my city holds its breath.

Beck's song "Earthquake Weather" is in rotation on my iPod (as are such timeless classics as "The Hamster Dance" and Duran Duran's "View to a Kill", but the awful songs on there are another post altogether). I remember reading somewhere once- where? probably on the internet- that the Japanese called certain weather "earthquake weather"; days of stillness, as I recall, when there was no wind and everything waited.

My city is waiting today. Grey and still and untimely humid for mid-April. I run to the park and around the lake once, twice, three times, gulping in air that feels too still and too moist. It has been a day of sitting in front of the computer fiddling around with Photoshop. Day two of my first "professional" photography gig. Running is a relief and an escape and a question: how much longer will I be able to run? Will there still be too much snow up north? Will I be too afraid of bears to attempt it?

Today I hold my breath and cinch myself into the corset I will wear all summer long under various Gold Rush-era costumes. I hope that by the end of the summer I will be smaller and the corset will be more forgiving, but who knows?

I know that around the world, people are waiting too. For planes to be able to fly again. For a volcano to stop spreading so much ash, already. I know people who are getting ready to fly to Europe this week. Will they be leaving on schedule?

Every morning I rise early, for me, with a load of energy and high spirits that nothing can quench for long. I am so grateful for this energy, and fearful of its leaving.

I am counting down: last time I play with this band. Last time I play with that one. Last time I see him or her; last time I do that or go there. Soon, there will be new stories to tell you, new people in my life.

Maybe new people will read my stories, too. I'm planning to keep writing, but at a new location for the summer. Come on over and visit me here, starting in May. I hope you have a great spring. Me, I can't wait for the waiting to be over.