Perhaps where you live Spring is a palpable thing. Maybe there are flowers and sunshine and birds doing random bird things. Maybe--where you live--there are palm trees and a warm ocean and lizards turning their scaly backs to an obtrusive sun.
Maybe.
But not here on Soybean Island:
No, I'm afraid that here in this windswept irregular and secretive real-estate landscape it is still numbingly cold and numbingly insipid.
Indeed, there are no bright avian creatures or multi-colored flora littered about among green shoots and under blue skies holding warm rains. No earthworms come out from the earth.
Things here remain quite frozen. Frozen in time and space and within the mind--as well as out of doors. Yes, here icebergs float among the parking lots:
I am forced to live among this blind blank bland white worldlylessness . . . And yet, I find comfort in the cold, in the dire existence and frigid appearance, frigid feel, frigid frigidness of everything here on this frigid island. It makes me somewhat happy in my abject unhappiness to know that it is not warm and sunny and that the industrious birds of spring have yet to arrive.
But then I see how, even in the black-heart of winter, in the end-heart of winter, even in this wonderfully bleak part of the year, even now, even with snow, the powers try to corral and control:
Alas.
Oneninefiveseven over and out--Goodbye from Soybean Island
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