Fever in anticlimatic

Is there anything more exquisitely masochistic than spring fever? Can’t be described. Went two-tracking this afternoon on account of the bright cold sun, and noticed the first of the baby green ground covering in the forest. That spring green. Down the cliff to the lake, all the stones were ice bleached and spotless- and the water looked clear and delicious enough to drink up the whole coast.

The virginal world draws me back into my adolescent days of casting wishes into foggy nights and dreaming conduit into this vast peopled world. Regarding what people can accomplish, there is something about the novel and the beautiful that opens a channel. A graceful singer can unite an audience not just to itself, but to humanity entire.

Will I ever cease to marvel at the strangeness of existing?

Drove past Clyde’s house today too. Had driven past it a thousand times without remembering that his house was right there. This dusty old memory of a dusty old hill of yellow grass rising up from the highway to a line of trees and a stinking yellowed house with cubbies of nicknacks and people who ran the world once that no one remembers but me.

How strange is it to have memories so absolutely incompatible with the reality of modern times?

I’m terrified and enthralled. The full spirit of the season, and we haven’t even gotten to the lilacs yet.