far too much writing, far too many photos Friday, May 02, 2008 This afternoon: standing in a bank in Montpelier, Vermont, writing out a deposit slip in the amount of one dollar in pennies. Realizing at some point that they had a radio station piped in, my hand stopped writing as the music registered, Brian Wilson's voice soft and clear, singing 'Good Vibrations.' Which for some reason triggered a memory from this last Tuesday morning, me sweeping the floor in the living room of the flat in Madrid, the room austere, empty of most everything belonging to me apart from a battered boombox (hardy, dependable despite ten years of hard use, including a trip from one side of the Atlantic to the other) set to Radio 3, Iggy Pop's version of 'China Girl' reverberating off the space's white walls. Out in the hallway, workers continue ripping down the plaster ceiling. The noise filters through two doors -- to the flat, then to the living room -- pounding and voices reduced to a level that made it all somehow coexist harmoniously with Iggy. Not sure exactly how long I stood like that in the bank, immersed in my recent past. Ten, fifteen seconds. Came to, blinked, finished writing deposit slip, brought it to a window where the fact of depositing one dollar in pennies provoked laughter from the teller, pretty eyes closing to become pretty slanted lines for an instant as she laughed, face radiating a degree of enjoyment not often seen in that sober institution. So. Back in northern Vermont, my bod still on European time, waking me up at ungodly hours. Temperature outside the dining room window this morning, 7 a.m.: 24° F. Skies gray, trees showing the first meager traces of green, grass beginning to show some life. As I walked in the kitchen door a couple of hours ago, movement outside caught my eye, I turned to see the curve of a hawk's shadow glide quickly across the grass. One in a constant stream of reminders that I'm not in Madrid any more. Not in Madrid. (For now.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Yesterday, Logan Airport, Boston:: España, te echo de menos rws 5:40 PM [+] Tuesday, April 29, 2008 [continued from previous entry] These final days here in this flat have turned out to be -- and this is not a phrase you will hear from me very often, given that I tend to live a charmed life -- a fucking disaster. One reason: las obras –- the rehab work that has been going on for more than 3-1/2 years in this building (more than 3-1/2 years!!) -- returned to the teeny hallway on this floor yesterday morning. Meaning noise and a constant, unstoppable flow of dust into the living space while inside. Leaving the flat or coming back means plaster dust all over clothes and a mix of dust and wet plaster smeared all over footwear. Put it all together: pure joy, beginning at 8 a.m. and stretching to 6 p.m. Another reason: Telefónica, the Spanish telephone company, is apparently incapable of terminating my phone/internet/cable services in a timely, coherent, efficient, effective, productive, trustworthy manner. (Pause to ponder tacking a few more adjectives onto that description.) Three or four years ago, when I disconnected internet service, the process was simple: write up a letter with the details, fax it to them. Did that three or so days before the desired date, worked just fine. This time they can't and won't guarantee anything in terms of timing. They no longer accept a handwritten letter -- they send a form by mail (that may take up to 15 days to arrive, they emphasize) that must be filled out and faxed. So far, six days later, hasn't shown up. They did manage to turn off my internet and cable services last Friday morning, though, ignoring the May 1st date I'd given them for the shut-off. Calling customer service produced a wall of double-talk and a refusal to pass me to a supervisor. I apparently made an impression, however -- a few hours later, after I'd gone out to clear my head, I found the service restored. They called three times on Saturday, apparently anxious to make sure I handed over the cable box before bolting -- I stonewalled, working from the presumption that anything I said might wind up in another surprise loss of service. Yesterday a.m. first thing, feeling more tranquil, I called and resumed the process for internet/cable termination. So far: nothing more from them. Called earlier today to give them a gentle nudge, since I'm out of here tom'w. Did not go well with the first woman -- apparently asking them to work with you on coming to some sort of arrangement to get things taken care of does not compute for some of the personnel. When she wouldn't stop talking over me every time I tried to say something, I hung up, called back, dealt with someone else. The second individual heard me and had a suggestion or two that might turn out to be a solution. Spent the last few days getting ready to move things to storage. The truck came this morning, I had to force the work in the hallways to stop while I carried everything down four flights of stairs -- I will never live in a fourth floor walk-up again -- so that the truck crew could take over from there. Unhappy workers