In this place we hear spring.
It's the roar of water freed from the prison of winter, racing down the mountain towards the river, for a time turning even old logging roads into streams.
My fingers rebel from the smooth warmth of the keyboard.
I want to feel black loam under my nails, calluses on my hands.
I want to kneel in the earth and exult in this season, savour the warmth of spring sun on my back.
I want to unwrap my gardens from last autumn's leaves, caress waking leaves with the tips of my fingers, celebrate their resurrection.
I am tired of words.
I'll be back in a few weeks.
Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -
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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine. Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.
©2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.