February 3rd, 2002

caillebotte_man at his window

cough cough

Digging through stacks of stuff is dusty. I have lots of stacks of stuff. I'm looking for a particular thing and I come across other things and get distracted by them and never get to the thing I was first looking for. Some of the things I just came across were old spiral-bound notebooks I used to carry around when I was 18 or 19. Mini-journals, I suppose. Maybe I'll post some excerpts sometime. I don't know. They are pretty bad in places. As I read through them I kept thinking what was I thinking? We shall see.

But what I was actually looking for was a book called The Journal of Albion Moonlight. I can't remember the name of the author, and it is driving me nutty. One reason I want to find it is because it contains an anonymous pre-Shakespearian poem called Tom o' Bedlam, which I had the sudden urge to post. I don't know exactly why, but there it is. I frequently don't know why I want to do one thing or another, but I'm always displeased with myself until I do it. Drat my lack of shelves!
caillebotte_man at his window

Anticipation

Tonight I noticed that there was still a bit of light lingering in the west after six o'clock. This is that day in February when I realize that spring will come again. I never plan to make that realization; it just happens. One evening I notice the lingering light, and the thought of buds on the plants and the scent of spurge laurel drifting on the air pops into my mind. And the last of last year's leaves are still lying brown and dry under the bushes.