i have been trying to understand what it is that makes one feel truly rested. it seems to have less to do with how many hours i sleep than the quality of the sleep, whether or not i am awoken in the middle of a dream by my alarm clock, or wake up naturally. this morning, waking up to the force and urgency of PJ Harvey's Big Exit feels like a call to arms. the sky is blue in portland. for a change.

spring…ironic that i’m a spring child, and yet it's my least favorite season (though i know it's Jefferson's favorite after winter). however, i look forward to spring's warmth this year, for the winter’s ice to melt off my hands so that i can finally pick up a paintbrush and capture the many ideas on canvas that has brewed in my mind for way too long over the cold, dreadful winter months. i need open windows with sweet-scented air circulating the room to diffuse the heavy odors of paint. one 4-piece "les saisons des papillons" collection, and another collection, 3-piece, of two friends laughing together at a cafe, like a film playing in an old-fashioned movie theater, the paintings to evolve from b&w to sepia to full, vibrant colors, symbolizing how true, solid friendship endures the test of time. but first before these collections, one painting of "forbidden love" between an angel and his beloved mere mortal, captured in a rich saturation of blues.

dave - i, too, naturally wake up (without an alarm clock) at 5:30am everyday, INCLUDING weekends (which can be such a nuisance at times), no matter how late i go to bed the night before. "so much to do, so little time" is probably the reason why i wake. i thank Betty's Oceanview Diner in Berkeley for its early operation hours, 6:30am, so that i have a place to go to and write/sketch/contemplate over a nice cup of joe (and soufflé).

i am also running short of time to map out the itinerary for my once-cancelled-but-now-back-on europe trip this march (only weeks away). i go solo. it'll be nice, i think (and hope). i hear that italian men are quite aggressive and forward, so i think i'll remove italy from my itinerary. what about parisian and barcelonian men? i hope not. i utterly desire to attempt my broken/terrible French and to see Gaudí's & Dalí's works in the flesh after having idolized them for so long. soon after the europe trip, a visit to Bruce Lee's grave up in Washington, humbled to share in his dragon spirit...and maybe revisit Tokyo this autumn in time for the autumn festival.

Spring, i welcome you this year.

italian men are certainly no worse than frenchmen or spaniards or americans, or any men, for that matter. you would never forgive yourself if you knew what you missed in italy. (and i don't just mean the gelato, although that's pretty amazing.)

i once read we dream of death, not dying. it's a survival instinct -- to skirt death by a hair's breadth the instant before we hit the ground in our dreams of falling. i dreamt of death once. in the darkness of the dream i felt a smooth soft voice whispering, "it's okay. it's not your fault." he was so sincere, so seductive. as i leaned into the voice i felt the ease of letting go and simply falling. i woke with an unbalanced jolt, like tripping on a broken sidewalk. in the light of day the memory of that soft voice turned slowly sinister. was my dreamy seducer the angel of death?

Spring makes me dream (and daydream) of capture and release. I dreampt of being trapped under the ice of a pond and breaking through and being struck not with the feeilng of relief, but of great excitement. I dreampt of waiting for an elevator, the doors opening and meeting the most gorgeous blues eyes that struck right through to the core of me. I felt not joy and anticipation, but like the floor had come out from under me. Dread. Perhaps I find the transition of spring uncertain making my steps cautious and my dreams anxious.

"Go with nature and she's easy and delicious." -Emily Carr