I meant to go, but time ticked by and I couldn’t get my butt out the door. I’m glad it was good, but how else could it have been? I don’t like missing out, but no matter where I am, I’m going to miss out on something. Where I was happened to be the best place to be, given how I felt. I’ll miss out on a lot while I’¢m away for half the next year, but I’ll experience other things I wouldn’t have here. I’ll trust the natural balance of life and my impression that it keeps getting better.

Elusive poetry beckons,
becomes mundane, emptied
of meaning
I seek to speak deeper
than mind, to find
poems swimming in
my fishy depths
Slick visions escape my grasp
nibble coy at fingertips

I cast the unbaited hook
barbless, fish for
a volunteer sacrifice
an emergent dream that
dares to become a poem

I lose, I humble self
Confess my desperate need
for greedy mouths
to feed, to ease my aching
engorged brain
this fullness finds no relief
Please, paint me pictures
of truth, be it blessing
or bane

I beg, sink to their depths
Breathe their water
Die their death

Something has shifted inside, hard to say what or if it will last, but I like it. Might be as simple as rising early for a change (perhaps that last phrase is literal): this helps me see the day differently. I’ve had a full day and it’s still light out, only partly due to the premature time change; mainly it’s down to being conscious for longer.

I’m great as long as I stay away from future-think. Never mind what that bad Joker said.

“Think about the future, Jack.”

I’ll stick with the present, for now (for however long ‘now’ lasts).

Spring is here, whatya know about that? Outside, a great flapping white cloud of gulls puts me in mind of enormous snowflakes, and it’s cold enough that I’m surprised it isn’t actually snowing, but the calendar claims it’s spring.

I took some lovely ultra-closeup shots of spring flowers yesterday just to prove that it’s really here. Without that evidence, I might not be able to tell just yet.

Isn’t spring glorious? Here we have proof positive that miracles happen, and every year we take it for granted. How can anyone with open eyes continue to doubt that magic is real?

I said no to music tonight, a tough call, but incipient headache and residual wooziness made it seem like a nice time to curl up in the studio with my computer.

This heater runs hot and cold: it heats too long, then stays off too long. To compound the annoyance, it’s twenty feet across the room from where I’m sitting on the bed, lap occupied by laptop.

Still, I can breathe despite the alternating stuffiness and chill, I have nearly enough water, I can hear the bass thumping from the house and my head only hurts a little. Who’s complaining?

Up late writing into the night, so I forgot to write these measly 100 words. And I’m not finished. Damn deadlines! They show up out of the blue despite the fact that I know exactly when they’re coming, the same date every month. Fortunately the stakes (and the rewards, alas) are low, and I always get it done, even if a day or two later than I wish.

Feeling a lot better. Music tonight; I hope I will be able to stay vertical and perhaps even participate. Well, the couch is here should I need to lie down and listen.

‘Tis St. Paddy’s Day. I’m not wearing green, but in honour of the old fart, I looked him up online. It seems he converted the Irish to Christianity basically by ripping off their rituals (like bonfires at Easter and superimposing the symbol of the Sun over the Christian Cross to create the Celtic Cross), mixing and matching them into a sort of paganized Christianity. Driving the snakes from Ireland represents the eradication of the old religion, yet now his day evokes visions of leprechauns and fairies in most folks’ minds.

Ah, ’tis a wee bit of irony for ye. Slainte.

It’s raining, so what else is new? It could be snowing, that’s a traditional March pattern here, a couple weeks of snow just when you think it’s spring.

Next comes April and the Big Move, with its logistical nightmares that I’d prefer not to imagine at the moment. Rather, I’ll look forward to what comes after, trusting in the moments as they arrive to inspire appropriate action. What’s the point worrying ahead of time about how I’¢ll do what I know I have to do soon but not yet?

“When the moment for decision arrives, the choice will be obvious.”

I’m committed to writing these 100-word tidbits every day of this calendar year (count ‘em; each short piece is exactly 100 words long) or I’d not bother tonight, being sick and all. But instead of whinging about how I feel, I’ll wax positive about the year ahead.

Changes are in store, and though I can’t be certain they’ll be wonderful, I have a strong premonition. I’m coming up to the big five-oh and that feels like a powering-up vibration tuning itself in my body. Get ready, it seems to hum in bass-tinted tones, this is going to be good!

It was a lovely massage, then midway in I felt a tickling in my throat, which became a throb, then turned painful. By the time I got home, I was crashing. Detoxing, they call it, the release of stored ick from the stimulus of the massage.

Sick is what I call it, and miserable is how I feel. My sinuses are swollen, my head throbs, my tonsils feel raw. Poor, po’ me is the song I’m singing, accompanied by tiny violins.

The seagulls don’t care. They’¢re partying on the beach, wheeling in great flapping crowds to celebrate their springtime abundance.