Every so often, my curiosity about what someone else is reading in public leads to a chance encounter. In this case, it was a book titled On the Mystical Shape of the Godhead: Basic Concepts in the Kabbalah by Gershom Scholem. The reader was visiting the coffee shop I frequent all too frequently for the first time. He and his wife had recently moved to Arizona following the completion of his degrees in philosophy and English literature. Ivan was born in Macedonia, meaning the pronunciation of his name is Eevon, while his wife Merry (yep, as in Christmas) seemed receptive to my intrusion, and before I knew it, he dropped the name Adorno. My eyes lit up; nobody just casually talks about Theodor Adorno of the Frankfurt School, the author of one of my all-time favorite books, Dialectic of Enlightenment, and I do mean nobody ever.

The proverbial one thing leading to another results in us exchanging contact data, and, contrary to the more stereotypical transaction of that type of exchange, he wrote to me six days later, in early November. Soon after, we met for the second time. Fast forward following a number of subsequent meetups, and I leave our coffee encounter with a book recommendation titled A Beam of Sunlight in the Deep Forest by Édouard Schuré, which I ordered from a small company focusing on “visually striking and unusual books.” You see it in today’s photo.

I’ve not read this book yet. I’ve not read anything this year due to my commitment to what I’m writing away from these rare blog updates. Nor is this post about Ivan, as there’s too much to encapsulate in a brief missive. Nope, it’s about the books I’ve purchased this year that are gathering dust. The list includes the following: Japanese Inn by Oliver Statler, House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski, The Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell, Bifurcate: There is No Alternative by Bernard Stiegler, and Restoring the Pitchfork Ranch: How Healing a Southwest Oasis Holds Promise for Our Endangered Land by A. Thomas Cole. Compared to previous years, I believe this might be the least number of books I’ve brought into the inventory of new books that could require years before I open them. I said “open” not read, but that’s another story, another blog post for another day.

We rise before the sun, which arrives earlier every day on its quest to claim more of the night. Our days not only grow longer, but they become hotter, and the blossoms of spring must burst forth before the scorching summer heat crisps everything in its path here in the desert. We experienced our first 100-degree day (37 Celsius) nine days ago, which we can only hope does not portend something worse than last year’s fifty-five days of temperatures above 110 degrees (43 Celsius). Our winter gear is yet to be put away, just in case we are so fortunate to have a couple more cooler days ahead. Sure, the burst of color is always a welcome sight, as is the return of the song and fluttering of the mockingbirds, but the arrival of allergens works to temper the enthusiasm, even if only a tiny bit. With our alarm clock slowly creeping counterclockwise into the morning, waking us earlier and earlier, the warming days remind us of something else: hold hands as much as possible now because we are only weeks away from sweaty hands that lose some of the appeal of being grasped in love.

This post has nothing to do with marijuana. The title was a convenient reference to a particular date to post something. Cactus blooms are small (though sometimes rather large) treasures that are real rarities. Sadly, as quickly as they show up, they are just as soon gone. Artificial Intelligence to the rescue! Posing the question as to why their blooms are so short-lived, Claude informed me of what should have been obvious. Blossoming flowers require a lot of energy and water. These things can be scarce in the desert, and with such a burst of contrasting beauty, they quickly attract the pollinators they require and, with their purpose satisfied, move immediately to wilting and death.

Another thing, most of these cactus blooms are in full flower when we are out at the break of dawn. It’s cooler then, so less evaporation will take place; plus, their primary pollinators being bats, moths, and beetles, those nocturnal creatures have these treats to themselves until the bees awaken.

Not being experts in the visual identification of precisely what variant of hibiscus was blooming on this tree, we felt it better to admire the blossoms and not risk having a taste. Being in the Southwest, with a large Hispanic population, we have a ready supply of dried hibiscus flowers at any number of grocery stores that cater to the Hispanic market.

Attention: The above paragraph is false. It turns out that AI image detection is not foolproof, whereas  I, the editor, am extraordinarily brilliant and nearly perfect. Compare my knowledge to that of this man who claims to be a capable writer who engaged in the following text exchange, “Seriously, John? Everyone can see that this is Hoa Ban Tím, commonly known as Hong Kong Orchid.” To which he feebly replied, “Oh really, so why’s it in Arizona smarty pants?” I had to point out the obvious, “Duh, I’m from Germany, right?” What he wrote next makes me want to cry, “You’re telling me that someone married a plant?”

If you are not so fortunate to live in a place where citrus is able to grow in abundance, you can’t know the incredible phenomenon of these last couple of weeks of March when the scent of citrus blossoms wafts upon the warmer air currents here in the Phoenix area. Over the course of the 29 years that we’ve been living here in the middle of Arizona, this smell is one of the greatest aspects that greets us every year. Most everyone who lives in the desert knows that our seasons are scorching-hellish-summer and not-summer, but for about two weeks the air is heaven scent.