http://www.organicmutant.com/2005/12/walking-through-poshington/ Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. Sat, 09 Oct 2010 11:54:40 +0000 hourly 1 http://www.organicmutant.com/2005/12/walking-through-poshington/comment-page-1/#comment-1051 gardening changed my life | Organic Mutant Wed, 25 Apr 2007 21:27:32 +0000 http://organic.server279.com/?p=426#comment-1051 [...] We have a little plot of land here in our semi-urban little neighborhood where we plant flowers, mulch, weed, and water. Over the years our garden has changed from a pretty generic suburban landscape of grass, cement, a few trees, and ordinary plants to something more organic and interesting. [...] [...] We have a little plot of land here in our semi-urban little neighborhood where we plant flowers, mulch, weed, and water. Over the years our garden has changed from a pretty generic suburban landscape of grass, cement, a few trees, and ordinary plants to something more organic and interesting. [...]

]]> http://www.organicmutant.com/2005/12/walking-through-poshington/comment-page-1/#comment-104 spider rick Thu, 15 Dec 2005 15:41:00 +0000 http://organic.server279.com/?p=426#comment-104 The other day I went to Home Depot in Richmond (bought wood to make a frame for the crazy dotted canvas in my room). On my way out of the parking lot, I drove through a massive enclave of brownworkers. This was a Tuesday at noon, and there were literally 50-80 daylaborers standing in the far reaches of the HD parking lot, each one glaring, waving, or outstretching their respective arms as I drove by, Moula in tow. It was a weird experience - me, averting my gaze, them yearning to sell their time and labor. Men with some limited skillsets, far from their homelands, looking for work on a Tuesday afternoon. The other day I went to Home Depot in Richmond (bought wood to make a frame for the crazy dotted canvas in my room). On my way out of the parking lot, I drove through a massive enclave of brownworkers. This was a Tuesday at noon, and there were literally 50-80 daylaborers standing in the far reaches of the HD parking lot, each one glaring, waving, or outstretching their respective arms as I drove by, Moula in tow. It was a weird experience – me, averting my gaze, them yearning to sell their time and labor. Men with some limited skillsets, far from their homelands, looking for work on a Tuesday afternoon.

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