Only a few small patches of snow, each only a few inches across, survived last night's rain and this morning's warming. It's as though the storm never happened. Of course, what was originally predicted actually didn't happen, which seems normal these days. Not happeningness is a drag.
Just to be sure I won't run out, I bought more than a month's worth of cat food today. It was on sale, though not at the best sale price I've ever gotten, so if it ends up getting cheaper later in the month I'll be pissed off at myself, but the cats won't care. I also bought food for myself, but nowhere near as much as the cats will get.
On the whole the day was pretty dull— like me. The doldrums I feel might be letdown from the storm that wasn't. I got all excited at the prospect of lots of snow, and when the whole event just fizzled out there was no way to restore the energy I'd spent in anticipation, and no source of new energy such as I might have gotten from the fulfillment of my expectations. There's no expectation of anything interesting happening in the near future, either, so I guess I'm stuck with the dullness for now.
So it goes.
by Neil Gaiman
Shedding my shirt, my book, my coat, my life
Leaving them, empty husks and fallen leaves,
Going in search of food and for a spring
Of sweet water
I’ll find a tree as wide as ten fat men
Clear water rilling over its grey roots
Berries I’ll find and crabapples and nuts,
And call it home
I’ll tell the wind my name, and no one else.
True madness takes or leaves us in the wood
halfway through all our lives. My skin will be my face now.
I must be nuts. Sense left with shoes and house,
my guts are cramped. I’ll stumble through the green
back to my roots, and leaves and thorns and birds,
I’ll leave the way of words and walk the wood
I’ll be the forest’s man, and greet the sun,
And feel the silence blossom on the tongue