“rare buddhist flower found under nun’s washing machine”
Wednesday 3 March 2010 | 2 cookies in the jar
Which may edge out “Woman, Trapped, Survives on Moisture” as best headline ever. This via Mandarin—a little human-interest story that made my MONTH.
Three THOUSAND years. Holy holy-flower, that’s…that’s rare, is what that is.
Kind of like me posts. For simple reasons, some previously given, some new:
1) weekend head cold that has slyly shifted into sinus infection, and no I do not have a neti pot, nor am I about to dash out to procure one, since past attempts ended along the lines of Christopher HItchens’ experiments in waterboarding;
2) actual Al-Anon stepwork, as in Step One, as in, I may have gotten kind of carried away because my sponsor said, “Write a narrative….” and after that I think everything she said was just a blur. You don’t TELL Ms. Un, write a narrative, without the inevitable happening—in this case, 17 single-spaced pages, none of which are fit to appear in public. If I were my sponsor, I’d tell me that for Step Two, I’m only allowed to write with a crayon. In my left hand. In the dark. And the result can’t be longer than 3 pages anyway.
3) the usual failure to grade student work, failure to prep for class, failure to complete my incomplete from last semester, failure to format my thesis by arcane and uninteresting Graduate College standards, failure to, failure to. Maybe that should be the name of my new blog, especially since
4) I can’t say a motherloving, chickenchoking, treehugging THING about what’s happening and, more to the point, what’s spectacularly not happening, with me and the Brujo, here. Which really makes me feel insane(r). Like the song says, I’ve grown accustomed to your face. I’ve mostly grown accustomed to that horrified gaping pained expression it wears when I indulge in yet another verbose overshare. And with that outlet sealed to me…well, your gain is my loss. Anyway he and I have a (second) therapy intake on Friday, on which 45-minute slot all my hopes are, yet again, ridiculously, pinned.
5) SHIT I have to leave RIGHT NOW to teach.
I leave you with these lovely pads. I know, not much pad pr0n lately, right? Again you’ve probably been breathing sighs of relief. But Obsidian made them and dyed them herself with natural dyes made out of herbs and stuff, stuff like alkanet and annatto and alum mordant—basically, stuff which would’ve gotten her hanged and then burnt a thousand years ago. And I do not need more pads &c but I adore them. And her witchy purple badness.
2 cookies in the jar
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I must admit, I would have assumed the flower was some kind of mould and probably brushed it away before it had a chance to complete its 3,000-year blooming trick. Auspicious indeed for the flower that it landed on the washing machine of a patient and nature-serving nun! It must have known.
I thought the same thing: “Good heavens…some kind of nasty spore!” Scrub, scrub. She obviously wasn’t a ZEN nun.