'Tis springtime, and my fancy has turned to mush.
I don't mean actual mush, like oatmeal or baby food. I mean sentimental mush.
Yesterday, as I was pointing my camera at a spring bloom, a bee floated gently down upon the petals and as I watched him trot gaily towards the ovule . . .
. . . I heard a loud, unexpected snap!
'Twas the sound of my mind, snapping out of a three-month torper. And I bethunk myself of whole cauldrons of mushy stuff, including:
It is worthwhile to fall in love, even though the crush of heartbreak is a natural (maybe even probable) outcome of loving. And it is worthwhile to live, because life is a lot like love in this mushy respect. More often than not, life runs afoul of Death, and Death enjoys smashing-up hearts almost as much as He enjoys taking lives. Still, I am grateful for my life. I am grateful that I have a heart that's worth breaking.
So you see, now that springtime has set me a-gushing with mush, the mush, in turn, has reinvigorated my urge to blog.
It seems that I enjoy smearing my mush all over the Internet, just as, once upon a time, I enjoyed smearing oatmeal and baby food through my hair.
It seems that Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow is like a fragrant, colorful spring bloom, only brown, and not at all fragrant.
And it seems that you, my loyal, befuddled readers, are a lot like the neighborhood bees who cluster 'round my head nearly every spring morning, trying to decide whether I deserve to be pollinated or stung.
Thanks for clustering. It's been a long time.
-cc-
The Weakly Blow will recommence gusting on-or-about May 20. Seriously, thanks to those who wrote asking for more. To use a typically sly Weakly Blow metaphor, you've blown new life into this blog.
Photograph by Charles 'Chuck' Hirshberg. All rights reserved - and brought to you by HAZMAToasties, the only breakfast-flavored cereal that gives you nine essential industrial effluents.
