Looking at our ten-day weather forecast makes me high, makes me have to look away before I pass out. I hate forecasts, because they can’t be relied on. I feel like a mark every time I look at one, or worse yet count on it. This isn’t a criticism of the NWS or weather science, it’s a comment on counting on things that change to stay the same. Having said that, and despite the current rather cold gloom outside, it looks in sum fantastic, very propituous for merriment. I’m cautiously optimistic, I can see us in the garden, laughing, not freezing, I can taste the wine on my tongue.
Woods and Undergrowth, van Gogh
I feel very strange in general these days. I have distractingly strong feelings about people and things. Some people annoy me so deeply and profoundly that I only hope, Tom Wolfe-style, to outlive them so that I can enjoy a few years on this Earth without them, some people I can’t seem to get next to no matter how much I love them. I long for my lover and my sons, and I loathe the conservative Midwest with a deep, abiding kind of aversion that will never go away, a dichotomy that makes me want to cry to heaven, except I don’t believe in heaven. I hate to be indoors unless I know I can go outdoors at any second. I don’t want to be in love unless I know I am free to go. Locked doors make me want to attack.
This wildness inside me is not, I think, something everyone could bear to have inside them. I fill like a vessel when I think of the people who love me so hard and don’t need to keep me in boxes, for the desert, which can, like a forest or an ocean, absorb and reflect as much joy or sorrow as I can witch up.
This looks like a nice keyboard, doesn’t it? I have painting and music and French on my 2013 list. And two books. Am I overdreaming?