Midwinter spring is a strange season. The city is not so cold, but the air is still very dry. It parches the lining of my nostrils, causing me quaking headaches. At night, the radiator hisses wake me and I listen for the scanty distant sounds of tires on the roadtops. There are desperate thoughts in some of these times, and they drive a bit of writing in scraping, broken, inky passages over the pages of journals I’m in the habit of keeping for longer than I recognize the person who wrote them. Surprisingly, for me, anyway, the city is no longer looming so large in my future. That aching sense of it, and the way it and its demands cripple possibilities, has receded. Older, dirtier wants begin to erode images of perpetually jostling life here. The sound of the sea plays soundtrack to this, gradually overcoming carsounds. The canopy of a forest, evergreens, deciduous, gradually asserts its silhouette over that of a borough street. This fickleness is calming, in a way, and makes me aware of my desires’ mutual, shared nature.
Nature loves a plague as much as a rose. — Ann Lauterbach, Missing Ages