New Year’s Bliss

Castiel could hear the melody of “Auld Lang Syne” coming from inside the ballroom. He paused in front of the door. “It must be close to midnight,” he noted.

“Mhmm,” Dean agreed. “Time to share a New Year’s kiss,” he added with a wink. Castiel could hear his breath catch, and Dean must have heard it too, because he turned back to Castiel and looked at him in question. “May I?” (4.6k)


Castiel breathed a sigh of relief as he snuck out the side door of the hotel’s grand ballroom and found himself in a small, dimly-lit outdoor courtyard. He glanced around, noticing a large stone fountain that was probably beautiful in warmer months when it was running surrounded by four wrought-iron benches. There were bushes around the outer edge of the courtyard and trellises of ivy were placed sporadically between bushes. As he looked, he found himself wishing he could see it in summer when there would undoubtedly be flowers blooming as well. Right now, however, fat snowflakes were falling gently from the sky, making the ground and everything else sparkle a bright white. Castiel shivered slightly, wishing he had his coat and scarf but thankful that he at least was wearing his suitcoat.

He stuck his hands in his pockets in an attempt to keep them from freezing and wandered closer to the fountain. Up close he could see that it was a fairly simple but still beautiful circular tiered fountain with small flowers carved into the rims, and he knew it must look impressive when it was warm enough to run water through it.

Castiel was looking up at the trellises when he heard the door open and close behind him. He turned around and saw his new companion – an attractive man around his age who gave him a small wave as he approached Castiel.

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Hi folks. Sweet potatoes would have to be one of my favourite plants to grow & they do really well in containers too. Many folks won’t grow them due to their sprawling nature but when kept in large containers they are easily manageable & any young growth points that get trimmed off can be added to salads or stir fries. Everyone loves a double harvest. 😉 They also make a stunning climbing plant when grown up trellises & over railings I think. 
Hope you all enjoy the clip & have a great one all. 

panic! aesthetics
  • fever: parties that last till morning where women in tight dresses dole out hard drinks garnished with olives. the host's wife is hiding a knife under her corset.
  • pretty odd: a garden lined with white trellises that crawl with roses and morning glories, the midafternoon sun, dragonflies dipping and weaving above still, clear lakes
  • vices and virtues: an empty ballroom with high, arched ceilings made of polished cedar. black velvet and white wine, hushed voices, lace dresses.
  • too weird: rain-slick streets at night, puddles of neon signs and glaring streetlamps, the changing colors of the city as it thrums with muted life.
On Urban Farming

So urban farming has taken off lately, among a certain set of people. I’ve been seeing posts railing against lawn culture, offering up pictures of these gorgeously cool traditional vegetable gardens and trellises and vertical gardens and pot gardens and all sorts of combinations thereof and it’s uplifting and solarpunk and really really cool. And I’m here to say that it can be everything it’s promised to be. Five or six years ago, my parents tore up their front lawn and made it into a garden. It’s been amazing - they get troops of old ladies coming up and ringing the doorbell asking for a tour, passersby stopping to stare and smile, little kids looking covetously at the raspberries that my dad always comes out to offer them. (Sometimes he also uses them to get rid of salespeople, but that’s another story.) In peak season, we get fresh tomatoes, potatoes, beets, carrots, peppers, onions, cucumbers, and squash, and that’s off the top of my head and not including the berry bushes we have as hedges and the lovingly-tended fruit trees in the back yard. My parents haven’t darkened the door of a grocery store produce section in more than a month at the moment I’m typing this. It’s fantastic.


My parents are teachers. They get reliable weekends and two months off during peak growing season. They also have a very comfortable middle-class salary (our teachers aren’t in quite the straits salary-wise that they find themselves in south of the border) that means they could afford, at the outset, to hire the labour necessary to get the garden started - I believe Bobcats were involved. And, last but not least, they’re gardeners. If you make the mistake of commenting to my mother that the garden must be a lot of work, she looks at you blankly and informs you that she wouldn’t do it if it were work to her. But if you aren’t a bred-in-the-bones gardener, chances are you’d hate it. I grew up the child of two bred-in-the-bones gardeners and it isn’t a commitment I’d want to make. There’s rototilling and fertilizing and digging and planting and covering and watering and more digging and thinning and weeding (and weeding and weeding and weeding), and then there’s even more digging and picking and washing and chopping and freezing if you want to make sure you get to keep what you’ve grown, otherwise it’s just as wasteful as a lawn anyway - after all, you’ve put all that water into it. My parents had to buy an entire new freezer to store all their produce, and while that sounds great (and it is), it also presupposes that they could afford to buy a new freezer.

