it was just another day.

i walked back from the coffee place and saw a baby hummingbird in the honeysuckle bushes and now i get to sit and watch french movies with my tea latte and pastry, yay me

3

I come back from the St. Williams Nursery with a $221 Plant Haul. Quite the road trip and quite the sale and nursery as expected. The leg pain I got from crouching to look at tags quickly I did not expect however lol. So then, the list of purchased plants from the ones in the back to the front, left to right;

  • Bladdernut (Staphylea trifolia)
  • Swamp Rose (Rosa palustris)
  • Dwarf Chiunquapin Oak (Quercus prinoides)
  • Chinquapin Oak (Quercus muehlenbergii)
  • Flowering Dogwood (Cornus florida)
  • Redbud (Cercis canadensis)
  • Yellow Coneflower (Ratibida pinnata)
  • Bush Honeysuckle (Diervilla lonicera)
  • Groundnut Vine (Apios americana)
  • Virginia Mountain Mint (Pycnanthemum virginianum)
  • Virgin’s Bower (Clematis virginiana)
  • Bulbet Fern (Cystopteris bulbifera)

Surprise surprise that Dwarf Chiunquapin Oak flowers while still so small! The huge majority of these fellas are staying in the greenhouse for various reasons until they either have more roots (the clematis), till an area is full-on marked for planting (the oaks), or until the new gardenspace for the coming house addition is built (basically almost everything else). There appear to be zone location origins on the tags so I may try to get my plant documentation work back in order so that said zones for these particular children can be noted.

Photographed May 20th 2017

Boyhood Bravery || Chapter Two

Nick and Griffin find a place to themselves. Nick tells Griffin a secret. Talking all night brings the boys closer. Nick finds courage. Time changes everything. Nick comes to a realization. 


THEN

“Nicky! Wait up!”

The following spring was one of rebirth. The grass of Nick’s backyard is lush and dark green, the just blooming rhododendron offer splashes of purple and violet and the air smells like honeysuckle. The morning couldn’t have been more beautiful, the skies are clear, the birds serenade the adventures and the dew drops soak their shoes just enough to dampen their socks. Despite it all, Griffin has tears in the corners of his eyes and his voice is a waiver of someone trying to be strong.

Nick turns with his hands on his hips, a maneuver that was impressive considering the overstuffed backpack on his shoulders. “Ditto, come on!” Griffin was always slowing down Nick, but he didn’t mind it too much. He made good company. Only today, Nick had something he wanted to show his friend.

It’s obvious Nick’s tone of voice only upsets Griffin further and he looks up at him from where he’s crouched, cradling his knee, “It hurts.” There is blood running down his pale leg which originates from a decent sized scrap. Nick is the master of scrapes and boo boos of all kinds, but Griffin is not. He’s easily hurt and he cries almost every time. He is, in a word, delicate.

Keep reading

1. These trees are in bloom and I don’t know what kind they are but they smell lovely, and I saw the honeysuckle bushes on campus and I think their turn is coming soon.
2. Two teenagers were laughing and doing a shuffle-walk-dance to Stand By Me right in front of my building.
3. On my way to the post office I walked up a usually empty side street and there was group of young people standing in a big circle, I think they were students from the hairdressing school nearby, all dressed in white t-shirts and black pants and looking very serious and concerned as one young woman was addressing them like a mob boss in a movie, saying ‘yeah yeah it’s complicated well let me tell YOU what’s complicated.’ I had to sort of squeeze around them to get past. Since all I had to do at the post office was drop off a letter, I had to walk past them again a few minutes later, they were still in a circle like a sort of well-coiffed coven and the woman (who was maaaaaybe 25, the others were younger) was saying 'ok you’re going to do what I say, when I say it, that’s how we win.’

I want a garden

With tall, wild lilac and honeysuckle bushes, yards of lavender, wild roses and night blooming jasmine.  I want these near my windows in the house I wish to own, and at night during the warmer months, I will leave them open so I can drift off to sleep with those scents wafting gently with the cool night air.

I want birdbaths, one out in the sun, and one tucked into the shade, the latter shallow, so that the bees can drink, too.  I want the kind of garden you expect to find fairies in.  The kind that attracts honeybees and hummingbirds.  I want the kind of garden that little finches and red-breasted robins sing in.

I want the kind of garden that I can put a stone bench in the middle and hide with a book for a few hours.

