This particular time -- this moment of the seasons when spring is still stumbling, sleepy-eyed, out of winter's cave and becoming itself -- is the most dulled time of the year.
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| "Gloomy Hungarian Fate," Janos Tornyai, 1908 |
Winter is beautiful for the austere sharpness of its whites and blacks and grays and the elder spring is beautiful for its heavy lushness. But, in-between, there is a time of tan and muddy smoke -- of pendulum swings between chill and heat that stir up a pot of cold that spins with something stifling and humid.
I hate it, the way I hate fake, sepia-toned photography; the way I hate rusty scum on the edges of creeks that run the way sick people walk from bed to bathroom; the way I hate both wearing fogged glasses and listening recordings that sound like they were made with microphones dipped in Vaseline.
It's only ever a for a few weeks, but it feels like a short criminal sentence for the senses in a cell of dirty cotton.
