NIGHT BLOOMING JASMINE

It’s in full force, now, in my window, letting out its scent, low-key lilac with an undertone of velvet. It only blooms after dusk, unassuming little pronged flowers, but its understatement and fragrance subsume physical beauty, because physical beauty is not everything. Sometimes it’s the subtext. I have some triumphs, but the fate of my plants has been sadder than last year. Cinnamon basil: dead, Cuban oregano: barely hanging on; little geranium: overtaken by polkadotted plant; lavender: hasn’t grown past six inches since it was born. The polka dotted plant, it’s pretty, don’t get me wrong – pink and green spots, it flourishes even when I forget to water it every day. But the night blooming jasmine smells like beauty. They use it to treat epilepsy in Mexico, I read, but that might be wrong. Was a 19th century Louisiana funeral flower, I read, too, but that’s too goth to flaunt without back-up, and too deep to drop flagrantly, too. I ‘ll check in with you later.
Inland Empire, despite being Lynchian in the late-Lynch way, might be his most human movie yet, in the late-Lynch way. It’s about a woman, and empathy.
maybe they all are, but he just makes you cut through a lot of bullshit to get there. Also: more, later.
today in politics: republicans, you and your antics. you are the frat party that never ends.