or vanish from a road somewhere
spring crept here once more and suddenly the streets are covered in pink and white petals like scented stage snow. these springs are very different from the ones I grew up with. nordic springs are all about the blinding light that finally, finally arrives and everyone is a magnifying glass that catches that light and sets the dry ground on fire. terrible springs that shatter you, that feel like swallowing glass, that feel like being reborn.
here it is softer, sweeter, warmth gradually thawing your frozen bones, a reminder what all that endless rain does when everything, everything is suddenly green & alive. and then, of course, all those blossoming trees, a spectacle that always seems awfully indulgent to me, although ever so lovely.
I could not tell which spring I prefer. sometimes I miss that cruel light shredding me apart and mercilessly revealing all the darkest corners, but then I inhale the scent of the earth & the flowers & the humid air.
there is one thing both of these springs do, without a fail. they cause my restlessness and wanderlust to grow until I can no longer contain. and the fool that I am, there is nothing sweeter than to give in.
this year it seemed ever so simple: highlands, a walk to edinburgh & climbing arthur's seat at last, a spring day or two in london in the steps of mrs. dalloway, a cheap bus to paris & staying with an artist friend.
and then, for some reasons that evaporated right away, I thought: new york. but of course such things aren't possible simply on a whim. to kill this silly thought, I checked flights and went, "oh... oh. crap." and so it goes and so it goes.
this morning the air was soft and humid and there was a white mist and it felt like being in the tropical room of a botanic garden. now I'm on a bus and the clouds hang low over the hills and fields. london tonight and then and then...
I've travelled outside of europe only once and never to that side of the atlantic and never that far.
(even the lowest hills are enveloped in clouds. it feels quite unearthly. and now everything is disappearing into a white mist, as though a map was being erased.)
here it is softer, sweeter, warmth gradually thawing your frozen bones, a reminder what all that endless rain does when everything, everything is suddenly green & alive. and then, of course, all those blossoming trees, a spectacle that always seems awfully indulgent to me, although ever so lovely.
I could not tell which spring I prefer. sometimes I miss that cruel light shredding me apart and mercilessly revealing all the darkest corners, but then I inhale the scent of the earth & the flowers & the humid air.
there is one thing both of these springs do, without a fail. they cause my restlessness and wanderlust to grow until I can no longer contain. and the fool that I am, there is nothing sweeter than to give in.
this year it seemed ever so simple: highlands, a walk to edinburgh & climbing arthur's seat at last, a spring day or two in london in the steps of mrs. dalloway, a cheap bus to paris & staying with an artist friend.
and then, for some reasons that evaporated right away, I thought: new york. but of course such things aren't possible simply on a whim. to kill this silly thought, I checked flights and went, "oh... oh. crap." and so it goes and so it goes.
this morning the air was soft and humid and there was a white mist and it felt like being in the tropical room of a botanic garden. now I'm on a bus and the clouds hang low over the hills and fields. london tonight and then and then...
I've travelled outside of europe only once and never to that side of the atlantic and never that far.
(even the lowest hills are enveloped in clouds. it feels quite unearthly. and now everything is disappearing into a white mist, as though a map was being erased.)