Welcome To My Bed

Hometown.


I've been in New Jersey less than 24 hours and I've seen a ska show, danced so hard to dubstep that an on-duty cop came up to my sister and I to compliment us, drove the length of Manhattan as the sky was graying with morning, and indulged in the greasy highway diner fare that simply does not properly exist in New England.  But the highlight has been the dirt.  I pulled hundreds of tiny maple seedlings from my gram's front garden.  Kneeling on ground not made of concrete.  It's been too long since I've touched growing things, though a lot of the garden has been chewed over by deer.  They ate all but three of the tulips and none of the daffodils (daffodils are poisonous).  My uncle buys special seed for the birds and squirrels.  The yard is overrun with fat red wing blackbirds, crows, cow birds, starlings, cardinals, mourning doves, blue jays.  So many things that I love I could never have in a city.  Except house music.  That new love is highly portable.