could it be

that climate change will have repercussions for seasonal affective disorder? weather volatility --> moodiness. this false spring holds me in a hypomanic state.

"In My Craft or Sullen Art" - by Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

europe

is just another word for western Asia.

Café Panis, February

They do a good business at the Café Panis, even the tourists can tell. Like a lesson in geometry, perfect circles of dark and polished wood populate the area near the bar, while perfect squares line the walls and long bench seats, all of them crowded with leaning, lounging people. The ceiling is recessed with a wide ellipse that has been covered with decorative ivy in bas relief. On this bitter day in mid-February, we have all come just to be near each other, to sit amid the incessant murmur of strangers -- families, friends, cluster of spontaneous acquaintance -- as they embark on explanations, grope to conclusions, listen, laugh and strive not to lose their train of thought. Near the bank of windows two middle-aged women whose hair is equally blond, roots equally dark, make-up equally heavy, eat lunch without taking their coats off, exclaiming over the quantity of the lettuce and the temperature of the soup, which is very hot. One calls the waiter sweetie, and I like her for that.

 I am studying Latin with a 6th grade primer to write better sentences. Desperation, it appears, has its morbid roots in hope. Desiderium, the glossary defines as both desire and regret -- a single feeling aimed toward either the future or the past. Whitney Houston was found dead in a hotel room yesterday -- the Beverly Hills Hilton. She was 48. I had not thought about her or her drug problem in years. The herbal tea exhausted, a waitress asks if I can move to a table toward the back, to make way for another party. I do, and everyone's glad about it. Another thanks me in passing, without so much as turning her head, as she swaggers officiously toward the cash register. It's a busy day at Panis. hardly a table unoccupied, and a party of six has just piled in through the glass doors and velvet curtains, their eyes bright with relief. Like us they came for refuge from the solid chill outside that is freezing chins and cheeks and convincing passersby of the merits and wisdom of wearing longjohns.
 There is a man on the sidewalk who did not come in. He stands in the light of the windows, his breath pouring into the cold air and breaking into tendrils that vanish quickly in the evening dark. 

les mots et les choses

Look around you, then write what you see.

Words exist apart from things, but serve to replicate them in a rough mirror, a mirror that itself calls things to life, places them in a greater order, lodges them in memory. Words are handles by which the mind can  grasp the world, and for that reason should be chosen carefully.

Eurodisney

is not large, but we were lost there yesterday.  the paths curve and tunnel through strange agglomerations of forest and city -- potemkin villages of fun.  i traveled across the ocean from my home, a mining town out west, to see frontierland, and hear the triumphant chords of bonanza's theme song.  four hours of jangle, to a discordant sound track, as i tried to find my boyhood amid the press and noise.  the park was an admirable exercise in crowd control, staffed by europe's mocking youth, some of them beautiful enough to dress as  cartoon heroine's.  the light parade at the end of each day is billed as an event where les rêves deviennent réalité, which made me think we needed a new word - rêvalité - to signify this mix of fakery and boredom, which so excites the minds of children.

what's good about goat cheese

What's good about goat cheese is improved by what's good about bread. And what's good about goat cheese and bread is improved by what's good about raw ham. But what's good about goat cheese, bread and raw ham is not so good the second time, and even less good the third. This is the law of diminishing returns as taught by perfessors of economics and my breakfast agrees.