Time to start harvesting the hops.  Should be a fine Pale Ale come October.

The wonderful expression of life that spring and summer bring with them.  I am already in mourning; fall is coming soon.

Often times while working, we wonder what our pups are up to.  Are they chewing pillows, napping on the couch, plotting to take over the world?  No.  They’re sitting awkwardly on the stairs watching shadows dance on the wall from cars passing by.

We are certainly a ritualistic species.  Our daily lives abound with them.  They become priorities, major events, ways to redeem our souls.  Sometimes it’s the ritual itself for its own sake that holds the importance and not what it signifies or represents.

Dreaming of cooler days, where there’s an escape from the sun’s relentless rays.  Damn it!  It’s hot!  Hot enough to melt away any semblance of dignity with this sweat drenched shirt.

I love the fields of grain when they turn gold before begging to be harvested.

Though the beauty is there, their existence is synonymous with disdain and grief.  You pull ’em out, they grow back.  You mulch over, they grow back.  You forget about them and they go to seed, they grow back.  The never ending battle with weeds.

Traveling to NYC?  Make sure to visit MoMA.  You will not be disappointed.

Years of paint weight the door down making it difficult to pass through. The broken archway leading in screams of imminent collapse. Welcome home and enjoy your temporary stay.