After last night’s snowfall, premature cherry blossoms froze on the stem.

Meanwhile plans are being drawn and executed in minute stages. Change is rarely dramatic but incremental, barely measurable: fifteen minutes of yoga every day, notes jotted here and there, conversations in cafes during which an idea emerges and takes root. Muscles are strengthened, a composition attains shape, circumstances dissolve into new ones. I trot around town, feeling light, feeling as if a turn had finally come.

A niggling thought: this is possibly a feeling as premature as cherry blossoms in January.

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Post arrived from Canada: a book (Billy-Ray Belcourt's A History of My Brief Body) and tidings on beautiful cards. They had moved south of Vancouver, close to water, and plan to open a gallery in their house. Post is magic, a spell of paper and ink that has travelled thousands of miles into my hands. I thought to myself: I am tired of social media. I want to write a letter, for the first time in months. Enclose a drawing or a collage or a book—traces of my desiring and creative body.

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