Eaton Hamilton

the problem with being trans is cis people. The problem with being queer is straight people. The problem with being disabled is abled people. The problem with being Black is white people. In other words, prejudice.

Tag: garden

Hello from Sunday!

Eaton Hamilton: After Modi, acrylic

What do I have to say for myself this week? I last saw humans Tues when the family (daughter and kiddos) dropped by to give me berries and peas from the market. Otherwise, I have been head down, working hard, and sometimes fighting sickness. (Was quite ill at points, unknown cause.)

Every boiling day I’ve been managing to get a snippet of gardening down. Can’t ignore watering during heat waves, alas, and that’s my least favourite thing to have to keep up with every day. Otherwise, it’s time for the Shirley poppies to go. I’ve been waiting for them to go to seed first. Now the seed’s collected and away their brittle brown corpses can go, down the hillside. I’ve lost the young man who did an astonishing good job cutting my grass (to a job!), so I’m trying to at least weed-eat the dandelions before they seed, though the battery isn’t properly charging so this is tedious. Otherwise working on the already seeded weeds. How did I let them get this bad? A question I ask every summer.

Since I don’t go to the nurseries (covid, inaccessibility), I don’t have my usual filler annuals. It is already looking very brown out there and once it’s clean, I imagine that will be far worse. I’m trying to be chill about it.

I’m controlling the heat in here by keeping curtains drawn most of the day and then, when they’re open placing fan in front of open door facing house, with bowl of ice, to cool the place in the evening. The heat spell is said to be about to break. I’ll be glad.

Have barely painted, and I just don’t know what to say about the mess I’m making of this memoir, so I won’t say anything. Working hard when I can on getting images of paintings sorted, named, measured and web-res’d to go up on my new painting site.

Hope your weeks as summer ends are good ones, with satisfying connections and summer play. Tonight I’m taking the girls to see (swim in possibly) phosphorescence (masked in my Flo Mask, of course)!

Total eclipse of the garden

Screen Shot 2014-12-16 at 3.33.41 PM

The sound of the cat jumping off the bed.  The smell of lemon-oil soap.  The heart with its bleats and whinnies.  The sound of the rain.  The traffic moving through the alley–Smart Cars, bicycles, delivery trucks.  At 3, children’s shouts.  The white garage across the ally.  The Spanish tile roof.  The turquoise biffy for the workers at the laneway house that’s going up.  The smell of cedar.  The pressure-treated kick-plates.  The man in the blue fleece carrying lumber, his white cap, his dangling keys.  I live below grade and now, with my fence gone, my windows are peepholes.

Yesterday, I wrote the crisis in my novel The Lost Boy.  I had no clue the book was going where it went, exploding where it exploded, but when it blew up, I thought, Of course, of course, nothing else was possible.  Now I will wrap up the denouement, then I have to go back to feed in sub-plots and image motifs.

People push grocery carts past my windows and the fencer says I need to dig up more clematis for a reinforcing pole to go in.  The condo board says no vines can be grown on the new fence.

I was surprised to discover bulbs coming up now, those crazy things, in December before winter has even started–hyacinths whose tender heads have been summarily stomped.

 

%d bloggers like this: