It’s not so unusual to see early daffodils on a sunny hill in the park, but to see them everywhere, in early March, is strange. Spring has been fooled by the mild winter. We never had that season. After the snow in October, there was hardly a chill that lasted longer than a few days, and now flowers are blooming, and it’s strange.
I don’t like the cold weather but I do like the seasons. They give the year a shape. They indicate the rate that time is passing. They mimic something that goes on in me. Or I, in them. This morning, I noticed the cherry blossom trees across the street are already full of tight buds. It caused a mild wave of anxiety in me. I think it has to do with wanting things to be as they have been. So much feels different already. Not even Spring can be counted on to come as it should in May.
I’m reading Murakami’s 1Q84, very slowly, and interrupted by other things. The translation feels odd to me. The story and characters are interesting enough to keep me reading, but something feels off. I haven’t read anything about this in reviews of the book, so maybe it’s just me. I usually enjoy translations. There are always untranslatable things that provide flavor and a juxtaposition that can be wonderful. Most of Per Peterson’s books come to mind. But this one feels strangely stilted. Maybe there’s an explanation within the book that I haven’t come to yet. It’s the size of a telephone book, so there is still time.
I’ve been working on my own book for many hours a day. I’ll turn it in to my editor today or tomorrow, so she can get started. All weekend I went through the troublesome part three, making changes. By the time it sees the light of day, hopefully, the book will have come together. It’s difficult to keep perspective. I’m looking forward to taking a break from it because nothing else seems to get done when I’m writing. I need to get my taxes together, and finish up some other things that require paperwork.