What I’m trying to get at here is that if you want to do this urban farming thing that everyone’s so adamant about, you have to have the time, and if you don’t have the disposable income you have to have a lot more time, at least at the outset, and also hope your back holds out for the duration. And lawns aren’t a symbol of the kind of immense wealth they used to be - you kind of just inherit them if you buy a house. A house, mind you - not a castle or a mansion. Lawns have moved down the ranks into the firmly middle-class. Decrying lawn culture is all very well as it goes, but holding up urban farming as the universal solution is, to my way of thinking, disingenuous. Time is money, and not everyone with a lawn is rich.

…All that said, talk to me about solar panels.

I didn’t know that you couldn’t make someone fall in love with you. i don’t think you knew that either because both of us were constantly reaching out for someone who would never love us, someone who we thought maybe would save us.

because sometimes people are plants, and we grow towards the light, we reach for what could save us. i thought you could save me, I really did. because sometimes people are lifeboats, they are trellises that can support you when you feel like this hurricane will tear every one of your leaves off until you are nothing.

but sometimes people are the hurricane, and you don’t realize it until after it’s all over, and you are standing in the rubble of what used to be your life and you’re thinking “i didn’t even feel the wind.

—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write– Lily Rain
life, interrupted

rather cracky one-shot based on these spoiler pictures of leroy + captain swan in the garden, because lbr it will probably go 96% like this

The sunlight through the flowers is rich and gold and slow, and Emma’s fingers link musingly around his hook. She likes to hold it, he’s noticed, more than he ever expected, and it always gives him that brief inner delight whenever she does, whenever she reaches for it as instinctively as she does his hand. Insects buzz through the foliage and the trellises of roses, and Killian reaches up to trace the dimple of her chin with his thumb, grinning into her eyes. “So, love. No hard feelings for me, er, encouraging poor academic discipline with the lad the other day?”

“I was teasing, you know.” Emma’s face momentarily flickers with concern, in case he’d actually think she objected to seeing him and Henry horsing around. Considering they were then off to hunt Cinderella before she did something she couldn’t take back (the rifle is a sensible precaution, in light of what, or rather who, is running around this ridiculous town right now) it wasn’t as if Henry’s schooling was any more interrupted than it usually is. “You’re… you’re good with him, and he really likes you. Seeing the two of you together… it… it feels right.”

Killian moves his hand up to the back of her head. He’s rather amazed they got a moment to themselves, but both of them are trying their utter damndest, despite the latest crisis engulfing Storybrooke, to live in the middle of it. Nobody’s dead or dying or even (hopefully) in danger of being fried for these five minutes, so they can sit down and catch their breath. They are well aware never to take any chance to do so for granted, and he strokes her chin again, ducking his head for a kiss. Never take any of that for granted, either.

They’re still together, foreheads and mouths still brushing, teasing, when heavy footsteps pound at the entrance to the garden gate. “EMMA! EMMA! YOU GOTTA COME QUICK! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”

Both of them shudder at the same time, if not quite in the throes of romantic bliss. Emma hisses slightly, pulling away to turn to the world’s most annoying individual (it’s scientific, there are numbers for it, it can be proved). “All right, Leroy,” she says pointedly. “Can you give us a moment? We’ll be right there.”

As usual, the bearded numbskull looks utterly oblivious that he has walked in on anything or that he would have any concerns besides fetching them directly to the latest crisis (Hyde turned into Godzilla, that monster from the movie Henry showed him last night? Evil Queen duplicated ten times? Who bloody knows?), and does not even flinch when confronted by Killian’s utter death glare, which has cut down to size far braver (and taller) men than him. “You gotta come! You gotta!”

“Okay, we’re coming, we’re coming.” Emma gets to her feet, pulling Killian after her, as Leroy thunders back out. She looks at him with a wry, tender grin. “Duty calls.”

“I hate that dwarf,” Killian growls. “If Hyde split him, you think there’d be one bloody half that shut up for once?”

“Doubt it. I don’t think there’s anything that powerful.” She quirks an eyebrow at him, taking his hand. “Let’s deal with this. Then, tonight, maybe we can find somewhere he can’t get in.”

(He’d better bloody not.)


Keela Wee Villa (Discovery Bay, Jamaica) :: When you talk about luxury villas in Jamaica there are many to choose from but there are some that leap to mind and Keela Wee is one such villa. Located on the tranquil shores of Discovery Bay sits this magnificent home away from home - the ultimate in home and luxury. Set in its own large private beach cove, Keela Wee is an elegant 8000 square foot, two storey home with six air-conditioned bedrooms and six en-suite baths.The home provides the best with its combination of privacy and luxury. Keela Wee is impeccably maintained and has exquisite gardens. Wonderful and colourful trellises draped with flowering vines adorn the outside yellow-stone of the home. An expanded living room gives way to a casual verandah and wet bar.

