Mauve

I looked round me. I was on what seemed to be a little lawn in a garden, surrounded by rhododendron bushes, and I noticed that their mauve and purple blossoms were dropping in a shower under the beating of the hail-stones.

Among the paintings of Claude Monet is one titled "Lilac Irises" and another called "Iris Mauve."

Mauve was initially called "Tyrian purple."

Heather flowers are usually mauve.

The New Zealand Alpine flowers are usually white—helichrysums, daisies or heaths; though sometimes the daisies are yellow, and there are mauve campanulas, and the white violets have streaks of mauve.

After two in the morning, I was awake, trying to read an Interlingua book, Le torno del mundo in octanta dies, by Jules Vernes. But the lamp in the living room was too dim. I ate a few pieces of Italian round waffle-like cookies, pizzelle. I went back to sleep on the couch. Later, it was a drizzling morning, cold and clammy, this Boxing Day of 2024. I walked twice to the neighbourhood's Tim Hortons. Firstly, I ate two hash browns, whilst drinking an iced coffee with oat milk. Secondly, I ate a crispy chicken wrap with a glass of blackberry yuzu sparkling quencher. At both occasions, there were Eurasian children, and there were Filipinos that looked handsomely Japanesque. I was exercising with a hand grip strengthener at my table, as I counted to twenty in Esperanto, in each set: "unu, du, tri, kvar,..." In the afternoon, this Boxing Day of 2024, the sun came out of the clouds, the drizzle stopping for the while. An odd cabinet mirror stood by the sidewalk, so I could see my bare legs and mauve garden shoes in the reflection. I walked to Tim Hortons, there to drink an iced coffee with oat milk. The café was crowded. At night, I went back there to eat a roast beef and cheddar sandwich with an oat milk iced coffee. A brown family popped in to break the empty silence. A pensive white man said that I liked the word "blossom": Maybe, he was waiting for spring?

This morning of the 14th of June of 2025, here on Lulu Island, is quite cloudy and chilly for a near-summer morning. I walked to Tim Hortons café at about 5 o'clock. There, I enjoyed an iced coffee with oat milk and scrambled eggs with sausage bits and potatoes. Yesterday was probably my 42nd visit this year to the St. Albans Road's Roman Catholic church, which I call "Clam Temple" because of its shape. "42" is jokingly famous for some people: In The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, the number 42 is the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, as the supercomputer Deep Thought calculated after 7.5 million years. Yesterday, at the café, Michael from Guǎngzhōu was wearing a black Louis Vuitton shirt with an orange-coloured blossom insignia thereon and grey jogging pants. I was wearing a hooded red, grey, and black cardigan over a military green mesh net vest over a red T-shirt, as well as a green touque, green striped Indian pyjama pants, and mauve garden clogs. We talked about lots of things, including that "socialism" might have a big comeback because of the effects of Artificial Intelligence and robotics in the future. These things could also affect warfare, we were thinking.

Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons.

[A]long their time-marked walls wistaria threw patches of mauve blossom.