standing about, refusing to go away until I was done, not looking my sweaty, heavily-breathing self in the eyes. Had to raise my voice at one who didn't want to stop and clear the hallway to let me do what I needed to do. Me navigating plastic sheeting on floors and walls, bags of plaster, workers, and items placed on stairs by workers, crowding the way enough to cause problems. (One near-catastrophic result of all that pointless horseshit: the destruction of my cellphone and one of my cameras -- the one that took the below image.) Possibly the single most unpleasant move I've ever just barely survived. The positive side: the truck crew. Fast, efficient, were in and out leaving me here to do clean-up. Another positive side: sunny, cool, lovely weather. Yet another positive side: with all the work that had to be done to be ready for this morning, much of what's left to be ready for tomorrow's departure is done. And one more: a Spanish friend has been a real friend during the last few days. Short on sleep, tired, not in my finest state of mind. In all the complications with the morning's move, two or three items didn't get included, me too tired and distracted to realize until the truck was gone. Will have to be left in the flat, a donation to landlords or future tenants. Blah blah blah. One strange note: for some reason during the past week, this has happened to me many times -– I'm walking somewhere in the barrio, I hear a telephone ring. An old one, the ancient kind with an actual bell. A sound that gets me looking around, expression puzzled. Someone nearby digs into a pocket or bag, pulls out a cellphone. A cellphone that has a ringtome of an ancient telephone. Suddenly they're everywhere. A kind of analog retro-chic thing. Madre mía. Assuiming I survive carrying far too much luggage out through nightmarish rehab work and down several flights of stairs to the street (never again will this boy live in a elevator-deficient multi-story apt. building), I will be in transit tom'w, touching down in Boston, spending the night in Cambridge. Send good thoughts. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Along la Calle de Augusto Figueroa, Madrid: España, te quiero rws 2:43 PM [+] Saturday, April 26, 2008 [continued from previous entry] I've done this back and forth thing a lot, a bunch of times, yet I seem to completely forget certain aspects of the experience until I'm immersed in them all over again. Like the way time seems to begin accelerating when the day of departure is five or so days off. Literally seems to begin picking up speed and momentum. A function of the number of things absorbing attention, probably, the feeling of so much to take care of in steadily diminishing pool of time. Logically explained, I´m sure, probably something most everyone experiences. But strange, regardless. This week has slipped by at what feels like a ferocious pace in retrospect, punctuated by tasks; bizarre, not so user-friendly happenings; and increasingly beautiful weather. The dark and damp gradually shifted over the course of last weekend, transforming back into springtime in Madrid. Found myself walking a local street Tuesday morning and heard the sound of the swifts -- the local version of swallows -- for the first time this year, the one decisive sign that marks the arrival of the warm season for me. The days have grown increasingly summery, the streets choked with people out enjoying it, the murmur of voices five flights down a constant apart from a brief period in the early morning. And in the background, coming and going, the swifts' soft keening call. The plaza down the street is full most hours of the day and night now, musicians come and go. The same ones, mostly playing the same tunes. A short central American guy with a tape player mounted on a handtruck -- taking up position, turning it on, pulling out a pocket trumpet, playing 'Hello, Dolly.' (No renditions of 'My Way' so far, from anyone, for which I am deeply, sincerely grateful. On the other hand, there have already been far too many renditions of 'Those Were The Days.' Far, far too many.) Singers. Jazz musicians, playing soft, lilting music that winds softly in and out of the murmur of all the voices in conversation. And people with accordions. Not just here in the plaza -- everywhere. Enough of them spread out through the course of the day to give one the feeling of being stalked by a fraternity of older types playing 'Lady of Spain' and 'The Shadow of Your Smile.' [continued in following entry] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Evening, late April, Madrid sidestreet España, te quiero rws 12:57 PM [+] Thursday, April 24, 2008 [continued from previous entry] Before leaving, went for a fast look at my brand new rental space, home to my modest heap of rubbish for the next twelve months. Out of the office into chilly air. Up stairs. Up more stairs. Down strange surreally artificial-looking hallways (floor, walls, doors (all identical apart from their numbers), more doors, still more doors, fluorescent lighting). All the way to door B032. Convinced key to fit into lock, fiddled until door opened. And there it