My art teacher, blurry borage, Gojira, blah, blah, blah..

Johnson's Blue geranium

 
In high school I had the best art teacher.  I can't remember how or why anymore but Mrs. Samsel and her husband (a professional photographer) took the time to listen to me and love me (no easy task in those days) and teach me what they could about photography.  Using 35mm cameras and film and a darkroom.  I was all set to study art and photography at the San Francisco Art Institute, but at the last minute opted instead to follow some fleeting, lunatic notion and go to the cosmetology school down the street from my house in Storm Lake, Iowa.  It was a crazy, out-of-character thing for me to do, but set me on a path that I never would have discovered otherwise (note: I'm not actually a cosmetologist).  I am a better, happier person for having let my destiny unfold in front of me rather than, full of pretense, chase down what might have made more sense.  But I sometimes lament that I don't utilize those skills so freely and lovingly passed on to me by the Samsels.  What happened to the passion that I had for photography, for capturing those precious, transient, ephemeral moments that make the pain of living more tolerable?  I need reasons to keep my eyes open.  I seldom have a camera with me now, and only on the rare occasion that I'm driving in the country at twilight do I wish that I did, and even then those thoughts are usually eclipsed by the intense concentration required to dodge oncoming deer. 

I tell this story because obviously I had intended this space to catalog my passion for gardening.  It never really has.  And it's partly because my garden isn't the most photogenic -- it's purposefully cultivated, but also wild.  There is a balance between what I want there and what nature wants there.  I've found that if I let fate have her way, she lets me have mine.  I harvest plenty from my garden beds without having to cull the native plants (a.k.a. weeds) that tuck themselves in amongst my vegetables.  And many of those weeds are just as edible.  My garden is beautiful to my eyes, but not so much to most others'. 

..and let's be real, it might also be because I'm just a crappy photographer.

The other reason for this blog not having anything to do with the goings-on in my garden despite being titled as such is this:  I am compelled to garden more than I am compelled to prove that I garden.  In the age of Facebook and Pinterest and whatever other forums I'm not privy to, there's this obsession with presenting evidence of having done things, rather than just living life and DOING THINGS.  Things that are meaningful and sincere and worth remembering, not just things done in a haste so that you could have PROOF that you'd done something.  I was considering this phenomenon recently, after having "met" the genuinely amazing French metal band Gojira in Kansas City last month…

What other metal band would use this for a backdrop?!

I bought a VIP ticket to the Kvelertak/Gojira/Mastodon show because after driving five hours to get there I'd do almost anything to not have to wait in line to get into the show.  And because who doesn't want to meet members of their favorite bands?  I want to meet EVERYONE when I travel, that's kind of the whole point, isn't it?  New places, new people?  As I've been holed up by single motherhood in rural Iowa for the past 9 years I'm starved of opportunities for either of those things.  Before I had Tristan, I'd been lucky to have met some of my favorite musicians, as well as writers and artists and producers under various circumstances over the years.  I have fantastic memories and stories, I've made friends and made a baby but I don't think I've ever asked for a picture (with one exception -- Liesl from The Sound of Music.. unfortunately that photo has been lost to time).  Frankly, I just hate having my picture taken.  And forget about autographs, those meaningless, indecipherable scribbles, ubiquitous only because they require less initiative than actually saying something (in my mind that "something" is usually "fuck off").  So armed with these pet-peeves, I should have been reluctant to participate in the meet and greet with Gojira, but I've actually never done this kind of thing before and was more than a little curious.  And I'd had way too much to drink beforehand (thanks for the complimentary bottle of wine, Hotel Sorella!).  The experience was entirely unimaginative, calculated, totally appropriate for this age of haste and unbelievably awkward for me.  Mario Duplantier might be one of the sweetest men I've ever met, but I hope that his brother realizes that attraction and admiration and shame and three glasses of wine renders some of us (hi there) total doofuses.  Gojira really is something special and beautiful.  And the only band that I can prove to anyone on the internet that I've met, which is pretty ironic.

I am so glad I didn't wear my clogs.

Tomorrow I'll post more unprofessional pictures to prove that I garden!  And to weepily reminisce the work that will slowly be dismantled over the coming year.  I installed a patio this past spring.  A fucking patio!  By myself!  Okay, with a seven-year-old, which is just about the same as "by myself", but don't tell him that.  He's super cute and I don't want to hurt his feelings...