It’s been a while since I played literary tarot, in which you randomly plunk a finger on a page of a book randomly opened and read whatever turns up. But after a hot, clattering Saturday in the city, I had a beautifully unfettered, beautifully long sleep under freshly laundered sheets, and I’m feeling magical.
Here’s what a page from Rilke’s Stories of God has to say.
The moment they passed out of the door they were changed men. They walked in the middle of the street, a little separated from each other. Their countenances still showed traces of their recent laughter, that strange disorder of the features, but the eyes of all three were already serious and observant. They understood at once.
This I love, for as much as I hate hallways, I adore emerging from them, and open doors have been featuring prominently in my superconsciousness. I read this passage as a confirmation of my last dream and of an omen visited upon one of my favorite sirens recently. I’m tucking it my pocket as I venture into this cool, dreamy morning.
The best part of April is its explosion of color after winter’s black-and-white hegemony: reds, pinks, yellows, oranges, yellows, and greens. So many greens. This year, with hateful extremists running—ahem, ruining—the show, the metaphor offered by spring’s rainbow feels especially resonant. I’ve written about this