"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

05 March 2013

March

There were times I would refer to this as the Season of Storms or the Days of Lions and Lambs. I was younger then, full of silly poetic attempts. It's most likely I was far too impressed with my own intelligence and the tongues of metaphor. So it goes.

It is March. The third page, the third chapter in the calendar's novel. Stories branded upon the synaptic pages of memory. Here is the bardo between cold and warmth. The official validation of spring from winter. A time of transition.

March is when the ice races end. This when the waterways begin to thaw and the ice-fishers migrate away. Spring break and the Cabin Fever Dance. Bulbs begin to push their way out of the cold earth. The snows really begin to melt in March.

March is death. My divorce happened upon the fabled ides so many years ago now. My father's mother succumbed to her illness. Jibril...sweet, intelligent, mutherfuckin' amazing Jibril, had his heart give out. Any attempt beyond friendship between the gypsy and I-her curb-kicking, and me saying done and over-happened in March.

March is rebirth. Sabina made good on her break from the musician, and from the immolated ashes of a vampire queen came to rise the phoenix I have had the pleasure of always knowing beneath the Voodoo mask. There was that day, after I'd buried my father's mother, after Jibril's death, she grasped my hand, fed me kisses and Japanese food, and helped me get South African wine, a minor curiosity and a major paradox-though there are those who would call me, baselessly!, contrary and laugh! when I argue the point-that such a tragic time would hold one of my happiest memories. For the sake of records, spring really springs! in March.

March is bittersweet. Love and hate. One cycle is ending and another begins. So it goes. My mother was first told she was sick, but vowed to fight it, and it's just unfortunate about the outcome those eighteen months later. Three years later, I still mourn. Whilst out on walkabout, I found myself thinking how I might actually miss the snow, how it makes the landscapes so alien. I think back to all those memories, good and bad, which may, or may not, have happened in March.

March is the moment. The eye for the main chance. Sabina and I fought our final battles for the House of Owls and Bats, made deals with demons and forced them to our whims. That blood money monkey's paws from my father's mother helped. It is that time between the death-sleep of winter and the waking of spring. March is magic and mystery and Koo-coo-kachoo.

March is get back up and we can do it all over again. Chevy's arthritis isn't as bad. Whistler defies his fourteen years, imploring us for the shorter walkabouts and Milarepa restates her puppy-like youth. The cold doesn't fuck with my own twisted skeleton quite as bad. Movement is easier come March.

March is the launchpad. Time to fully break out of the cold and gray apathy between December and February. The days lengthen to that halcyon of the summer solstice. This is the prelude. And, as I think back to those silly metaphors of years gone by, one really one fits for March; here is the omen, here is forever after, here is the moment...ready, set, go!

14 comments:

  1. March really is all of these things isn't it? Not only are the trees and forests coming back to life, but in many ways we are as well.

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    1. The days are getting longer and we're coming pout of hibernation, it seems. Certainly makes sense that this is when we have our Cabin Fever Dance.

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  2. March has always been a favored month to me. Winter is melting away while Spring reminds us that better things await. March is hope, I think.

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    1. It depends upon the year as to how thrilled I am about the month. Sometimes, I wish it'd last forever, whilst others it cannot get to April quick enough.

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  3. March is a tease...vascilating between heat and ice, she makes me want to scream. Just get on with it already.

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    1. It'll get to spring and summer...sooner than you think, but later than you hope.

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  4. Is it March?!! Holy crap! March is mid-terms.

    I think I missed a post of yours, which is not something that should ever happen...

    I'm impressed with the structure of this post. And the words...



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    1. And Spring break, don't forget...

      There was one post before this, whether or not you saw it. Thank you as always for your kind words, but are you doing a scholarly critique here ;p?

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    2. Sorry...we've been performing peer reviews in English all week...I'll try to get back to adoring your work with a doting-fan-type of admiration.

      "Ooh, Robbie, you write so goood...." :)

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    3. That would make me feel...dirty...

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  5. My favourite months in the year are from May to September, because I love summer, but March is very special for me - I was born in March. I wish I was in summer, though.

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    1. I'm kind of fond of September for the same reason you like March ;). I'm getting antsy for summer too. There are a bunch of places I wish to go exploring and I want to ride my bicycle again.

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  6. March is messing with me so fsr.

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    1. Well...hopefully either in a happy way, or one, which will change.

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