"I have not quite yet turned into dust."

The Muse bought a seed catalogue, a certain harbinger of Spring. I've been dreaming of hop vines shading the south side of The Villa this summer, wondering how I might protect them from the hungry, hungry deer. I spotted the remnants of last year's garden peeking up through its snow blanket. I wondered what might volunteer from under there to seed itself this year. It's still FallowTime, but our minds are projecting forward a few weeks. I shoved the final inch of overnight snowfall off the driveway, figuring that might hasten the melting recovery from the weekend's snow. By noon, that pavement might be bare and dry again. The season will scrape back to reflect the metrological season before another rebutting snow falls five days from now. We're imbedded in the tussle season now, no longer winter yet not quite Spring.

In FallowTime, I find little to amuse myself. I stumbled upon a convergence of previously reserved books at the library last week, terrific reads but I lack requisite focus. I stare out the window instead, as entertained as I can muster just watching the snow finish up. It looks an awfully lot like Christmas out there, the pine trees greeting-card flocked, but it's been a very long time since Christmas came and even longer until it returns again. I can no longer anchor myself there. FallowTime provides few anchor points save for Ash Wednesday. I might just as well have already returned to dust.

The Muse's advisor prescribed three acts of absurdity per day, this to maintain a vital relationship with this world. Looking at her schedule for the upcoming week, she asked, "Only three?" Her days seem paved with absurdity. Her fulfilling fuzzy assignments fueled only by sporadic negative feedback. If her situation was not absurd, it might seem tragic. She sorts data so filthy it almost defies categorization. It's not her job to clean it up, just to produce coherent reports with it, a transparently impossible aspiration, yet she produces something that might pass muster, anyway. The data owners will blame her for finding their errors and offer her additional negative feedback for her trouble. She worked all weekend hoping to satisfy someone, hopefully herself. One chooses to laugh or cry, but this remains one's choice or the play's over.

I was not moved by the morning. I quietly warmed the car while The Muse finished her ablutions. The seats were warm by the time she arrived. A very slight glittering snow sifted down upon us as we headed down the Foothills again, a downtown meeting breaking our usual routine. I'd drop her at the light rail station. She'll ride downtown in style while I turned around to head back up into the foothills, avoiding the freeway as usual. The morning seemed to have overstayed its welcome by eight o'clock, like a show-off snot-nosed kid with only one trick to perform, entertaining nobody now but himself. Cars climb down from the hilltops, clustering near the onramp, fresh faces heading out into the belly of the usual beast while I canter back to the fold. I understand that my day will come. Probably not today and maybe not tomorrow, but sooner now than later. I have not quite yet turned into dust.

©2019 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Reconsidering , #PureSchmaltz