This past Saturday, as evening collapsed on the orangeade drinkers carousing the boutiques, I put my hand down my throat to touch my heart and it stung.
That's actually a line from my uncle Dean's poem "Dog Toy"--a line, I once told Deano, that I would forever try to commemorate in my own life. The tang of orangeade. The art of carousing. The urge to feel my own heart. The sting of trying.
When I read this line I think of Icarus. In the myth, Icarus flies. Only thing: he flies too close to the sun, burns his wings, and plunges into the sea. I look at this high-flying champion. I see the self-destructive attitude of the spirit. I see the self-obliteration of a man in whom the spirit is strong. This is spring to me: the season of self-obliteration.
The spring always fucks me up. Recently, I've suffered a flare of my gut illness. Every year, it’s the same: spring rolls around and I experience a fresh slew of autoimmune symptoms.
And yet, I love the lunacy of spring.