was: space. Two meters squared worth. Not a whole lot of space, actually, I realized, staring at it. But enough, my life here being on the austere side when it comes to material hooha. Locked door, retraced route (hallways, stairs, more stairs), found myself out in chilly open air, sound of passing cars from the nearby arterial providing post-modern ambient soundtrack. Made long, long trek to pedestrian bridge, sun peeking through clouds now and then. Crossed sometimes-four-sometimes-six-lane. Got to bus-waiting-shelter thingie a minute or two before bus pulled up, nearly full, passengers silent. A business-suited, shades-wearing, iPodding 20-something sat on the aisle seat, blocking access to one of the few free sitting spots. I gestured at the empty space, making a gesture of inquiry, he graciously got to his feet, letting me squeeze by. I sat, he sat. Bus pulled out. Time passed. Passengers got off, others got on. Eventually found myself back underground, doing the Metro ride in reverse. (Same entertainment during inter-train transfer: woman/mid-tempo pop, male playing pretty decent accordion.) Finally surfaced back here in the barrio (the face of Spongebob Squarepants smiling at me from a pin on a 20-something's daypack), sun gone once more, arrived here in the building to the thunderous din of workers having far too much fun hammering on increasingly plasterless walls. (See previous entry.) Pulling the trigger on the storage rental became the unofficial starting point for getting serious about putting my life here on hold. Shelves and drawers are slowly being emptied, some things being tossed/recycled, others getting stuffed into boxes. People outside in the halls pound away at walls/ceiling (tinny transistor radio blaring), dust finds its way in around the cracks in the door, complicating life, giving vacuum cleaner plenty of exercise. A month ago, that vacuum cleaner died. Brought it to a shop tucked away on a sidestreet in a barrio a hefty Metro ride away. A week later, had it back, giving thanks for the simple blessing of a working dirt sucker. A few days ago, realized that the washer was no longer spinning, meaning clothes had to be wrung out by hand, taking forever to dry. Got the okay from the landlords yesterday morning to phone a repair-person. Made the call, half an hour later a rumpled 60ish guy appeared at my door, tool kit in hand -- tired, friendly in a world-weary way. I pointed him into the kitchen, a trail of white plaster footprints appeared in his wake. A fast diagnosis, a price for the work that I went with. He returned to his truck, came back carrying a plastic bag bulging with belts. A ton of belts, but none of them, turned out, the right one. He offered to return later in the day with the correct item and finish up. Several hours later he was back, bringing the washer to life. White footprints followed him out of the flat, me calling out profuse thanks as he disappeared down the stairs into clouds of drifting dust. [continued in next entry] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Empty display window/abandoned shop, Madrid: España, te quiero rws 6:02 PM [+] Tuesday, April 22, 2008 Last Friday morning: gray, cool, rainy. (One of a series of a.m.'s like that, the week turning away from spring, back toward late winter). I made my way out early, through the piles of plaster fragments and swirling dust created by the workers slowly destroying redoing the walls inside this old building. Bought the paper, hopped the Metro, began a long trip out to an industrial park not far from Barajas airport. A subway ride followed by a long transfer (passing two musicians along the way: a woman with a boom box and microphone doing a music-plus-one thing, singing along to generic, mid-tempo pop tunes; a male playing a jazzy accordion like he knew what he was doing), the second train nearly empty, rush-hour over. Transfer to bus with grumpy driver, emerging from underground darkness onto the high-speed sometimes-four-sometimes-six-lane that extends out away from city to airport and beyond. When I boarded and asked about the destination, Scowling Dude told me it would be the third stop. Turned out to be the second, I would have missed it if he hadn't done me the favor of calling it out. Stepped out, found myself in cool, damp air by a service road lined with industrial park buildings (architecture a combination of sleek and hulking) seeing no sign anywhere in view indicating where I wanted to end up. Where I wanted to end up: a rental-unit facility, one of only two within doable distance of the city center. I'd investigated both -- the other was closer in, more accessible, involving only a ride on one Metro train with a bit of a hike at the other end. An attractive difference, me living a carless life here. I made the trip to the closer facility, found them distant, formal. They quoted me a fairly high price, but the info sheet they handed me specified a low-price guarantee ("MEJOR PRECIO Garantizado -- In the spirit of improving the quality and attention to our clients, we will equal the offer of our competitors in the case that they offer the same services and