On my street a honeysuckle vine has wrapped itself halfway up a concrete street light, and the smell is heavenly; two blocks over it's a Sleeping Beauty rose hedge. There are Martian flowers I cannot name, like the something that grows into a purple sphere but empty at the centre. The peonies and ajisai- what's that in English? right, hydrangeas- are coming out and should burst forth in the coming week's heat. Of course, the coming week's heat will probably drive me back indoors, to the comfort of the fan if not the AC; and then I shall read more. (Like last year, doggedly reading my way through Brust and Griffin and Carey until the heat of July cancelled all memory of what I did.)
Except the other reason I don't read is that my embroidering skills have advanced to the point that my efforts now look respectable, and so I spend an hour of my evenings embroidering quasi-roses and pseudo-lilacs over bleach stains and tiny holes.
I was in a taking about something yesterday-- malignant juxtaposition of several angsts, one of which is teeth. Usually I read Buddhist textbooks for this, but they weren't helping. So I vacuumed the living room and hallway, scrubbed unreachable parts of the kitchen floor, washed the stairs, picked up unripe plums and bird-pecked cherries in the garden (a bumper crop year again, alas) and trimmed the overgrown hedge: sensibly in the cool, instead of waiting for next week's heat as I normally do. And as ever, it worked like a charm; and as ever, this strikes me as All Wrong.