notes from
the MUCK . . .

How does your garden grow? With muck, muck and more muck! I spent much of today finishing the final muck box and then shifting muck from one box to the next. The first box, which the Big Lad is enthusiastically pointing out, has been rotting down for two years now and once we’d removed the top quarter of unrotted material, we found we’d hit the pay dirt.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Wel.com.e Fe.b.ru.ar y

January is my least favorite time of year. It's the depressive to December's manic, the armpit of the Gregorian calendar, the month where dreams go to die.

It's just such a let down after the great times of year's end. Annually, in the last quarter, life delivers all kinds of treats. We are gifted near perfect weather and the beautiful season of Fall (some folks call it Autumn, I call it Fall). We celebrate the best holiday, Halloween, followed closely by the fourth, second, and third greatest holidays. And, perhaps best of all, we're filled with a sense of accomplishment for having survived another round, and the thrill of hope for what lies ahead. Wishes are cast, promises are set in stone, and we get what we think we deserve. Our guts are satiated, our wallets have transformed into shiny presents, and our lips are tingling from that final, sweet kiss under the moonlight.

And then we wake up, Readers. And are we greeted with the angelic face of a smiling lover and a deep passion for the New Day? I think not. Instead Madame January stands over our beds, scowling with her rotten mouth and shaking us into a reality of harsh weather, broken resolutions, and what essentially amounts to the life of a vampire. We hardly see the sun at all in January, and have only enough energy to prowl each night for cold dinners, stiff drinks, and warm bodies. Our fangs, so sharp and hungry just one month before, have shattered from all the chattering we subject them to as our coffins on wheels clunk towards a decent temperature. Our skin goes pale and chaffed, our nails grow long, and that beast in the mirror bears little resemblance to our former selves. January offers nothing in exchange for all the life it sends draining down the gutters.

It's robust to boot: a full month of unbroken misery, a 31 day hangover.

And now it's over. February, Jah bless, has swooped in to lift our weary heads from the stained asphalt, tipping spring water down our parched throats from a goblet forged in the shape of Puxatony Phil. Short, if not sweet, is the month of February - a sort of Abyss-like usher guiding us from the fathoms of some oceanic Hell toward the shining surface light of the Spring equinox.

The days are getting longer, friends. Pop open a Corona, bury your dead, and march onward.

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