The cats bring mice to the door. I put a heavy white glass fixture in the middle of our long wooden dining table that looks like the sun. The little bowls around it are like planets orbiting it in the solar system. Humans fly through space. K sends a postcard from India. S sends another to his brother in Berlin from a cocktail bar in Vermont. I read Maria Stepanova's In Memory of Memory, listen to a Fiona Apple on my stereo, spring melts winter away. I regulated my whole life this winter. I ate the same thing over and over, got up at the same time, exercised my body and good reason and discipline, was depended on. What a world of good it did. There is great freedom in restriction, real power in routine — this is something we know but seldom claim. But this sweet season is apparently gone, and I’m suddenly tired of militancy and want to eat new foods everyday. I will return to legal joblessness in May, live in other people's homes, and read all the while. I’ll conduct experiments and take myself as the subject. I will miss you, winter, but I must let you go. I relinquish all control and surrender to flux. These things just don’t make sense in the new. Spring, summer, take me, swallow me, spit me out. I will enjoy every bit until it's over. I love you, saliva, teeth, tongue. I will love every part of it all, because I want to see what remains by the end of it. What does the melt uncover. What does the shake unearth, what am I made of