conditions"). A call to the outfit I was currently en route to produced friendlier people, lower prices, but a longer, more complicated trip. I phoned the first to see if they would match their competitor's price, a young woman told me the guarantee only applied to 'competition within our zone.' (There was no competition in their zone, the way she defined it.) Could be that bit about 'in the case they offer the same services and conditions' provided the way to weasel out of delivering. I forged ahead in the nicest, most reasonable way, assuming the lure of hundreds of euros in combination with my limitless charm would make some headway. Nothing doing. She remained unyielding, my business went to their competitor. That competitor turned out to be a hidden away a half-mile along the service road, bringing me to an office buried away inside a maze of buildings where the owner greeted me with genuine friendliness and the deal was done. I opted for the storage idea after re-discovering something I'd experienced a few years back, when it seemed like I might be on the verge of closing out my Madrid life: that prospect felt so bad that it provoked a sensation of panic, of drowning. Me trying to tell myself something. I listened, calling up my patient landlords (after having given notice), asking if it was too late to keep the place. (It wasn't, I groveled at their feet (metaphorically) with relieved gratitude.) This time around it does feel like the moment to move on has materialized, at least from this flat. The logical option: a small trastero to hold my modest pile of stuff until I figure out what's next. [continued in following entry] España, te quiero rws 10:31 AM [+] Tuesday, April 15, 2008 If I were forced to describe the recent state of this life of mine, I would have to say: not so much a soothing garden party as a jaunt in a burning plane piloted by some head case on acid. Strange, hair-raising twists and turns. Big emotions. With the details of the daily ride designed to cause unrest. On the other hand, after several days of rain -- spring replaced by a cooler, less user-friendly imposter -- Saturday brought sweet, abundant sunlight and a general lifting of spirits, a state that's remained in place since then. Which I appreciate the hell out of, let me tell you. Have been slowly working my way through what needs to be done to put my life here on hold for now, wading through it all at an unhurried pace, trusting that I've started far enough ahead of time that the last-minute frenzy will be blessedly light on the frenzy part, or at least not so frenzied that needle on the stress meter slides up into the meatiest part of the red zone. Several weeks back, the rehab work that's been making its way through -- and literally rebuilding sections of -- this old building for the last 3.6587 years started on a new phase, laborers showing up every morning and working away on external details of the first couple of floors. After a month or so that crew disappeared, producing a brief period of tranquility that ended last Thursday when a different bunch materialized in the hallway outside this flat. Three males with hammers -- partying wildly as they pounding away at ceiling and walls, removing plaster. Producing a massive sea of plaster chips along with clouds of slowly-swirling white dust. For the first day or two, they didn't bother to cloak stairwell or apartment doors, producing an ongoing cascade of white bits, giving the stairwell a stylishly impressive post-earthquake look from this level all the way down to the foyer. I did not get the entire picture of what the hubbub would mean until I opened the door of the flat to find my welcome mat buried under two or three inches of plaster, chips pushing aggressively into every crack along the bottom of the door. Then glanced back into the flat and realized that dust had been insinuating its way in around the door, saw my footsteps in the pale sheen of powder coating the floor, saw that the bottom of my socks had turned ghostly white. Brief time-out for clean-up, stuffing sheets along door bottom, closing all in-flat doors to minimize dust flow. And even with that, dust sneaks quietly into the living space, turning horizontal surfaces and sock bottoms pallid. The workers inch their way along -- now on the floor below this one, for which I give sincere thanks -- partying away in the middle of the dust, free of cumbersome protective details like breathing masks, calling back and forth in high-speed Spanish, the youngest of them laughing like a hyena. Spent some time talking with a friend about all that, about strange endgame happenings with my good-hearted landlords -- an account of which I swear I will provide someday -- about this strange passage of what passes for my life. And when, post-caffeine boost, we'd paid up and stepped out into the cool springtime air of Madrid, we stood talking more, and at some point I noticed a small face staring up at me from the sidewalk. A passport-photo-sized portrait dropped by an unknown individual, its subject gazing skyward -- at me, at my friend, at the legs of anyone walking by. Hair receding and weirdly cut, looking tired, not exactly overjoyed and a touch lost amid the noise and motion of the 3-D world. There may be a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm going to spare us all the pain of me digging for it. Later. