The garden on the windowsill

You might remember from an older post of mine, A garden in a pot, that I really like flowers and that I have always had a potted plant in my room.

This spring, even before the first sprouts had emerged outside, I started to get very ambitious. Well, to be quite honest, the idea had started to nag me ever since last autumn, when I began to wish for a nice plant to cover the railing of my balcony.

Since then, I have been making plans, gathering seeds and cuttings and having dreams about my very own beautiful garden, right here in our flat.

My plants and cups with planted seeds.

Do you remember my hibiscus? It is doing very well and has even had a few blossoms this spring, which I unfortunately cut for the spring pruning and for creating new plants. I gave two cuttings to my mother and one is growing some roots in a new pot. After the pruning, the old hibiscus has had lots of little leaves sprouting from all over the trunk. It is a joy to look at!

It may not look like much, but it will grow into a beautiful little shrub.

I have also planted a few flower seeds, without much luck though... We had a bout of cold weather and I don't think it did them too well. My fiance wanted to plant some hot peppers and to our astonishment, after a shy start, the jalapenos are doing quite well. I am watering them carefully and keeping my fingers crossed. Imagine, eating peppers grown and cared for by your own two hands!

Tiny jalapeno sprouts. Some are already growing a second set of leaves.

Quite a while ago, I decided I wanted freesia plants quite badly, so I kept looking at the seeds section in supermarkets and dreaming about them. Lucky me, we actually found some corms for sale and I bought a whole pack.

Now two thirds of them are sitting quietly in their makeshift pots. I have been so concerned that they wouldn't sprout, that I gently uncovered them today. They were not rotten, phew! and also I could feel them rooted into the ground. Hopefully, there will be tiny green heads sticking out.

Of course, I can't stop at this. I will be planting some honeysuckle cuttings for the railing soon. And I'm still dreaming about having a peony in a pot. The kind with lots of deep pink velvety petals. I hear I should wait until autumn though, such a pity!

How about you, dear reader? What flower do you really really want to have growing in your garden or pot?

Of sparks and other such nonsense

The clock is ticking softly, measuring the lazy seconds of the late afternoon. The warm sun rays are coming in obliquely through the window. The air is so motionless, not even the tiny specks of dust are in a rush to go anywhere.

"Tick-tick tick-tick" dominates the silence. Then a low hiss and a thud set the ticking to the background, forgotten. Two shadows emerge from opposite corners of the room, ominous and blurry in their rage.

Their clash sends sparks flying in every direction and the room starts smelling like burnt carpet. Still, the two silhouettes do not stop, twisting and turning around each other, until they become a bright incandescent globe of energy.

***

This is about as far as I can take this today, with a headache and the hour getting late. Mind you, frustration doesn't get you very far and the worse it gets, the less you accomplish.

I had to get something out of my system though and it seems that this is the verbal part of it. I'm sure the rest will be sleep later on.

I wanted to share a few of my thoughts on writing and creativity and the open canvas here has become a bit too inviting...

First of all, the spark of inspiration and actually getting something good out of it are worlds apart. It's usually more interesting in your subconscious than it is on paper. So are dreams to the woken mind. And as for what others will get out of it... Barely anything at all.

Another interesting fact is that in poetry, your mind can wander from spark to spark, but in prose, you have to argue with the sparks and try to make them all sit nice and quiet until you get them all in a logical form. And we all know that sparks last very little and they seldom come back. Now you understand why I like writing poetry more than prose. And also why I am very picky about the poetry I read. Apart from my own, I only like the works of two Romanian poets. No, they also don't care too much about rhyme.

What I find particularly frustrating lately is critique - or anticipating critique, to be more precise. How does that go? Well, after reading a lot of "don't"s in writing and realising that I sometimes do them and also noticing them in other pieces of writing (and trust me, if you pay too much attention, they stick out like a sore thumb), I get doubly frustrated. Trying to avoid them is a real challenge, especially because they are simply fads. "You need to make it interesting from the get-go" "Don't overdescribe" "Don't this" "Don't that". Am I the only one who is starting to think writing is like fashion? That everyone is crazy about what is "in" this season? Just like rhyme, I really couldn't care much about fashion, mind you.

Well, for now, this is it. Just a few thoughts. And I would like to share more of those, but maybe later on. My arms are tired and my head hurts. And the pillow is very warm. G'nite.

Sweet dreams

Intermission

Oh, where do I begin?

It all started with having to take some days off from work, I suppose. That and wanting to watch the Hobbit quite badly and, just as well, not wanting to clean the house. As a side note, even on my days off, I still have less time for myself than I used to 10 years ago.

Ah, 10 years ago. A time when my artistic endeavours were in bloom and my ambition was huge. Very very huge. My dreams were convoluted and so fantastic, I used to loathe waking up. I still do and my need to dream has been taken for a need to sleep. No, not quite.

I can only imagine being there, off on a fantastic journey

The past two days, I have plunged into a universe I had almost forgotten, set aside in a shelf in my memory, gathering dust. An identity I had long ago buried for the sake of sanity and appearance.

Why haven't I written poetry in so long? Simply because there have been too many real things in my life to have time for words and fantasy and dreams. Because I suffer less for some love interest or another. Because the dog won't let me sit still for very long periods of time. Because the house needs cleaning.

Even now, writing this, I feel it slipping all away. The Here and Now won't leave me alone, chasing me into every corner I hide. Chasing my dreams away.

Look, they are but a small cloud in the distance, getting smaller and smaller. Poof!