ozzy is reaches for everything now. he's not talking, but as he's staring intently at the object in his hands, his eyes are saying, oh yeah. mmmhum. it's time to get my swerve on. while 'reading' a cloth book about dinosaurs, he grabs hold of the pages and pulls it tightly to his chest, caressing the pages with his finger tips, mouthing and drooling all over the dinosaurs, crushing the pages in his arms and gnawing all over the textured parts of the dinosaurs. if they were real, i think they would have looked violated.
sometimes when i think about giving up on life in general, and sitting like a blob all day, unbidden my mind fills up with images of a neglected garden turning brown, rotting, dying, and thats often enough motivation to keep going, if for no other reason than to prevent the desolation from becoming reality. is it weird that when i think of dying one day, that i get sad knowing my garden will die when i am gone? i dont think anyone else would go tend to it when i am no longer around. i hope they will at least keep a plant or two in remembrance of me, but the little pollinator waystation i've been working for several years now to create will likely be razed and no more.
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