The news of spring have been grossly exaggerated. We’ve had howling wind, horizontal sleet and slush floods these days. When I daringly ventured out to take rubbish to the bin, I couldn’t decide which cause of death was most likely to meet me: being blown away, pierced by the whirling hail or drowning in a slush pool? Much to my surprise, I survived more or less intact.
The sharp wind gusts are what intrigues me the most. They make my windows shake in their frames and the whole house crackles like it’s giving up on its structural integrity. I feel moderately safe and peculiarly set out from the rest of the human race in my ivory tower, aka the top floor of a brick building. Ginsberg’s Howl poem constantly haunts me:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix.
The looking for an angry fix is a great fit for the Saturday night mood, when the housing estate teems with drunk people trying to find either more booze or their building door. Their drunken cries are like those of seagulls and are carried all around the place by the wind. I’m feeling poetic. I might go and rewrite Howl with a housing scheme setting.