July 08, 2004
Candide
I've been on a bit of an emotional rollercoaster lately -- more down than up, on the whole -- and as a result not much concerned with blogging. The details are not worth going into, even for the record. Perhaps in ten years I'll look back on this entry and think "what the hell was going on that week, anyway?" but too bad, my future self is just going to have to live with the mystery.In the absence of anything more worthy of report, I did spend a significant chunk of yesterday afternoon tending to the plants on the balcony, which have been a tad neglected of late. The bay laurels, in particular, were infested with what I, in admitted ignorance, took to be whitefly, and their newer leaves were grown all twisty and tortured and mutant-looking. Merciless hacking and application of pesticides and fertilizer ensued, and it all looks healthier now.
In any case, the gritty satisfaction to be gained from this sort of dirty-handed activity reminded me of the finale of Candide, so here's a little of it:
Those Edens can’t be found
The sweetest flowers, the fairest trees
Are grown in solid ground.
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow.
