There’s a pleasant numbness that comes from breezes.  Some people become meditative in bath tubs, but I have little patience for inactive sitting, and even less tolerance of prolonged submersion in heat.  My short cut to contemplation comes from the air.

Spring has finally come.  It’s too early and there may yet be snow and cold, but it almost doesn’t matter.  I can smell life returning the way one immediately knows proper coffee after spending months drinking gas station swill.  The air is thicker without being heavier.  My synesthesia would have me call the wind a cream color, like the slightly orange lip of a worn smooth clam shell.  I think, though, that the air is more accurately described by green.

There’s little to show, only a few short bulbs with thick, fleshy spikes rising from the tan ground.  The grass is still in its half dead malaise.  The buds on the trees have yet to pop, but all are fat and ready.  I no longer feel as much an island isolated by unforgiving seas, but now a castaway on some more forgiving coast.

I’ve written little this week and the time since last I wrote seems vast.  Either through a trick of my bad short term memory or merely the collapsing view which human consciousness takes, anything over a few days abstained seems eons gone.  I suppose to make up for this I still acutely and sharply recall events from when I could barely talk.

Memory has possess me lately, probably due to my dwelling on mortality.  Fortunately, nostalgia hasn’t bled into anything I’m writing.  If anything, these stories seem even freer of it than some of my previous works, as if I were getting it all out of my system before I begin to type.

I’ve more or less given up on editing LiaGH for this month.  I’ve got something else demanding my attention and the working titled “Adam waits for a train” is coming to better more enjoyable than a serious edit would allow.  I do plan to edit the novel, I just might take the time to write another first.

Before that, I need to refill my outbox.  I haven’t been keeping up with my rejection letters so there are a few finished pieces that actually have one or no venues for consideration.  Hardly right that they should be allowed to squat without making some effort toward repaying their accommodations.  Between the need for that and last night’s bad sleep, tempered by my desire to stay right here, by the open window and next to the susurrating plants, I’ll spend the afternoon catching up on my submissions.

When the sun has crested I’ll abandon the literary world to get my hands in the dirt.  Thereafter to some sculptural projects.

It will have been a good day.