Between Seasons

This post is certainly wishful thinking–spring in Wyoming generally has very little to do with the month of March. However, last week we had some properly warm days–I even opened a window or two once or twice–and it fooled at least one crocus per block into springing forth. We have some tulip greens inching their way up. But there will, certainly, be more snows on the way, and I’m not putting away my wool coat yet.

Still, everything feels strangely in-between right now. I know that winter is not over yet, that spring hasn’t quite arrived, either, but the weather bounces from sixty to snow in the same afternoon. Spring break has come and it has gone (and it was lovely, lovely, lovely, by the way), so we’re not headed toward any big breaks, but we’re also a full six weeks from finals, so it’s not yet time to put the sled on that slope. I’m grateful that I don’t get seasonal migraines or other ailments connected to things like humidity and barometric pressure shifts–the way March and April yo-yo here, I’d be toast.

We’re almost to the start of the professional baseball season (blessed be), but not quite. (Right now, mostly, I wish we could skip the rest of pre-season entirely because my Phillies keep getting injured.)

Both music and silence sound wrong on my ears. I listened to fifteen seconds of twelve songs in the last ten minutes, and then I turned off my iTunes. It’s almost all I can do to keep from bouncing up and down at my desk, but I’d also very much like to go back to sleep this very second. (But what I’m going to do, in half an hour, is go talk about Rosetti’s “Goblin Market” and Elizabeth Gaskell and Charles Dickens.)

And so, I’ll leave you with a link to this phenomenal interview from The Paris Review with Anne Carson to get you through the in-betweens, if you’re feeling them to. She’s genius. Pure genius.

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