We spent Easter on the seashore. No signs of spring yet, except for birdsong. The sea still covered with ice with little sun.

Somehow I find this kind of experience of nature the most rewarding one. The bleak desolation really reminds one how there are no narratives in nature. Desolation resists sensemaking. The world is just there, not to support a wealth of plant- and animal life, or idiots on waterscoorers.



Finished reading Tuulen Varjo (The Shadow of the Wind) by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. An enjoyable romantic horror story, which was really a description of the upheavals in Spain during and after the civil war. Despite this, they key insight I found in the book was the expectation that we all seem to have about people existing for us. Fathers do horrible things to children, because the children fail to do what is expected of them, fail to fulfill their parents' dreams.