yesterday i saw a rainbow arched on itself like a drunk belly-dancer. around it, the jasmine rumor of uncombed nimbus. clouds scattered like petals, scattered like pigeon feathers. week upon week has been soaked in a dettol stupor, the weighing scale with its antiseptic silence licking at my feet. the hypodermic needle of the night pinholes my arm. my heart suddenly leaps out of my chest - a bright red balloon leaving my childhood balcony. my thirst of distance is called fernweh. what girl doesn’t eventually turn into a forest. i see tomorrow in my rearview mirror and suddenly the poem coils around my coccyx like a folklore’s serpent. i find the nearest sandalwood tree & pour it a bowl of milk. this season is diaphanous with remembering. courtyards. riverbanks. tea terraces. the girl in the window is more ivy than silk, seabed wild of ochre and corals, wants to baptise her legs capulet & montague because there is always a bloodwar between them. she is thinking of the thread-veined trellises of a mosque, some kalma graved in an adored turquoise, goats plumped for slaughter, beggars, ferris wheel, the eye of Horus. before he died, he sent me a journal full of catalan recipes and notes on mapmaking - it is not how long you live but how deep. my father’s voice : gravitas, something stolen from the fish nets of the andalusian seafoam, deseeded wine grapes of black muscat, the husky tobaccoed hoop of a tuscano flickering like a cinco de mayo rose smoldering between the dancer’s teeth. there is a place in the depth of my palm where the roads crawl in a battlefield of spiderwebs. i tell K that our hands are archetypes of google earth. on my birthday, i read alejandra pizarnik’s diary entry dated “1st July 1955″. it starts with -  “ I begin to read In Search of Lost Time.”  it ends with - “ I wouldn’t want to be somewhere else or someone else for anything in the world.” the sentence shifts my spine. all of my life is a breaking of boundaries, geometry without symmetry , the beautiful accident of a found poem. 

Mirlitons -  The unofficial fall vegetable of Louisiana

Think New Orleans food, and staples like muffulettas, crawfish, beignets, and po’boys come to mind. But each October, a lesser-known native delicacy creeps across yards and up trellises all around the city. A wrinkly, pale green gourd, the mirliton—known as chayote in the Latin American culinary canon—dates back to at least the 1800s in the city (probably brought from the Caribbean and Mexico) and remains a backyard favorite. 

Among the Hibiscus, lilies, ferns,
Beautiful was the silent (re)birth,
And how the
Sun sneaked through
the naked blinds, to the pearl white walls,
But wave washed up
the days of old New York

Off the Deep End

Prompt: Aurora and Clarke bonding moment at Octavia and Lincoln’s wedding. In the same verse as Dressing the Part. You don’t have to read it to understand this one, but it might help with context.

Aurora Lives Modern AU


Octavia and Lincoln’s wedding goes off without a hitch. It’s held on a terrace overlooking a lake in the middle of nowhere, Virginia, the reception lit with twinkling lights under flower-wound trellises.

Clarke thinks it sort of fits a fairy tale, a woodland retreat that matches the outdoorsy vibe both the bride and groom share.  It gets a little hot when they’re baking in the late afternoon sun, but after the ceremony is over and the lake practically glows red and orange fire, it’s a perfect summer night.

The only problem is that Clarke’s alone.

She should have expected it, really. There’s plenty of her friends there, but they’re just… occupied. She’s pretty sure Miller and Monty are making out in the forest somewhere, Raven and Murphy are bickering and she doesn’t really want to get in the middle of that again (last time she was sitting between them when they had one of their spats, she barely escaped before they started sucking face right there in front of her), Octavia is making the rounds with Lincoln, Bellamy talking to some distant relatives that’d flown in for the affair (she isn’t sure if she wants to meet his whole family just yet), and Clarke is. . . sitting.

But then someone slides into the chair next to her that Raven had been occupying just a few minutes ago and Clarke glances over to see Aurora Blake smiling at her.

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May 19th garden progress.

For the most part, everything is in, seeds and all.  Every year I hold off a little later on my cucurbits, mostly because we have horrible problems with squash beetles and cucumber beetles, and my father-in-law swears by planting much later than normal to keep them at bay.  It sort of worked for me last year.  I think I jumped the gun, though, and my idea of “much later” was much earlier than his.  I just started seeds in pots yesterday, so they’ll go in the ground in a few weeks.  Also, not planted yet are my morning glories, which will be trellised up the side of the garage not seen in this shot.  I look forward to that huge pop of color in the background of the garden.  However, I’m not looking forward to keeping them out of the rest of the beds.  We’ll see if this turns out to be a huge success or a giant pain in the ass.

Plans for this weekend include breaking up that blue pallet table, as we’ve fully become adults and graduated to real furniture in the yard.  Also, we’re building a bed frame with the remainder of the garden lumber, so that giant pile of wood against the house will be gone.  The tools will be stored in the shed, and the bags of dirt and compost will be transferred to the garden.

It’s all coming together.