Getting that early season warm, and Michael Keaton as Batman.

Ah, journaling: the verbal equivalent of dashing my doused body along the rocks innocently waiting on some sailor or fisherman to happen by and appreciate me with his lusty looks.

I took the morning air again, weather was fine for the season, unseasonably warm, but then our seasons tend in fits and starts, or should I say constant fits and plenty of false starts.  The tug-of-war between chill and sweat-weather is the constant in the temperate east, and I noticed weather-chapped buds from weeks ago on some of the plants: the sap had run and then stymied by the cold turn.

I took the fresh air on the screened porch, as is said, "fresh air sharpens the wits", as of a bullet-hole in one's hat, keeping his thoughts keen, past the forsaken deities of displacement and dissipation--Dionysus would be bored here, perhaps, the deity one.

The Aeropagite might find eagerness for his wares, something of breaking the boredom, the slowness of the day; why, I imagine they spent all day in the fields years back, because

a)they would have been miserable in the weather doing anything, and with no air conditioning or box fans to aid their cause.

b)there was really nothing else to do but work for the big farmers; everybody else was so poor.  There was no other reason de'tre, and it was like 18 miles walk to get a drink, anyway.  Why, a days work for a day's food, a Mason or Ball jar filled with creek water sometime in the midmorning, scratching your back and itching calves with a tree branch, a so called "switch", a kind of diving rod that pointed the younglings towards manners and quietude.

I see roofers are all around these days, and woodsmen, thinking the season has turned enough for proper work, like the days when the crews will put in the long days, and then the HVAC people have properly switched over from changing propane nozzles and 90 amp fuses to refilling refrigerants all over the place, particularly the big roof units that sit like gargoyles on tops of all the flat roof buildings.

And Michael Keaton is Batman again, so it really does feel like springtime in America all over again.  The long night of rape-victim-angst and cleft chins has went over to be pasted into posterity, and once again Keaton takes to the skies of ultra-gothic version of New York.

He was a person that fit the hour, as it were, a promise of more, like they keep dangling in front us, as was the joke with The Batman movie recently, "once again we're sitting in front of new, edgier version of Batman".  The just need any script, any director, but slot David Fincher as the production designer; imagine the production values of a film like Seven grafted onto a Batman production.  I'd sit for it and watch like the urchin I am.

I go into prep on two different hero things of my own, alternate universe stuff; one about artificial intelligence and the other more a proper super hero thing.  I had a revelation inside my thoughts, that maybe sometime in the future, I'd write a book that someone would actually want to pick up and read, and maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't feel like I was gaslighting or mansplaining my readers.