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I glanced out the window this morning in the middle of teaching and saw this boy practicing baseball. He looked awkward and hesitant and it was truly charming. So I wrote a stupid poem to illustrate the moment:

There is beauty in a young boy
Flexing his muscles
Hiding a shy mind
Or a smile that seems to say
"I've always known you"

There was something captivating in the way his thin arms bent when he swung the bat. Young, unassuming, and simple. It was like a taste of cool air across my heart.

I'm not a big fan of spring because it just screams, "Summer is RIGHT HERE," and I hate summer more than anything. (Especially in Japan, where there's no central air.) However, I do enjoy the way that things just seem to appear everywhere. Little buds and shoots and grasses climb their way up out of nothing. People shed their winter clothes and there's more skin, more ruffles and flirty skirts and sandals. And with the sunlight at a different angle it seems like I'm SEEING everything for the first time all over again. I feel as though I've been blind the past five months. Like I've been looking through a glass darkly (what's that line from, anyway? I can't remember).

I looked through my closet this weekend and it hit me as I was trying to figure out which pink outfit to wear to Osaka: everything I own is pink. WHEN this happened, I don't know, but the majority of my clothing is some shade of pink. What isn't pink is black, but that still doesn't make up for the fact that

I'VE BEEN PINKIFIED. (Wow, I thought I just made up that word, but I looked it up at dictionary.com and it was there--eep!)

To be fair, half my wardrobe is blue, a 1/3 is black and 1/6 is pink, but STILL. Even my perfume is pink (although it doesn't particularly SMELL pink).

Now it's time for another quote from "Of Human Bondage!"

From pages 437 and 438:

For some time Philip did not say anything.
"I wish I hadn't made such a fool of myself," he muttered at length.
He was thinking of his long, humiliating confession. She looked at him curiously.
"You were never really in love with me," she said.
"It's not very pleasant being in love."
But he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting up now and holding out his hand, he said:
"I hope you'll be very happy. After all, it's the best thing that could have happened to you."
She looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and held it.
"You'll come and see me again, won't you?" she asked.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "It would make me too envious to see you happy."
He walked slowly away from her house. After all she was right when she said he had never loved her. He was disappointed, irritated even, but his vanity was more affected than his heart. He knew that himself. And presently he grew conscious that the gods had played a very good practical joke on him, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly. It is not very comfortable to have the gift of being amused at one's own absurdity.

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