You know that Greek god, the one that brings the sun up every day with a flaming solar chariot? I think it's Helios, or maybe Apollo. Anyway, no matter his name, any god with a flaming solar chariot needs a whip to crack as he brings on the day with his thundering solar steeds. And that whip is the Kansas turnpike.

I drove 1,143 miles on 1-35 last night, beginning in Austin, TX, and ending in Northfield, MN. Actually, I personally only drove around five hours, between 1 and 6 a.m. This is my favorite shift to drive. My tires devour silent gaping roads, and my freedom is meditative, pure, and alive. The sun came up over Kansas just as the moon set, and there, in the reeling center of celestial rearrangement, it became clear to me that the turnpike is Apollo's whip.

And, with that realization, I begin my last term at Carleton. All the snow has melted, and weather.com predicts a ridiculous 78˚ F for Wednesday. I simply cannot fathom this, and anticipate the inevitable April blizzard with apprehension. For now, though, the whole word looks a little surprised to be naked, and is blushing green. My classes look good. I kinda like it.

Finals

A warm white fog has descended over Northfield, and the snow is melting all squishy and brown and hopeful. The edges of everything are softened, too, like someone had a lot of fanciful fun developing the universe... My mind is spinning with Thai monks and psychotropic drugs, and I have less than 48 hours to write eight pages and take an exam.

I'll probably survive, although it is fitting to re-visit this limerick that I wrote exactly one year ago today.

On a somewhat unrelated note, I found the wonderfully distracting website Wordle, and pasted in my senior thesis. This was the result (words that were used the most often are the largest):

March vanquishes February

with fuses

on her

      sky—line

sizzle and snowmelt

     (improbable hope)

what a strange

brave

parade

this Spring.