Early spring in Los Angeles. The night air is luscious. Less fragrant now that the days are heating up more and the blossoms from my mystery trees are nearly spent, but sweet all the same. The current temperature is an even 60 degrees. The low will be 54 overnight. That means heaters are OFF and windows open for nighttime dreaming. Perfect. And if you wanted you could leave your house late at night in a cotton nightgown and putter down the street in your big ugly Reeboks. If you wanted. You could.
Mailart touchdown in London. On a Sunday no less.
I’ll be entering a child-free zone on next Tuesday for 6 weeks. More time for mailart then. And silence.
I’m unbridling all the baby horses and stepping out of the way. This horse wrangler is ready for some solitude.
A blaze of red geraniums in the front window boxes.
You may recall the POLICE STING that took place in my back patio in October. The man who came tumbling down the bluff in back and crashed into my Joseph’s Coat. Remember? Joseph is fine. I dunno what became of the other fellow.
Bedtime stories of late consist of brief biographical essays on my girl, LA. Savory reading for someone such as myself who is smitten with Los Angeles in all her light and shadow.
I love BRUTUS the sheep. In fact I love every single word BEDLAM FARM writes on this, one of my favorite blogs in the universe. The farm animals, barn cats, hospice dogs, every single last word and photo I DIG.