We went to our dear friends' sweeeeet, sweet wedding in Gainesville, Florida a few weeks ago in a 36-hour break from thesis prep and Block Shop insanity. I bought an electric-blue pin-up bengaline dress on the Bowery on my way from class to the airport, which, as one might imagine, did not particularly compliment the deliciously Southern Gothic, Alachua County vibe, but never mind, the wedding was a ball.
Before heading home I stuffed my carry-on with foraged epiphytes from the live oak in the hotel parking lot (illegal? probably), which are now hanging all over our nanoscale Brooklyn apartment bathroom like so many Himalayan hairless spiders. P. has some thoughts about this but I'm not going to share them here.
That whole weekend I kept thinking about The Orchid Thief, and, tangentially, how Susan Orlean is really good on Twitter. But I might be biased because a) I love Susan Orlean and b) I have a proclivity for people who Tweet about their chickens. (Related people who are good at things: Chris Cooper as John Laroche in Adaptation. Genius.)
But back to Florida for a second, and this big f*cking mothership of a staghorn fern, this polypod Death Star I found in the swamp:
Sometimes nature is such a crackerjack I think I can't make art any more, because you try making a painting better than that staghorn fern. If nature is queen, art is her jester.
On the flight back to JFK I finished the best novel I've read in 2013: Mat Johnson's hilarious, ingenious Pym. Featuring Edgar Alan Poe, an unpublished slave narrative, an all-black expedition to Antarctica, yetis fighting over Little Debbie® snack cakes, and a repositioning of African-American literature in the context of climate change and the paintings of Thomas Kinkade™. HOW CAN YOU RESIST.
Ok, that is not all, but it's all for now. Have a great weekend.