My spring hypomania seems to be here early, and I'm taking full advantage of it. These moments are so rare, when my head is full of words and I'm not too exhausted to put them down on virtual paper. I've returned to my 1,000-word daily goal to try to finish the first draft of The Prince of Tricks by the end of May. I'd love to have it done in time for the cruise, but I don't know if I'm quite that hypomanic.
I'm listening again to Kate Bush's Aerial as I write and work through plot points while walking to and from work or riding on Muni. I've never listened to any other album this much. I keep waiting to get tired of it, but every time I play it, Kate takes me spinning up into the St. Petersburg White Nights on the wings of my demons (and I'm sure she would never have thought to invoke anything of the sort with this music). One night during my trip in 2006, I sat in the late-evening light and listened to both disks while watching the sun pretend to set outside the balcony of my little room in the Lesnoy Prospekt flat, and it transports me there when I close my eyes.
Because I listened to it while writing the last three books, it also sometimes transports me to places I've never been with images of things I have never seen: like the Aurora Borealis over the Arkhangel'sk skies across fields of rime frost, or the monastery on Solevetsky in the White Sea. Sometimes it's a ride on the Trans-Siberian rail. But everywhere it takes me, it's full of rosebuds, and I'm gathering them while I may.