… is the universe trying to tell me? It just dawned on me that for the second time in my life I am living with six blocks of a municipal arboretum. For nine of my twelve years in San Francisco I lived at McAllister and Arguello. Now I am a quick sprint from the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. And yet I barely ever enter it. Perhaps it’s the irksome bonsais in the greenhouse (their ages are marked on little signs stuck into their pots and it pisses me off to see some puny maple that’s been around longer than the US). Is it wrong for me to shun the parks? Is fate gently nudging me in the direction of more chlorophyll-producing beings?