NOTE: on Spring Cleaning

A whirlwind autumn lead to a turbulent winter, but I am nothing if not a solar-powered transubstantiator of order from chaos. From gaps in gray skies, the starkly generative (or the generatively stark) light of day accretes ideas around motes of dust, as yours truly quite literally begins the rewarding work of Spring Cleaning. From isolated sunbursts, kitchens emerged clean from a vanishing layer of neglect, books were restacked from tumbledown ruins of lexical loot and bibliographic booty, literal garments and figurative threads were mended with novel and nimble hands, excess winter down was trimmed, the curtains were drawn back, and a typewriter was unearthed from the detritus of torpor. Just as our neolithic ancestors projected a kind of correspondence of the imagery of prey animals with success of a hunt, a superstitious writer does not bury his pen under a heavy stone. That typewriter, which is used for another sort of correspondence altogether, was the last physical component of a spring cleaning only half complete. Now begins the real work of shaking off these motes for the accreted pearls that remain. Humble in origin, they return with interest: ashes to ideas, ideas from dust.