April 4th— it snowed all day. In defiance I took the electric blanket off my bed. It is spring, damn it, I refuse to keep preheating sleep.
A cheerful spate of seedings was pencilled into the calendar for this week— the first spring greens— but that dirt is four inches under now. False spring is close to the feeling of heartbreak. I want to take it out on my old lovers— I knew warmth, last week, my body was bare to the sky— tonight the space heater breathes on my calves like a pet. I am not comforted by it. I want it to die.
Is it possible to turn thirty in New England and ever fully trust the sun? (I am asking, by extension, about love.) My friend— a Mainer— is in the midst of a hurt. It is an instance of her own golden rule overlapping only partly with the golden rule of someone to whom she is vulnerable. We walk in the park and she tells me she wishes she could have seen it coming. And isn't that our constant refrain, with the peas just up and now snow? With the seedlings shivering in the greenhouse while the heater breathes weakly from the corner.
Actually I am learning exactly what I need in this business, which is to give up on augery. There are lots of hot days every year, and most of them happen when I think they are supposed to. But chaos is only increasing— Janis Joplin's advice comes to mind— "if you have it today you don't wear it tomorrow, man."
Today I had snow and so an hour at my desk. Tomorrow, maybe, some sun for the seedlings. Next week, if we're lucky, soft turned dirt.