Rallotment!

Wednesday 9:57 p.m.
On Saturday, me and the other person were in the allotment and the weather was wonderful. So I'm standing there in the gorgiousness and something from 100 Years of Solitude starts happening. Petals were falling from a clear blue sky. They weren't petals. They were elm seeds.

The other person said it must be something Treefest was doing. Treefest is a one day festival of wood held in Inverleith Park on Saturday. We wandered around the big white tents later. Some beautiful things made of wood. A Treefest boy said it was elm seeds. Authoritative tree hugging joe. Obviously, others had remarked. It was like the day when the coral goes spunk; the air was full of seed. Today, I saw piles of elm seeds beside the big road leading down to the Forth Road Bridge, the one that skights passed Stockbridge.

I've never seen anything like this before. I thought all the elms were dead, killed by Dutch Elm Disease. I think this is something to do with the weather. The weather has been wonderful recently for here. The raspberries will be great this year, and so will the apples on the wee tree, and all the other fruits in the allotment. And it doesn't get dark till late, late, late. This is a great surprise every year, but when you're young and don't have an allotment you might not notice it too much.

The elm seeds rained down on the Treefest. Here comes the elms!

I think I'll grow an elm.

I think I'll put some elm seeds in a position where they can grow themselves.

I think elms will grow even if I don't do anything.

I thought I should maybe remove the previous post since I wrote it when I was pissed, but ... it's a snapshot. Of when you were pissed. This blogginess is as close to letter writing as I get, except I never wrote letters when I was pissed.

I did a little writing tonight on the book. I'm going to call it My New Book. I think I may be able to have a second draft finished by the end of the school term, two weeks away. There was a time .... anyway, I'll have a draft soon. Then I should re-write it another fifteen times and then I'll have something. Am I too blissed to be buggered?

I feel wonderful. I've had two pints from the barrel and really that should do it, but probably won't. The sheath thing ... I've mentioned it before ... is sitting out there waiting for ra bliss and ra heat.

I need to get calm enough to stay in the hut overnight sometime this week. I'm feeling a bit calmer than last week. There's nothing in front of me except some kind of drinks reception I got invited to from the Traverse. Authortalks. God knows what it is. I must be on someone's list. Another open grave. Just as long as I don't mention kamamudras. Actually, on this beer I feel dead interesting. I will mention kamamudras. As long as I don't start singing the Country Joe and the Fish Song: Hey, baby, would you like to ball? In the kitchen or the shower stall? Hey, baby, that ain't all ... They don't write lyrics like that anymore.

Dearie me! Time to hit the statscounter thing. As Titus Oates said: "I'm going out. I may be some time." Or as the Governator and hopefully the next President of all the Americas might say: I'll be back!