This picture about sums me up right now.

I feel like the past few weeks have brought about a flurry of activity – not quite oversaturation but just on the tipping point of some sort of mild uneasiness. Or maybe I’m just bracing for this sprint to the finish line after spring break.

Springtime in New York is moody, prone to suffocate with muggy weather and then relent, cold and indifferent, within a span of days. Apart from seeing a late showing of The Shining at IFC, strolling through Central Park, getting lost in The Met, and other such goodness, I recently gave my first reading at a small gallery in Tribeca.

Our writing program held a collaborative Queens College MFA event: seven of us read selected pieces of fiction, poetry, and translation amid the exhibited works of our colleagues in fine arts. It was a small but warm affair, with lovely weather to match. Afterward we chattered amongst ourselves, drinking wine and eating snacks from Chinatown.

What else? Something about this season feels unremarkable yet pregnant with possibility. I’m always sleeping too much or too little. Buying groceries, (re-)potting plants, as an excuse for why I’m not writing.

If only there were more hours in the day!