bush honeysuckle

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.

anonymous asked:

Wait, George has a garden buoy for Ben? Is it a secret garden that only they can enter, or is it some kind of testament to George's love for Ben?

A little of both! It’s a gazebo hidden by a little rotunda of tall hydrangea bushes. There’s honeysuckle clinging to the wood and a soft comfy chair with a tea table there for George and Ben to enjoy. But mostly it’s for Ben to spend his days reading in the summer.


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

My back door is finally just about how I envisioned it.

The fushia native Honeysuckle attracts so many different flying creatures; butterflies, birds, hummers, and insects. 

I love the little yellow climbing Lady Banks Rose each Spring on Forsythia Hill in Charlottesville, Virginia. 

My back door in full bloom. I just adore the little yellow Rose, Lady Banks. Sadly it will end it’s bloom soon until next Spring. The fushia red native Honeysuckle will bloom its little head off all Summer. A Mockingbird had a nest in it but a mean Crow swooped in and stole either an egg or a baby :(