I Hate April

Okay, so I know I probably come off like a depressed snotty fucker. I probably AM a depressed snotty fucker, but let me explain:

(1) I use this blog in part to vent my frustrations;
(2) I don't believe in the power of positive thinking. I think that denying the darker aspects of life is a great way to ensure that they ensnare us (the return of the repressed and all that).

Anyway, that little preface aside, here's why I hate April:

(1) It's not warm enough to feel like spring.
(2) The light's not right. It's hard to describe, but it's not the high-angle blinding sun of winter, nor the mellow beautiful light of late spring/early summer. Everything feels a little washed out.
(3) This seems to be the dying season. The people I've lost, and others I'm close to have lost... it's hard to explain, but death seems to be everywhere.

I'm sure there's some great wisdom, some wonderful big picture to all this. Something about the budding of new life in the spring making the deaths stand out more than they would otherwise. But really, all I feel deep in my core is: this sucks.

At times like these, about the only balm for me is music and writing. Music reaches out past your intellect and gets into the core of your being like nothing else. Writing does the same, in reverse - you start from the core and it pours out your head (if you're lucky, anyway).

Stevie Wonder works for me at times like this, particularly Fulfillingness' First Finale. As does Rabih Abou-Khalil's new album, Songs for Sad Women. And my cat. He's on my lap right now, purring softly and sleeping. And a lot of people love me. So I do know, on some level, how lucky I am. But I still hate April.