Tonight as I drove it occurred to me that I must have found the elusive sweet spot on the air conditioner, where the perfect balance of heating and cooling makes the air flow out as balmy as a spring evening. I don’t know if other people have visceral reactions to the temperature, but I feel the same way every year. The first night you walk outdoors with a scarf you don’t need and it isn’t unseasonal warmth but the heralding of sickly sweet, fragrance on the air, spring. It makes my mind race. It makes me impulsive and nostalgic. I’ve written about it before.
Tonight I was driving to get away, a throw everything in the car kind of escape. I had sat in my room attempting to write for 2 days and nothing was getting done except me. For inexplicable reasons I felt pent up and dissatisfied. I tried 10 minute slots of lying on my bed and thinking thoughts to their corners. I tried technology blackouts, started a bunch of new books and went for walks. I even got to know my quads in a ‘next day and I can’t walk down stairs’ kind of way.
Nothing made it better. Nothing except leaving. It isn’t where I was, but where I wanted to be. I wanted to be here, where I write from now. Here of a thousand midnight stars and empty silence. Here of morning birdsong and caramel floors covered in light. I wanted to be here with the tree smell of childhood holidays and the pool that isn’t ready for swimming and the dingoes that throw their heads back in happy howls when I walk through the door.
I haven’t been here for so long, and the pull was overwhelming. Last weekend was the first time in months, but it wore off after 24 hours. 2 days in 7 weeks was not long enough to stick. And so I am back, earlier than planned, research in tow, and it will have to do. Here I hope for the edges of the knot inside of me to unravel.
When I stepped out of the car upon arrival, the temperature didn’t change at all. In this place, bags dumped, feet bare, contact lenses forgotten, it is already a kind of spring.