sun, finally, but i'm at work all day and no chance to enjoy it. my tomatoes will, though, and the flowers are peeking their little yellow heads out from beneath a great canopy of leaves. my motley rooftop garden has become a bastion of my sanity, and the daily tiptoe up the attic stairs and awkward squeeze through the window a comforting ritual. my zucchini plant was drowned by the recent rains (though jason has three more so we should be fine), and i managed to kill an ivy on my windowsill, but the tomatoes and the broccoli and the basil (oh! the basil!) and the peppermint and the peppers and the brussels sprouts are all doing quite well, thank you. i wish i had potatoes and radishes and carrots, and chamomile, and some salad greens and strawberries. i really wish i had a cherry tree, because the ones in the supermarket make me just about swoon, but i can't anymore let myself buy fruit from chile when it'll be ripe here in just a few weeks. all the berries are from watsonville and salinas, and i almost want to buy them, just for nostalgia's sake. i will be all over the farmer's market when i get home, let me tell you.

home! i'm going home in a week, exactly, from today. for silke's wedding - about which i had a long and somewhat terrfiying dream last night, where i failed to get her invitations designed in time and her ex-step-father tried to stop the whole thing - and to visit for a while. then here for the rest of the summer before i flit off to godknowswhere. the play i'm in opens the day before i get back, so that should be interesting in the Chinese sense if not the prosaic.

i spent most of saturday staring at the wall and eating peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, sliding back into the dull euphoria of utter disinterest. i've been sleeping later and later because i have nothing else to do. i did, however, manage to spit out the teapot i've spent the whole pottery class so far trying to make, and a mug or two that might end up going with it. i read Aristophanes' The Sexual Congress (hilarious), and L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future anthology (1987 edition - not bad). my tomato has flowers. it's our anniversary and we're going to dinner. all is not lost.