I want a garden of magick, with stones and crystals tucked around in hidden spots as well as in plain view.  With a few herbs growing, some mint, basil, rosemary, that sort of thing.

I want a garden I can go to at midnight during a full moon and bathe in the bright blue light, in complete privacy from prying eyes.  Where any ritual I wish to perform I can do so in complete comfort.

And this is my random wish for the night.

I wish to have a home
One I can call my own
With a garden filled with magickal things
Like shining stones and fairie rings
Where the moon shines brightly overhead
A home that is safe and secure
With good strong walls that will endure
All corners filled with love
As much as there are stars above
A home that comes at a reasonable price
In a neighborhood that is nice

I wish for a home
For my family and friends
With room for us all
No matter how short
No matter how tall

By the gods I do ask
By the gods I do pray
Please oh please
Hear me this day
I need a home of my own
And now that the seeds of this wish are sown
Let my will be heard and known

So it shall be.

*********************
COMMISSIONS

$55
About 8″ x 10″.
Basically whatever you want (bugs and anime are the most fun [I think.]) 
Black & white // minimal color.
Shipping included if in USA, if not we’ll figure it out.
Paypal.

!!!
Email spferrick (at) gmail
to talk it out.

!!!


some suggestions:
centipede, millipede, one dog, three dogs, bees entombing a mouse, a plastic box with many compartments, a birthday party, a snake in water, a house on fire, a basement on fire, a glass case full of cakes, a case of cakes that has been broken into :(, a table, a timer, an egg timer, someone making oatmeal, now YOU are making the oatmeal (FPO, aka First Person Oatmeal,) a beach full of boulders, a place where the boulders are shaped like roses, worms, ribbons, roads, a scene from a ballet, characters from Madoka, your own magical girl, your own hill, some rabbits under a honeysuckle bush that your mom later tore apart, a blue jay hovering in the air like a top, candles, AND MORE…

anonymous asked:

SO tell me about young Katniss

HELLO YES THIS IS MY FAVORITE QUESTION I’VE EVER BEEN ASKED. 

  • Katniss volunteers to sing on the first day of school in front of her first class
    • Not only did she volunteer, her hand “shot right up in the air,” according to Peeta. Katniss stood on a stool and sang the valley song. 
    • We know very little about Mr. Everdeen, but Katniss and Peeta both have vivid memories of him singing, and Katniss says when she’s with Rue that she ranks music “somewhere between hair ribbons and rainbows in terms of usefulness.” I think that reason she rejects singing as meaningful right off of the bat is that it’s too painful. It reminds her of her father. During Rue’s death scene, when Rue asks her to sing, Katniss thinks, “I do know a few songs. Believe it or not, there was once music in my house, too. Music I helped make. My father pulled me in with that remarkably voice — but I haven’t sung much since he died. Except when Prim is very sick. Then I sing her the same songs she liked as a baby.” 
    • THIS MEANS BABY KATNISS USED TO SING ALL THE TIME WITH HER DAD AND EVEN WITHOUT HIM IN SCHOOL DON”T TOUCH ME
  • Katniss says that she “had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father.”
    •  Later, she says, “It was frightening to enter that place without my father at my side, but people had respected him, and they accepted me.” 
      • T H E Y  A C C E P T E D  M E. 
      • Tiny Katniss in the woods with her father is something to consider, but so is tiny Katniss in the Hob with her father after a day in the woods. Tired and whining and dragging her feet until he scoops her up and puts her on his shoulders. The men and women he trade with poking at her belly and joking about how big she’s getting. Asking when she’ll get to shoot some squirrels of her own. Joking that she’ll be even better than Mr. Everdeen, someday, and he’ll have to watch out. A little family of lawbreakers who all sort of look like her, which is so strange compared to the blue eyed blonde girls at home. 
  • Katniss did crafts
    • “I remember the scene. I was home from a day in the woods with my father. Sitting on the floor with Prim, who was just a toddler, singing ‘The Hanging Tree.’ Making us necklaces out of scraps of old rope like it said in the song.” 
    • listen. I don’t want to overstate this… but Katniss was playing dress up. 
      • Another cute Katniss thing from that scene is that she says she ran outside to hide after her mother snatched away the rope necklaces and started yelling at her father, Katniss starts to cry, because her mother never yells. and her father found her immediately, “as I had exactly one hiding spot – in the Meadow under a honeysuckle bush.”
      • “I guess my mother thought the whole thing was too twisted for a seven-year old, though. Especially one who made her own rope necklaces.”

