passionfruit ever dumbening I stood at the white porcelain basin in her kitchen, the cool clean spring air pushing by. I slurped greedily, batlike, at the season's final offerings. Tart-sweet mass. Juicy, fleshy. Light yellow-green, spotty. Crunchy seeds giving contrast to the mix. I had the same thought I always have when eating fruit so good: why the need for candy? We made love a few hours later. And so but then three months later, with no contact, and a lover or two in between, I walk through her garden again. We look and talk about the changes time and hands have brought. She points out the tiny sproutings below the healthy main vine, how the dropped fruits and cast seeds continue on. She mentions the connection to the late-season rains so rare around here. The vine already has several fruit on it. Again, my desire sets in. She picks a few strawberries and the remains of the blueberries, feeding me. I notice the spot just above her hip, exposed between denim and black wool, as she reaches down. We leave the uncanny microclimate winds that pour past the headlands directly onto her house, and we hike. Warm dry grassy hill. Artemisia californica rolls between our fingers, scented oils releasing. Mimulus aurantiacus casts light orange about. As we walk we redress spring's missteps silently. During dinner—of tamales with perfectly smooth masa wrappings, of muli-textured carnitas, of spicy carne asada—we talk not of what passed between us, but of the world. She asserted the need for small concrete actions, not the revolutionary and unachievable I dream of. One of her suggestions was to collect fruit from people's backyards and give it to those in need. We'll see how I feel about that when the passionfruit ripens. We'll see how I feel about her, when the passionfruit ripens. 050703 ... jane i envy that vine 050703 ... passionflower Have you seen the flower? It doesn't seem like it belongs on earth. It's a schizophrenic's notion of what a flower looks like, manifested. 050705 ... LS I really liked that, E.D. It was like something out of a french novel... ..really nice. 050705 ... . bat_and_fruit 050705 ... ever dumbening interesting that you should link bat_and_fruit, mr. or ms. dot, as that was written about me. now it would appear i'm the bat. as an aside, the author of the aforementioned also penned reflecting_on_things_long_since_forgotten. that particular slice, though, was not upon my skin. if you'd like to see what she wrote about me after we parted—a piece i actually love quite a bit, despite what it implies about me—read "rosemary" by steel flower girl #2. she writes for a living; i figure if you're going to get it stuck to you, at least get it stuck in style. and thanks lemon soda, i do like wine and women quite a bit, maybe imparting that french flavor. i don't spend enough money on shoes, however. i guess i'm a cad really, casting down wonderful fruits or—conversely—turning away from hungry bats. but well there it is, a heap of black nylon twine, piled up on the floor, shiney, almost wet. 050705 ... jane the rosemary poem is stunning [[[[punctum one might say]]]] 050705 what's it to you? who go blather from