in just spring

Boy, I always hated, just loathed, the works of e.e.cummings. The whole no capitalization thing was just too twee for me. Too fey. And I particularly despised the poem about the "little lame balloon man" who "whistles far and wee." Of course, it is permanently seared into my brain. But then, so is the little satirical poem that Molly Stuckey wrote in high school about our English curriculum.

"Silas Marner, Moby Dick,
Julius Ceasar make me sick.
Page by page I struggled on,
Eyes all bleary, hope all gone
Finals? Yes. On every one
No book or play I read was fun."

I can also recite "The Jabberwocky" in its entirety, which is probably why I can't remember names. There is so much useless crap clogging my synapses, that a major data dump will be required before I can learn anything new.

But this started out as an ode to spring. The orchid trees are covered in purple and lavendar and ivory flowers. The flame vines are blooming (except for the one on my fence). The sky is blue and mild and the air is ... limpid. It is a physical presence.

And I am inside. Working. Sort of. At any rate, I am sitting in an office, in front of a computer, and I am typing. That I am typing a blog entry makes it no less painful to be indoors on a day like today.

Mark Twain wrote something about watermelons. That there is a difference in taste between one that is honestly come by and one that is not, and that the experienced man knows which is better. Same thing about spring days. Oh, the weather could be this beautiful on Saturday, but the joy of being out in it will be diminished by it being legit. Today is the sort of day that demands one play hooky. Take an early lunch and never come back to the office.

Right. As if. Time to actually put the fingers to the keyboard and create web pages. At least I have a window, and it opens.