Serendipitous Juxtapositions and a Note on Pruning

Funny how things sometimes arrange themselves.  Like here, where a print of two pages (I presume), wearing ruffled jackets tinged blue and white fills a niche in the living room bookcase.  The bisque bust of a boy (tinged blue and white and of more or less the same era or epoch or at least millennium) sitting in front magically arrived in this position, as if both were meant to be just so juxtaposed. As if he crawled into a niche in my brain and said, "Carry me forth to reside beside mine bros!"  And so I did.

He's only allowed to visit though, since the picture neatly covers the TV and needs to be moved so we can watch the news or So You Think You Can Dance and whatnot. This would then require moving the bust as well, and he is ridiculously fragile, and absolutely living in the wrong house (this, what I'm typing now, is one big aside. Completely off topic, as these things go) along with many other treacherously delicate objects that sometimes I wish would be reduced to crumbs by some earth event, preferably when we were off frolicking (ah, there's a picture) elsewhere.

The boy and his sister, who lives in Palm Beach with MY sister, once sat in various parental niches in our several childhood homes,  one on each side of some this or that. I never touched either of them -- I didn't even dare to breathe within ten feet of them. My mother, who was rather easy going about most things, did an outstanding job of instilling fear.

One of the most terrifying moments of my life -- right up there with the aneurysm --  was the day she asked me to bring them into the kitchen so she could clean them.

I was thirty.

The picture of the pages was acquired at an estate sale five-six years ago or maybe ten. It was an unlikely purchase, since I have no interest in the subject and blue is not my color, but they were adamant about coming home with me so I sighed and wrote a check (it was definitely a time when checks were still being written).

Here's another thing.

This steel engraving, La Via Appea, it's called, is another parentally provided item. The picture's elaborately unappealing motif features half-naked slaves dancing alongside carriages bearing noblepersons of an extremely white persuasion.  



Poised on the tabletop is a bronze figurine that appears to have escaped from the picture (good for him!);

The escapee is one of several small sculptures that The Prince brought home from a job -- a client  lightening his living room while sending ours around this ever increasing baroque bend.

Another is the bisque figurine above, a Grecian lady I figure, from the drape of the gown and shoulder slung ewer. She took her place on the dining table, where I tend to keep a posy and she appears to tend it.

And then we have Tormento de Guatemazen, another cheery inheritance, a picture composed almost entirely of feathers that depicts an indian with his feet to the fire-- Aztec perhaps? He's surrounded by soldiers and oddly placid looking landsmen, including a woman, probably his wife who finally had it with waiting for the electrician to fix the bathroom lights. No no! That's another story, never mind.

Anyway, this picture sits absolutely appropriately above the living room fireplace, in which I have cleverly lit a fire in Photoshop to reinforce the power of the imagery.

It's too damn hot yet for fire.

To get back to the premise of this post, none of these juxtapositions was calculated.

Sometimes I think my mind has been invaded by independently thinking beings that force me to do their will without effort. You know?

No?

Oh yes. My pruning note.  Sometimes neglecting to prune allows plants to get entirely out of hand. Witness the white flower vine:

This was supposed to be a tracery of white, a dancing froth that would enhance NOT SMOTHER everything in its path.

Every time the Prince, snippers waving, said  "Should I...."

I snapped, "No!"

And so it goes.