Tuesday, April 3

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March passed in record time for a month with thirty-one days. March seems longer than it is because it is preceded by February, which is a brief month of only twenty-eight days. But this March passed in record time, so that now, on the third day of April, I am wondering where the month of March went.
There is a poem on the seventh of March and now I am here! having written nothing (worth showing).
March, of fish and rams, is that last push of winter into spring. One feels a change in the air, which endows a sense of accomplishment or achievement—‘We made it through the hard months!’ A friend told me—‘I can feel spring now. I can just feel it. It helps, you know.’ She was right. The air was perfumed with spring and blossom started to appear – or rather it wasn’t there and then it was. Across the country snow fell. So much snow fell. I stood at my window and watched the snow and then I watched it melt: black, white then black again. The snow melted. Grass swallowed the snow. Snow landed on my arm and melted into my hair. Tragically the snow came to us to die. I hate snow.
My father’s birthday.
Mother’s day.
My cousin’s fortieth.
Easter.
Friends visiting from France.
Friends leaving the company.
I sit here and try to make sense of it all, to form some kind of conclusion, to let the thoughts settle. The words come, but they stutter and start; they are unattractive. Some nights I would sit down and attempt to write but, ah, nonsense! So here I am. Here it is. Nonsense.
If I wrote regularly – which I had started to do at the beginning of the month, and quite enjoyed – then there would be more substance of note, but now it is all a jumbled mess that I struggle to recollect, let alone write. And I impose myself upon the reader! this utter rubbish!
One Saturday afternoon I was visiting my parents and waiting for the evening’s events to begin and was quite bored. I had been exhausted by the week and poor sleep, so I did not want to doze on the sofa. I got up and went for a walk. It was sunny but the wind was cold. I walked down next to the sea. I am greatly uninterested in the sea, but I know that others enjoy it, so I talk walks along it when I can to try and understand the attraction. Its incessant waves, false endlessness and lacklustre colour do very little to stir me. So I think on things: women and death and work, nights out, drink, I think on women, life, life and life. Folk told me that the recent spell of cold weather brought a load of dead sea-life on to the beach, that there were thousands of dead creatures littering the sand and that the smell was enormous. I could smell nothing anymore. There was a thick haze over everything. The sun shone hazily. I walked and, without pen or paper, tried to make sense of all the things in my head. I returned dripping with sweat but feeling quite good.
Now the clocks have gone forward and I see the trees begin their carnival of petals delicately painted and not yet ready to fall. It is late and it is light. In the spring I miss winter and in the autumn I miss summer. Perpetually dissatisfied.
I will end this now and try again soon. I am sorry.

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