Everyone was fascinated and terrified by the new orchid bloom, which a quick perusal of the architectural record demonstrated has not been a major influence on the design of most Manhattan skyscrapers. I was once again working in a skyscraper, but one designed in the pre-war era. As I admired the Art Deco structure of the building, I wondered if, in 100 years, someone will look back at the many glass-and-steel needles now erupting all over Manhattan and say "Those were the days, when architects really knew how to deliver something remarkable for the 10 - 20 billionaires who bought the apartments contained within these beautiful silver spikes, whose views could appreciated by anyone with access to the internet and the promotional photographs taken from within of the glittering vistas that spread out like the neurons of a massive, electrified amoeba." I guess it's possible. At home, I told the cats that they would have to help rake leaves this year. As usual, they agreed and did nothing, which I've found can be a very effective strategy for dealing with certain kinds of people who like to tell you what to do. More importantly: why was the azalea still flowering? I tried to explain that it was time to "go the fuck to sleep," and for the first time I felt like I could relate to the author of the popular children's book. The azalea agreed and did nothing. The dawn redwood, however, turned gold as the temperatures dropped. As I did each year -- and possibly each month or each day -- I felt that deciduous conifers were seriously underrated in the plant world. The Virginia creeper also turned, which made the walls look old and haunted, which is an important element in the "pleasure of ruins" aesthetic we have long been striving to attain in the garden. The Japanese maple turned red, which was an improvement over last year, when we moved it to a new, shadier spot and the leaves merely wrinkled, which isn't a good sign. November was an unexpectedly good month; the garden was filled with ghosts, and the ghosts of ferns.