In my opinion, and as I write her, Katniss was a well adjusted and happy little girl. She was probably one of the best fed in the district – fresh meat instead of stale – and while they did without plenty of things, their little house was peaceful, if she wasn’t used to her mother yelling, and it was filled with music. 

I mean, obviously disagreeing with me is your right. But as I see it, Katniss’s family was probably one of the happiest families in the Seam, and Katniss had a really decent childhood until it was taken away from her :(

youtube

No one wants to be the muse;
in the end, everyone wants to be Orpheus. - Louise Glück, “Lute Song”

It is such a petty human thing, to want to be remembered. To want to be the story that sticks in someone’s mouth, in someone’s head. Forgetting is easy but only the way that vomiting when you are violently sick is easy. You hate it but it happens anyway, once you start you can never seem to stop. Songs are the only thing that lasts. Perhaps this is the compulsion to write songs: a selfishness. If you can only remember one small thing let it be this. You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first, I loved you first. First loves are beautiful, hide behind your teeth like something sap-sticky and secret. Not honey but honeysuckle. When I was a kid there was a honeysuckle bush under the same tree where we buried my first horse and only I knew about it. First love like sucking the nectar out of a bright flower at the edge of the woods. Your hair was long when we first met. First loves are not huge, most of the time. Barely a ripple under the shimmering liquid surface of the world. This song is such a small version of a bible story. All loves, all betrayals shrunk down until they fit into normal human bodies. Oh we couldn’t bring the columns down, we couldn’t destroy a single one. We haven’t ruined anything; we haven’t broken anything—we weren’t magnificent. The history books forgot about us. We all want to be remembered but sometimes we are nothing much. We want to be a story but what is there to tell? Perhaps this is the compulsion to write songs, then—a song is the smallest unit of myth. If we can be a song at least there is that.

Like all love stories this song is so heavy with the weight of detail. I cut his hair myself one night, a pair of dull scissors on the yellow light. He told me that I’d done alright. Ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed. A story of two people eating toast, sitting in their kitchen in the half-dark. In the bible Delilah cuts Samson’s hair and it is a mythic betrayal. Maybe this Samson, too, is betrayed. To have only wonder bread, yellow light, dull scissors, a quiet little life. The wrong ending. Before my July breakup with a girl I was still so in love with I said in a phone conversation with a friend “I don’t want this to happen, it’s not a good story.” Laying on my bed with my head tipped back over the edge, all the blood rushing to my temples, my whole vulnerable belly showing. I was feeling the idea of perfect love slip out of my small grasping hands and I kept kicking my feet on the mattress: not fair, not fair. I suddenly wanted to run fast enough to run right past the nausea and catch up with my luckier self, hand this bad ending off to her like a relay baton and let her keep running. Instead I kept crying and crying and crying and crying. In the end it’s not a very good story. In the end I am telling it here because of that, because it feels important to bear witness to the fundamental mundanity of it. That, too, is a myth-making. The bible didn’t mention us not even once. The way her voice tilts upward into the ache of it. Not fair, not fair, not fair. Not even once.

It still goes in a song, though. This song is just a small thing but it’s all that it needs to be. My favorite piece of poetry ever written is by Sappho, a fragment:

someone will remember us
I say
even in another time

It’s funny. This is the only thing left of this poem. We don’t know what we’re supposed to remember but we do remember it. More than two thousand years ago and we still remember this poem, this dumb tiny fragment story. God, think about that. Someone will remember us even in another time. Someone will remember us. And we do! We do. So many things are forgotten but even then they aren’t. The rest of this piece of papyrus disappeared but these lines didn’t. Two thousand years ago Sappho fell in love with girls, wrote them poetry. Not much is myth now but that is.

When I was fourteen, fifteen, I used to print out Sappho fragments, paste them together in my journal into whole new poems.

[I would not think to touch the sky with two arms]

[for we in our youth did these things
                   yes many and beautiful things]

[I prayed this word: I want]

[someone will remember us
I say
even in another time]

The smallest possible units of myth. The smallest possible units of love. This silly thing I did when I was just a pretentious baby, suturing old words with glitter-glue and double-sided tape. Making stories for my unremarkable little life with my own hands. The bible didn’t mention us but I will. The history books forgot about us but I didn’t. Did you know so many people sang Sappho’s poems that she was called the tenth muse? I didn’t realize until now that I was always really writing a song.

- s