Poor F and Adrian. I didn’t mean for my little photo gallery of Oregon flowers to torture them so. I’ve been watching their exchange with an eye to collaring a park ranger next time I’m down that way and demanding an identification, but Adrian’s asked for more pictures, and added “pretty please,” and seeing as how the damned thing intrigued me enough to shoot several photos of it which I haven’t yet posted, I’m in a position to oblige.
I hope no one’s expecting witty, clever and insightful commentary from me on these photos. What can I say, really? It’s a flower. It’s this big and it’s pink. I’m not even sure it’s properly a flower, because from what little I know about botany, the flower heads look like modified bracts to me. But what the hell do I know? I can’t even identify the damned thing, and it’s stumped some of my most resourceful readers.
Also, I have cramps. And my computer has taken a pathological dislike to the idea of uploading lots of photos. I tried shaming it by showing it how the Kindle Fire was playing Pandora and loading web pages with zip and zing, but it wasn’t impressed, so I rebooted its arse. I wish I could reboot my uterus, or even just boot it, but it’s hard to get at without medical help. Right now, flowers are making me think about reproduction, and reproduction reminds me that I hate my reproductive system. Perhaps my computer has picked up on this mood.
It seems that as these flowers age, they get whiter, sort of like my cat. My cat has got a lot of gray, where she’s not going bald. She is, however, still spry enough to shove her dear face in mine in the ay-em and wail like a banshee until she’s started me awake believing there’s some terrible calamity. Upon investigation, I discover her food bowl’s full, her water likewise, and her litter box accessible. She’s just decided to wake me early on a morning when I’m trying to sleep in. So the next day, as she’s snoring on the pillow beside me, I retaliate by tickling her nose and crooning “You’re so cute!” until she’s wide awake. There follows a state of truce for one day, and then she gets her vengeance by shitting on the sofa.
I love my cat. I love my cat. I love my cat.…
There you go. Nice up-close view of the aged flower head. Speaking of aged, did I mention what I’m listening to on Pandora? New Wave. I’m living the 80s, baby, yeah. And contemplating how certain eras have a certain sound. In the 80s, it was synthesizers and lisps. I have uneasy flashbacks to leg warmers and poofy hair. I remember taping songs off the radio and hoping that eventually the DJ would tell me what they were, but he almost never did. The DJ was a 13 year-old with a fantastic radio voice, total geek, one of my favorite friends. I could have asked him, I suppose, but he was always vaguely embarrassed about his job, so we tried not to mention it. I have no idea why.
And I’m thinking of Suzanne, who had her surgery today. Successful, thankfully, done by a top-notch surgeon. I’m thinking of my other friend, whose news I haven’t heard yet. It’s the wait-and-see-how-bad-it-is game. I hope it ends up being the least worst news.
Think happy thoughts. Think of flowers and butterflies and rocks with wonderful inclusions and phenocrysts and suchlike. Happily, we can end with a photo that has got all three.
Hopefully, one of these photos will lead through a breakthrough. If not, there’s always Oregon park rangers and the Kindle Fire. I shall pull up these posts and shove these photos in faces until an identification is accomplished, for the sake of F and Adrian.
Love and hugs, my darlings. I’m off to bury myself in New Wave and 19th century mystery novels again, but I’ll be popping up to post more photos (probably not of unidentified flowers so much, because one mystery at a time is enough), and there’s the super-late Darwin Day post, and possibly a new trip to Oregon if we don’t get rained out…