It is indeed spring. It has sprung, or whatever it is that it does. The trout are hitting in the local lakes, the trees are budding out, the sun is warming the longer afternoons, shoots are coming out from whatever crevice they can, and women, no matter how homely they may look in January’s early-fading evening light, are gorgeous creatures of infinite wonder and promise. Birds are singing, hormones are flowing, pheromones are wafting, and dreams are blooming. If not for this ritual of rebirth, we would all be faced with the bleakest of landscapes and the darkest of nights. It is the annual reaffirmation of life on this planet, perhaps life in this universe. Even the lowliest of those judged undeserving in the world of man are graced again with this opportunity to become. Whatever the hell they please. Answering to no man, to no law, to no demand.
On this breezy and sun-basked day, I have resisted the inner voice which tells me to sit at a keyboard, piano or computer, and grind out the effort to be productive. Productivity is in the eyes of the beholder, and today is a day for simply giving thanks to whichever Lord one bows by embracing the truly holy trinity. The three B’s. Those would be Blues, Beer and Botany. You tell me what could be better (except, of course, for trout fishing) than a glorious afternoon in the garden, the dehydrating Colorado sun answered with chilled local brew and the soul and senses filled with the strains of Leadbelly singing songs long forgotten. Fingers full of dirt and half-empty bottles, ears full of real stories of life and love on this blue ball hurtling around a generous star. Goddamn! Pinch me! But please, don’t call me. Wait until tomorrow when I will undoubtedly answer the nagging call to abandon true connection and again pursue the means to keep the lights on, the beer cold and the CDs in the changer. Small price to pay for a day like today.
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