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It's the 26th of April of 2025. Before 14:00, a sunny blue-sky afternoon, I went to my neighbourhood's cul-de-sac to meditatively walk around and around there. I admired the gardens. They reminded me of Daoism: how the microcosm reflects the macrocosm: The puffs of sakura would be a nebula afar. One need not really travel too far. Barb my white neighbour was at her driveway. She and her husband Ken would be going out to buy eggs. They eat many eggs.
In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house close by a deep river, and from the house down to the water side grew great burdock leaves, so high, that under the tallest of them a little child could stand upright. The spot was as wild as the centre of a thick wood. In this snug retreat sat a duck on her nest, watching for her young brood to hatch; she was beginning to get tired of her task, for the little ones were a long time coming out of their shells, and she seldom had any visitors.
It's a sunny 3rd of July of 2025. On the 7th will be the Star Festival—Tanabata—in Japan. This morning, here on Lulu Island, I strolled to Tim Hortons café twice—Iced Coffee with oat milk, then Strawberry Watermelon Sparkling Quencher with a Sausage Farmer's Wrap. I went to the "Clam Temple." On the way, I glanced at the charming bamboo grove. An old man had dug holes beside it to put compost—eaten mangoes and cherries. At the café, I spoke to Greg, the white man who eventually wants to own a B&B in Kushiro, Hokkaido, with his Japanese wife. The native Ainu and marshes are attractions there. Today, head-shaven Greg is wearing a beige T-shirt and beige shorts—maybe a hint of Chabacano?