Matthew Gallaway

Red Leaves in Green Light (Potted Plants)

Usually I get home from work in time to catch the last rays of sun in the garden.  Yesterday, however, was not one those days. 
I didn't mind, though; if anything, the leaves start to glow in the twilight, as if they, too, are unwinding after a day of work in the city.  Or maybe it's that we can appreciate the sun more when it's almost gone. 
We can finally stretch out, happy to no longer be watched. 

The Bryant Park Project (Haze Descends)

Today the haze descended on Bryant Park and the pansies wilted.  Though less than ideal from a comfort perspective, the haze added a celestial aura to the scene. 
"Heaven is a open field of grass surrounded by sycamores and a balustrade." -- Nobody The pansies persevered. 
The sun turned everything to liquid. 

In the Weeds (Let's Go To Dallas)

Recently I went to Dallas, where I was reminded of how the physical landscape can sometimes resemble a pyschological one. Read the full piece at the Awl. 

The Front Yard Report (Ferns and May Apples)

The fog this morning burned off into the summer's first real humidity.  The May apples and ferns have been struggling this year, because our neighbor's scaffolding has limited the light. 
Being plants, they will take whatever they can get. 

Taipei by Tao Lin (Book Reports)

In Taipei, a soon-to-publish novel by Tao Lin, we follow a young writer "Paul" (late twenties) through a short period of his life in which he's trying to negotiate the demands of his art, his family, his girlfriends, and his past. In all of these spheres -- except for possibly his art -- he's often plagued by a sense of severe alienation, detachment, and malaise that leaves him ambivalent about life. "I feel like I hate everyone," he says at one point about halfway through the book, when he's on the way to an art opening with his new girlfriend, not long after telling her that he's "ready to die whenever." If it's a type of abnegation that comes off as willfully immature, Lin clearly understands the danger, and instead of wallowing in it, manages to walk a very fine line between self-discovery and self-mockery. Many of the scenes and observations in the book are hilariously awkward as Paul and his friends -- often with the use of drugs -- attempt to transform their lives into a kind of performance art that often has comically bewildering effects on those who observe them. Art becomes his salvation or god, the one thing in which he never loses faith and returns to when people -- as people inevitably do -- fail to please or to understand him. Appropriately enough in this regard, Lin's prose is highly crafted; he infuses descriptions of life that would otherwise be mundane or boring with ornate bursts of philosophy and metaphor, often involving the internet or Macbooks, which are never far from his side. He easily mixes references to "high art" and low in ways that also mirror the online world.  As someone who's older than Lin by a generation, I enjoyed reading about the narrator's attempts to negotiate to what, by the end of the book, feels like the cusp of what I would probably call "middle age." There is a quality of the universal at work here, so that even if the details are somewhat different, I felt at times like I was reading about my own past. In this way, underneath its more superficial disaffection, the book becomes a sly journey of transformation and even redemption. I recommend it for anyone who has struggled to find a way out of one phase of life and all of a sudden found yourself in another. 

The Saturday Garden Report (Angels and Invaders)

I like to think of the spreading ground covers as countries with constantly mutating borders; the flowers are the cities.
Up close, we see the sedum and the veronica at the border, fighting for space and supremacy, just like people.
We bought this plant a few years ago and forgot what it was, mostly because it languished in a pot where it didn't get enough light. I moved it to a sunnier spot, where it's now thriving. Sometimes you can't know everyone's name, unfortunately.
"My name is Dante. Don't forget it."
The primrose is in the back, with the scarlet flowers.
"I'm concerned about the state of the world and my future place in it." -- Zephyr   "I try to 'live in the moment' and enjoy the flowers, but sometimes I can't help but worry about what's going to come down over the wall next."   The azalea and phlox are less concerned, which is why there are benefits to being a plant. 
The miniature yew -- with the yellow tipped branches -- is also doing better this year, after being moved at least ten thousand times over the course of its garden career. 
The birch tree is solid and reliable. It's the one thing we've never touched, except to trim its branches. 
"I will protect this garden from flying snakes." -- Elektra
Suddenly, there is a movement on the wall.  
It is not a flying snake, but a stray kitten, who hovers over us like an angel, watching with fear, fascination, and ambivalence. 

The Bryant Park Project (Summer Friday)

As everyone knows, the best part of summer in New York City happens before summer, like now, in May.  Combine that truth with a Friday afternoon and you have a recipe for bliss. 
Is this Bryant Park or heaven?  The plants were drunk. 
Nobody wants to think about the real summer, when it will be ten thousand degrees outside.  Even the ivy seems like a flowering meadow. 

The Park Avenue Project (Thursday)

All of a sudden the leaves are out and pretty much fully formed.  You don't even have to look at the buildings if you don't want to, but instead can concentrate on the oak leaves. 
Sometimes you can see a building through a gap in the leaves; you might pretend you own an apartment here, if you're very rich.  Meanwhile, some guy was praying to the pink azaleas. 

The Garden Project (Umbrella Pines)

May is the month when the evergreens grow fast.   When the pale green buds spread out from tips of the branches. 
When the new growth soaks up the yellow sun before it turns green. When the cats start to patrol for flying snakes.  
When Zephyr holds an ear back, listening to the birds.  When we all bask in the bright shade. 

The Afterwork Garden (Tuesday)

The garden is now becoming pleasantly cave-like.  I come home and imagine that, like the statue, the leaves are slowly covering me up. 
The outside world is now a memory.