Considering the impeccable gardens seen last Sunday (see previous post): bedazzling, but let’s be realistic. How many of us can manage anything near that control? Yesterday, as we carried the fabulous and still warm pies to Lily’s car, she said, “Don’t look in my car. It’s such a mess.” “Just like I said earlier, don’t look in the bedroom.” “It wasn’t so bad,” she said.
Phyllis, cherished in memory, had raccoon paw-prints going through the paths in her dining room toward the kitchen. But no one took sharper delight in a garden, even if it was a bunch of marigolds near a lemon tree. Her lemon meringue pie was perfection.
Neither self-criticism nor pep talk will change any stripes.
Piotr, in dress, was like his gardens; impeccably casual, polished loafers, pressed trousers and lightly starched shirt. The wet spots under his armpit suggested a nervous artist soaking through.
We’re in different orbits. I tend 30 gardens to his 5 at half the price. What are the benefits of that? I don’t have to contend with “the noise of perfection.” Does Piotr hear such a noise? He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. It’s all in my head.
I like my work. Luckily, San Francisco still has a class, above middle class but not in the league of the Pacific Heightster, that hires guys like me who sketch, if at all, on envelopes, who leave the upstart unidentifiable tree to see what will happen, who rake the fallen leaves back into the fusty corner, as if no one will notice, knowing that as they decay they’ll add flavor and texture to the soil, assuming it will be good.