February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the center.
Those are two lines buried in the middle of Margaret Atwood's poem February, and they aptly summed up my mood today. I'm not going to elaborate why and how and how long, and the skies here really are that blue and it's seventy degrees and no, there's no snow or ice, but it's still February and I hate winter, the dead of it. It didn't help, either, that I sat through part of a dreadful movie today called Kingsman, so slick and violent and soul-less that I got up and walked out, much as I did about this time (or earlier?) twenty years ago when I saw Pulp Fiction, another dreadful, slick and soul-less concoction of the glitterati. I'm going to chalk it up to February then, and winter, even when the skies are that blue and the palms that elegant and the air that gentle.
