Music:The Band, "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down"
The spring has come to be the worst of it, which is antithetical to everything I used to feel about the progression of seasons. Once upon a time, before Providence, it was always a matter of surviving the winter – late November, December, January, the first half of February. And then there was spring. And spring was sudden and green and warm. By April, everything would be green. Spring was release from the cold. Hope for spring pulled me through the months of cold and the darkness of winter. Now, the expectation of spring is undone by the knowledge that it will arrive late, straggling, and be a chilly season when the green comes with interminable slowness. Like Eliot said, for me April really has become "the cruelest month."
I'm asking the landlord to please not take down the tree, but I don't expect them to change their mind.
Today, the temperature may reach 74˚F. Tomorrow will be warm, too. Then all next week will be cold and rainy. They'll have low eighties in Birmingham next week. And I'm very near to buying a plane ticket, though I can't afford the cost.
I haven't worked in days. I'm not sure how many days.