Spring Break has begun. There are perhaps 12 cars in the parking lot outside. The university is barren. Everyone has gone to the tropics to be on the next Girls Gone Wild movie.
Nathan has gone to work on the set for the student show that opens shortly after classes resume. The hall carpets are being steamed as I write. Leo the Russian did not send me his play as he said he might. I do not yet have the drive to begin Spring Cleaning, since Nathan and I have just come from doing that at his parents' house.
I have the beginnings of a book I've been working on in my head for the last day or so, but I can't write it down. I can write down sentences of it, but I can't find anything cohesive.
It's been cold and dreary and awful recently. I keep remembering two years ago when this week was warm and sunny for the first time in months. The the windows were open and everything smelled new and fresh and alive.
I do not have memory for scents. For me, odours are like pain: when they are gone, I have no true memory of them, other than that I must have smelled them. But every now and again, I can recall the smell of that spring totally. I can remember watching the curtains blow in the windows, letting in the warmth. Was that spring so important to me? Why do I recall it over the millions of summers I have called wonderful, but cannot capture? That spring resounds more fully than any other time in my life, and I can't explain why.