There was something of spring in the air today in spite of the temperature.

John the bookseller was a distant relative of one of the five families and he had the last name to prove it. Maybe not so distant. But he was mild-mannered, kind, gracious. Not given to eruptions of murderous anger.

I spent weeks reorganizing and tidying up and dusting his store, at five bucks an hour, when finally he told me what are you doing? I didn’t ask for this.

Turns out the disorder and the dirt were beneficial. It’s what his customers liked to see when they came in. Made them feel like they might discover something in the rubble.

There was a girl who worked there too for a while. Can’t remember her name. A goth. The daughter of a friend of his. She never did much work but John doted on her. Kept her employed. Just like he kept me employed. In those weird, dark times between the band breaking up and getting a real job.

When the wind really blows in the city it’s a wonder things aren’t falling, tumbling, spinning everywhere, furniture off roofs, construction supplies, haphazardly fastened signs. We should all be battered by debris, impaled even. But no.

It’s spring training, the meaningless games playing lazily on the diner TV.

Memorial Day weekend means the start of something new. Everyone finally emerging from social hibernation to be outside with beers in their fists. I associate the Indy 500 and the Monaco Grand Prix with this feeling, but for no special reason besides that they happen then I guess. It all makes me feel like anything is possible, like there’s a wide open space just around the corner, and then another just around the next. We used to go to the Memorial Day races at Lime Rock when I was a kid. The squawking of the announcer through the PA, periodically drowned by the roaring cars; the smell of burning oil, grass and grill smoke—this represented a liberation from winter, from home, from school. It was almost June after all, and forget it, school’s out in June. You can just count the days.

In fact any time of the year can have the same significance. September when football starts, when there’s new things on TV. Then the birth of Christ if you’re so inclined, or at least of the appearance of light in the darkness. Then the new year, then the thawing of the ground and the new buds on the trees in spring. And you can go on and on about them all. But fuck it, now’s Memorial Day.

Jackie found a rose petal somewhere on our walk back out of the park.

It never feels quite as cold as when Spring starts and the heat won’t come on anymore.

Someone managed to spam my dream blog. A robot evidently, that somehow guessed the address to post by email. It reminded me of checking my mom’s email account in her apartment, after she died. Her inbox was contaminated with spam, like flies or vultures on carrion. Here and there were signals from the living—an old friend, a bit worried that they hadn’t heard back. Something related to work. The stream goes on and on forever I suppose.

Winter won’t release us into spring. We must endure the greasy streets, the gusts; sidewalks covered in sediment left by the melted snow: napkins, newspaper, straws. And dog shit. Dog shit everywhere.

Is it some particular punishment?

On the first full day of spring fat snowflakes fell between the raindrops.

Sophia cried and strained on my lap, batting away the bottle, convulsed by her mysterious forces.

Later I put her in the crib, tamping down her cries with shhhh, shhhh, shhhh. When she finally stopped I tiptoed away as if she were my house of cards.

Here we are day three of the great Swine Flu Contagion of 2009. Or is it day four? Many years from now, the historians among the few scattered tribes of traumatized human beings yet remaining on earth will debate the point when the time comes to write the official record of what will then be known simply as the Big Death.

It's a hell of a day outside today. Helicopters rattling across the hazy sky. The polyphony of roof birds and trucks in reverse. The clap and thud of wood and Sheetrock from behind the plywood walls of sites. Everything seems to be alive again.