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A Face Full of Dew
May 1, 2000

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It's the first day of May. The start of the fifth month of the year 2000. Just think, in just eight more months, no one on Earth will care whether 2000 or 2001 was the start of the new Millennium. We'll all simply be there. And twenty days later a monolith will be found on the moon, but that's another story.

It's May -- the month of flowers and leaves and warm breezes and a few psychotics jumping into lakes and swimming and girls suntanning (and flirting with boys) and arts festivals and concerts starting and the whole kit'n'kaboodle kicking off with a bang. It's May!

Four months of the year gone. It seems remarkable, really. Four months worth of weather and snow and rain and sunshine. One quarter of 2000 evaporating like water in a bowl.

Is the glass two thirds full, or one third empty?

According to Garrison Keillor and his Writer's Almanac, Celtic women washed their face in the dew, just before sunrise on May Day. It was supposed to soften and beautify the skin. So if anyone thinks Madison Avenue invented the cosmetics industry, think again. We have always wanted to look better than we do, even if we look good.

We moved stuff around in the Apartment last night, increasing my living room area into more of a real living room, with my desk becoming more of a corner table area, and my couch becoming more of an open part of the whole. It's nicer in there -- brighter, without so many breaks. The feng shui of the place is happier.

Which is nice, because my bonsai is well and truly dead. But the plant my Mom gave me is alive, well and flourishing. Go fig, right?

The sun is out later and the day seems more inviting. Driving around, I feel just plain good. The same with walking. Well, actually I feel kind of hellish today, thanks to the drugs. But my spirit is bright and gay. It puts you in mind of Camelot and ditties about the lusty month of May.

May was the big day of celebration for the Soviet Union. This makes more sense than it appears. Russian Winters are harsh. The breaking of Winter and the coming of Spring was worth celebrating. Now, in the great Soviet State you couldn't have nubile girls trailing streamers on poles. But you could send all the tanks out to pass in review, and that's almost as good.

It's May, and May puts us in mind of new beginnings, not old reflections. In the Winter you spend long nights thinking of women you've made love to or men you've laughed with, of times long past and memories that are both your friend and your enemy. But in May you think about tomorrow, and what you want to do. You think about reorganizing your apartment and getting your closets all cleaned out and doing something about all this. You unearth the buried and turn the soil and plan -- oh the plans you hatch in May, and if you only do one in four by the end of September, you still count yourself well done.

Enough of typing on a computer. It's May. It's time to go out and drink deeply of it. It's time to wash our face with dew, and let the cool crisp morning air refresh and rejuvenate us, and make us beautiful people again.

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