I can hardly believe it. In my last post, which was admittedly two weeks ago, I was drawing messy I Heart U's in the snow, trailing my fingers across crystalline branches and feeling deeply for the homeless. And suddenly, now, with the sun, there are buds on the cherry and apple trees. Are the seasons playing games with us, or have I simply reached the age at which it is all scurrying by in a tearing hurry?
I walk out into the sun and stand looking into it, daring it to swallow me whole. I wouldn't mind, but it doesn't oblige. It is a cold sun, so I return to the warmth, inside. The pheasants from last week are not to be found and the muntjacs are causing havoc elsewhere.
During my infusion at the hospital earlier this week, I managed to put together the skeleton of a screenplay to be worked on for this semester. The heroine is of course going to be a much improved version of myself, and lucky for her I am creating a rather interesting hero, who shall travel across oceans to find her. There shall be tragedy and comedy and romance... Or as Philip Henslowe, owner of the Rose Theatre says to William Shakespeare, "You see, Will? Comedy. Love, and a bit with a dog. That's what they want."
I recently saw this brief video of starlings dancing - a murmuration; that's what starlings are called when they gather together this way. There are only blackbirds outside my window, but isn't it lovely to know there are always forms of beauty enchanting someone, somewhere?