Matthew Gallaway

What's Up, 2024

The park was prepared for the cold winds and snow, although we don't get much snow these days. 

I've been running through the park lately but today was the first day I brought my camera. One of my tiny accomplishments in 2023 has been to untether myself from all electronic devices when I'm running, including a watch. I find that the GPS taps into my obsessive nature and compels me to run faster than I should, even or especially when I'm supposed to be running slowly, which I'm sure has contributed to a lot of injuries over the past few years. I suspect that I'm now running a lot slower, but at least I'm running. (And also, who cares how fast I'm going, except for the voices of my former cross-country coaches that live in the recesses of my mind?)  

One of my resolutions for 2024 is to limit my exposure to digital media (not including ebooks). I need to spend a certain amount of time online (by which I mean political social media) for my job, but I want to avoid the kind of compulsive scrolling that marked certain periods of the (first) Trump regime, especially the early days of the pandemic and lockdown. 

I want to concentrate as much as possible on good, uncontroversial things, like the flowers in the park. 

'Worried about 2024, but what can we do?' -- the winter buds

Things to look forward to in 2024 include when the heather starts to bloom. Just like now, in 2023. 

And the elm trees spiraling into the sky. 

DeathCulture@Sea (SeaWaves)

Happy New Year's Eve :) 

Link 

DeathCulturePlayList

Christmas Eve Blanket

Stephen bought a bouquet of ranunculus, which was the extent of our holiday decorations. It was more than enough when you factored in the beautiful December light. 

A subdued celebration seemed appropriate given the state of so much that's unfolding in the city/state/country/world.

Recently, I've been catching up on novels published in 2023; is it me, or are most of them about doing tons of drugs and driving around LA? 

I wondered if I could write 80,000 words about the winter light seeping through the blinds in the late afternoon. I propose that 'winter light' be considered a new literary genre to go along with historical, mystery, horror, LGBTQ, fantasy/SF, getting high and driving around LA, and YA. 

I forgot to mention that we also have a vase of eucalyptus leaves.

It's December 24th, and while the light wraps us like a blanket, Christmas feels very far away. 

Let It Be (Leaves Edition)

When our azalea died a few years ago, we replaced it with a Japanese maple. 

Its leaves didn't start turning until a few weeks ago, when all the other trees were pretty much done. 

I had forgotten how brilliant they are. 

Instead of scrolling through the news this weeks, I tried to spend a few extra minutes watching the leaves. 

It was a luxury. 

This weekend, I did the final pre-winter cleanup in the garden, which meant transplanting the toad lilies, cutting down a few of the perennials, and sweeping the leaves. I didn't cover the table and fountain with a tarp because I hate looking at the tarp and because the temperatures aren't forecast to drop below freezing in the near future. Three cheers for climate change :(

In the past, I've made a bigger production out of the leaves. I used to pick them out of the garden beds by hand -- like one or two at a time, dropping them into a bucket -- which was a slow but rewarding process if you have compulsive tendencies. Then we bought a leaf blower, which was violent but also satisfying, and finally a leaf mulcher, which was exciting at first. For a few years, I felt very suburban. 

But this year, I read several articles about how it's better to just let the leaves be. It creates less yard waste (obv) and allows beneficial ecosystems to thrive under the leaves. I wondered if the articles I once read about moldy leaves ruining gardens had been planted ('planted') by a consortium of leaf-disposal industries. If so, add it to the list of ways we've all been manipulated by corporate greed in the neoliberal era. 

Sweeping leaves from a path is the perfect amount of work, I realized. It's not too arduous, but it's not trivial, either. I didn't miss the leaf blower/mulcher combination. Will the garden suffer? I doubt it. 

Life is noisy enough. 

It's nice to feel hopeful about something. 

 

In the December Zone

After I got back from my run, I told Clio that we could go for a walk in the garden. The fog had burned off, and it was an eerily warm day for December. I saw a fat housefly and wondered where it had spent the past month or so. A flock of pigeons circled overhead, and I allowed myself to be hypnotized by the slow curving arcs the birds made through the sky. 

Stephen had already cleared out the troughs and planted bulbs for next spring. Even though it's been unusually warm this fall, spring felt like it was still a long way off. Last week, when the temperature dipped into the twenties, I wondered if we should start thinking about moving to Fort Lauderdale. Stephen recently sent me an article about how Wilton Manors -- a neighborhood in Fort Lauderdale -- has become a major non-heterosexual mecca. Could I live in Florida? I couldn't imagine it, but I liked the idea of being someplace warm and gay in the winter. 

Somewhat gingerly, I took the stairs down to the garden. I was sore from the run, which had been long and probably faster than most running experts seem to recommend these days. Since recovering from a bad ankle sprain in August, I've decided not to wear a watch when I run, which I'm sure has slowed me down (in a good way), but yesterday I somehow ended up in the middle of an actual race (runners with bibs, etc.) being held in Riverside Park on the Upper West Side, which of course led me to pick up the pace for a few miles. I even crossed the finish line because there was no way around it to get where I wanted to go. Then, on my way back home, I was passed by a guy moving at a pretty good clip, so I decided to duck in behind him for a few more miles until he turned around. And by this point I was in 'the zone,' which happens after an hour or so of moderately hard running when everything kind of clicks and you can run pretty fast for what feels like an almost indefinite amount of time. It's not like the discomfort fades, but -- along with the litany of injuries whose echoes never completely stop -- it recedes into the background, and during this period, time and distance melt away, which is an amazing feeling and maybe worth all the pain and training it takes to get there. 

Most of the leaves had fallen in the garden. 

For some reason, this Japanese maple is always late. 

The non-evergreen ferns were also fading. 

There were many leaves waiting to be swept and raked and mulched, but I decided to wait another week before tackling this chore. I wanted all the leaves to be down, and next weeks is supposed to be warm and dry, which is better for raking than wet and soggy. 

I'm looking forward to tidying everything up before the winter. 

I still have to transplant the toad lilies, which is going to be a major operation. I'm a bit nervous because they've been in the same spot for probably eight or nine years, but they're now too big. I hope they like their new home. You can never be 100-percent sure with plants. (Or people.) 

I also have to put away the candle holders, so that they won't rust in the (hypothetical) snow. 

Next week, I thought, these steps will be swept clean.