i wrote this on (the first day of) spring

…though it might not feel like it, what with the frigid temperature and my stolen-back toque hugging my skull. I assure you that it is the first day of the rest of our year(s?), and I promise that THIS! is FINALLY! the reason/excuse I was looking for to re-do this new thing I used to do (writing for the internets, to nobody in particular).

As I bid the beast farewell, I truly understand how much it ruins my life, infecting every facet of existence. From being able to read on the bus [TOO COLD TO HOLD (anything) IN HANDS], to resuming the visits of friends who live “off the grid” so to speak (rather, at the centre of a part of the grid that is the nexus of the Bermuda triangle of TTC buses), to buying/preparing my own food, it’s good to be sentient again, if only fleetingly so. I smile and toss my hair, which has regained its springtime lustre as I skip down College St., unfazed by the guy who caught me watching the breath I blew out my mouth turn to steam, to see if it would turn to steam (affirmative). I am wearing a pretty purple dress because all my pants are too tight, but nobody needs to know that.

A week ago, it snowed for – I think and hope- the last time this winter. Did you need to know that? Well, it was beautiful, if that helps, if you can believe it. Beauty can always be found when something (winter) dies, or when you’re dying instead (of over-winter), or your depression is dying (the end of winter excuses), because frankly, we miss that shit. I actually gasped a little when I saw it; big, Charlie Brown flakes that called to mind long, frolicking days on ponds and slopes that I have never experienced. Later that night, we met the singer of Bloc Party at the Gladstone and he kicked ass (1. awesome accent 2. awesome attitude 3. humoured us all very sweetly 4. was obsessed with Ardi’s name).

What follows: about 48 hours of feeling as though I love this band more than I actually do. I go out and buy the new album and it’s pretty alright (these things take time), and I listen to the old album and it’s just- INCREDIBLE, my responses all unbelievably heightened. My crazy, fangirl groupie blood boils out of my control, and celebrities are people no more, once they are seen through the filter of immaturity, which I keep in my back pocket for times like this. Talk of attending the concert goes from a shrug to a gut-wrenching necessity to nearly forgotten 2 days later. I youtube-stalk them out-of-control-like for a few days, and it’s enough to breathe life into the barren landscape of my aging, freezing musical and urban dwelling-places.

Rock and roll is alive and well- and not just in my house, but living, breathing and walking the streets. Drinking beer and such. I recall learning that “energy” never dies, but merely changes shape; like the sun, the rawwk, and my mutha-effing ‘blog. They’re all back, kids.