Despite the fact that the weather has been wonderful, with highs at or near 80˚F. Despite the sun. Despite the fact that, finally, the trees are green. I haven't written. I have deadlines ahead, and I haven't written. I haven't written, nor have I left the house to do something besides write. I haven't done anything, really.
Day before yesterday, I lay on the sofa in the front parlor and read Angela Carter. I read "The Kiss" (1977), a vignette on Samarkand, and was annoyed to find myself wondering how many jerking knees might now brand the piece racist because Carter was a white Englishwoman might never have visited Uzbekistan and so had not earned the right to spin wonderful, thoughtful fancies of far-away places.* Spooky and I started reading Jeff VanderMeer's Southern Reach trilogy again, because there just isn't that much new fiction that interests me.
I listened to the pathetic few birds that call this side of the city home. There's a persistent cardinal.
We took a walk yesterday, as far as the park. That's an unusual thing, for me. Leaving the house. leaving the house on foot, that's practical a marvel.
There are a few photos, to prove that Providence has at last released its tenacious grasp on winter:
I don't know the name of this flowering tree.
Oh, look. It's spring.
These are set into the cement of some of the sidewalks in our neighborhood. I've decided it's the secret language of the Sidewalk Mafia, these metal "stamps."
A plastic spider Spooky found on the ground.
When we moved to Providence, seven years ago, these trees were hardly more than saplings, I seems.
All photographs Copyright © 2015 by Kathryn A. Pollnac
Enough for now.
* But she may have. Carter traveled extensively through Asia. Not that the knee jerks would care.