We are spending the summer here at home. We are working on the house. Yesterday I painted the cement floor in the office downstairs a color called "Rhinocerous"; it's kind of a purpley, leathery gray. I like it.
Imbetween I am reading about roses and admitting to myself that they really are quite lovely. There are so many sorts, so many colors, so many options and it seems somehow silly that I once could make sweeping statements like: "I don't like roses; they are too cliche." , when really there is are so many roses and they range from exotic to nonchalant to candy coated. I believe I will be planting some "Ballerinas" here in the gaden. The thought makes me happy.
Last week I read "The Hours" by Michael Cunningham and this week I am rereading it. I am surprised that I never read it before. In 2002 I saw the movie and also read "Mrs. Dalloway". Funny that I should wait till now to read this book, but that's how things work sometimes, isn't it.
I sit here fussing over roses and thinking about Clarissa, Clarissa Dalloway and Clarissa Vaughan, and flowers, and peaches in a bowl and the color I painted the floor and other trivial, temporal things, and how ife is good.