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Spring Equinox knocks on the door. Lots of rain falling. Verdant scenery to be found in all directions. But the slithy tove doth gyre and gimbel in the wabe.

Went dancing last night, finally. After waffling around and over the issue. Was a good thing for me to go. Better that I be moving instead of sitting/standing, locked in place. Had a delicious corned beef and cabbage plate from the Whole Foods place in RC. Was a perfect meal to eat and then dance around. I ended up coming home early. Just wanted to read and crash. L called and came by when she returned from the EB.

Had a rather elaborate dream. I was heading up a creative project team, a woman (R from LF), two young guys (Front Men), and a rather foppish older man who was a content specialist. We had thick project binders with a huge number of drawings, spec sheets, and technical data. R had come in late and I was having to bring her up to speed on the status of the project. I had done a briefing with the others that morning, but she came in late and had to be updated.

There was a sense that the project was moving rapidly and that there were immanent deadlines that we were expected to meet. The dream seemed to play out for a long time as I worked with R, caught her up, and then started interacting with the whole team. I awoke while the project was underway so I didn't get to see any results.

The product we were creating was never mentioned or made clear. It was the "project" and not a specific item, although there seemed to be one.

L and I got up late in the morning. Transferred to her place so the dog police could make a visit and go over some procedures she has to deal with since her dog bit one of her friend's companions a week ago.

When dog report was done, we went to MV and grabbed some coffee/chai and a couple of pecan bars. We then spent some time looking through a book store. Then came back to the library so she could pick up a copy of Angels and Demons by the author who penned the Da Vinci Code.

I was pleased to note that I have read all of Murakami's books except for the latest one, Kafka. Had also read all of Divakaruni's and many others. Noticed how Murakami led me to Munro, Divakaruni to Doctorow, and so forth.

Read a posting in the bookstore by Bukowski regarding being a writer. Here's a link to that piece--
http://oldpoetry.com/poetry/43542

Seems like food is on my mind, or on my plate. Just consumed a mini pizza and feel the better for it. Hadn't really had much to eat today -- a waffle, a pecan bar and two cups of chai. Also a cheese stick and a few crackers. Let the garlic call me and went for a pizza. Started to get another cup of chai, but thought better of it and got a dark chocolate brownie with nuts.

Street person standing outside the grocery store. Pathetic looking woman who was smoking a cigarette. Can't find it in me to give a person money so they can buy cigarettes. An odd bias, but one that I seem to manifest.

So according to Bukowski you either have the desire or you don't. Sort of like when you're hot you're hot, and when you're not you're not. I guess I don't know yet just where I am on the Bukowski scale. So until I find out, I guess I keep on spreading word-cheese and making the motions. I have to admit that this blog, so far, doesn't fill me with inspiration. Most of what I've written has been self-contained and kept very PC.

The idea that someone else might read what I've written is affecting what I'm writing. Breaking a Bukowski rule, but that's what's happening right now. I've hinted at, but haven't cut loose so far with one of my jumble mania meanderings. But I sense that this introductory period is coming to an end. I feel the tides pulling me into deeper waters, into the path of a wave set meant for riding.

If this were the last thing I wrote, what would I write about? Too freaky to think about. Too maudlin and made up. I'm not ready for such a confrontation. I feel myself backpeddling and wondering why I ever thought to write that question.

My thoughts shift to my home town. I think of my two friends there, one who has had a stroke. It's been years since I've seen him or been in contact. (About the same for everyone I know.) I think of making a trip back there. I also think of the hassle involved. I continue to be unable to generate a coherent set of plans and follow them out. I keep waiting. Waiting for Godot.

Locked in timeless amber. Enclosed in casings and wrappings. I imagine, but don't follow through. (See what the pizza makes me do.) Nonsense. I am filled with possibility, unexpressed.

The generic reasons run like water from the rainclouds. They drip and fall, make puddles, and then seep into the earth. The regimen demands more attention, more involvement. I refuse to make that happen. I grow old with my trousers rolled. I emit brief noises, not unlike a trapped bird that sits frozen in a state of panic.

The clocks run on. Their movements, activated by electrical impulses, tick and spin. The clock faces remain mute and undeterred. Ambivalence howls. The earthquake remains stuck at 7.0. There are no remedies, no acts of solution. The emerging seasons demand new considerations. There are too many people. Nature will take care of this dilemma.

Time to return to the books, to the story lines, and wrap myself in dreams. May all our dreams be powerful on this night of season changing.