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I went out for a twig of blossom. Last week I had a twig of blossom in a jar in the bathroom and it looked good. In retrospect I should have photographed it and uploaded it to internet landfill because today the blossoms have all gone. First I thought the wind had blown them away by their skirts. But the soft lilac grapes of wisteria in the next street have also gone. Now in my bathroom there is an unscented native yellow sucker, not even worth photographing, certainly not worth blogging about.
Spring is so short here, a single week of winter and summer clumsily patch-worked together.
Like the weekend, and my book, suddenly over.

The book was The Songlines, i don’t know why I hadn’t read it before. It’s not about Aboriginal culture after all, but rather about Chatwin’s question of questions: the nature of human restlessness. 

Confusingly, paragraphs linger with us not for their brilliance but for how closely they reflect our own mind at that moment, how they feed our emotionally-ravenous mirror state. I have cycling through New York on my mind so I want to re-read this one:

A late summer evening in Manhattan, the crowds out of town, cycling down lower Park Avenue with the light slanting in from the cross-streets and a stream of monarch butterflies, alternately brown in the shadow and golden in the sun, coming around the Pan Am Building, descending from the statue of Mercury on Grand Central Station and continuing downtown towards the Caribbean.

And I have immense house loans on my mind so I also fell for this Indian proverb:

Life is a bridge. Cross over it, but build no house on it.

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