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He is Bonzi! España, te quiero rws 11:15 AM [+] Monday, April 07, 2008 In recent days: James Taylor songs playing everywhere -- from the windows of a car passing on Gran Vía; blasting from the door to a tienda here in the barrio; drifting faintly out the open window of a flat, playing in the background on the radio in a morning caffeine joint as I worked my bleary way through an espresso and a croissant, paging through a morning newspaper. Machine Gun Kelly, You Got a Friend, Sweet Baby James. A sign, apparently, that his recent concert CD arrived here. Can't remember the last time I heard his voice before this sudden onslaught. Centuries ago. Recent highlights from the Spanish press: -- A classic Calvin and Hobbes cartoon, Hobbes ambushing Calvin upon his return home from school. (Final panel -- Hobbes: "He pensado que después de siete horas de aburrimiento en la escuela te gustaría disfrutar de un momento de absoluto terror." Calvin: "Déjame coger el bate para darte las gracias.") -- An article comparing Bush the father with Bush the son, lapsing into English to theorize that W. stands for 'weak.' -- A piece about the HBO show 'In Treatment,' the article's tone coming across as a mixture of intrigued wonderment and objective reportage ("Es puro voyeurismo televisivo...."). -- Ongoing reports about the Spanish real estate 'crisis,' prices now falling sharply after years of wild inflation, the term 'ciudad fantasma' (ghost town) being used -- exaggeratedly or not -- to describe massive construction projects of apartment buildings now standing near empty. Walking through the empty streets of the barrio of Salamanca on a weekend morning, the local world still in bed, en route to an exhibit of minimalist art. On a bench along a sidewalk, a blue baseball cap left by individuals unknown, bold characters enumerating the year '1975' across its front. At the exhibit, staff outnumbered me and two other early-rising art-goers (early in Madrid terms: 10:45 a.m.), drifting after us from room to room to ensure we committed no vandalism. Sports reports about recent bullfights in which bulls got the upper hand, featuring alarming photos of toreros suffering some serious damage. Further sports reports about the Spanish fútbol scene, the season in its final stage, the leading teams all limping toward the end, suddenly incapable of pulling a winning match out of the weekly encounters. Me perched on a stool at a café window, paging through a newspaper, P.J. Harvey playing on the in-house sound system, one of my favorite CD's, an album I haven't heard since... not sure. Centuries. Feeling like a small cosmic balancing out of the earlier James Taylor onslaught. Outside the café window, late a.m. tilted toward early p.m., sky a milky blue. Tourists with slightly desperate expressions (apparently unprepared for the slow coming to of local life on weekend mornings) and drowsy locals pass in clusters. -- runswithscissors: six-pack abs and rhythm to burn España, te quiero rws 8:08 AM [+] Saturday, April 05, 2008 These last few days have brought springtime to Madrid, the genuine item. Four or five days in a row of temperatures drifting up into the ‘70's, sunlight flooding the barrio's narrow streets. A long enough stretch that cold weather coats have all disappeared, apart from those worn by some older folks during the hours of morning chill. Around midday, the bars scattered around the plaza down the street from here set up row upon row of tables and chairs, the space filling up with people, the air filling with the murmur of many voices. The crowds remain through the afternoon, the evening and long into the early hours, until the table and chairs disappear and the soundtrack changes from conversation to sloppier, alcohol-fueled verbiage, more erratic as groups, waves of people pass through periodically, everything quieting down around 7 a.m. It's a cycle I've lived with (and written about ad nauseum) for a long time now, and during the course of these last few months I've had the growing feeling that it may be time to make a change. I've been at this point before, or thought I was, but was not ready to let go of being here, could not make the move. Looks like it's for real this time around. I've spent these last few weeks pondering that, prodded by the unrest you're now far too familiar with if you've waded through this journal's recent entries. Last weekend it felt like a decision had to be made -- the end of the month loomed, 30 days notice had to be given, as sweet as the weather has become, the prospect of living with the warm weather version of this barrio's nightlife did not bring much joy. Monday evening, I called the landlords to give notice. A couple I've known now since the summer of 2001. Her English, him American, both living here since the '70's. Good people, good landlords. Friends, even, for a while. (What happened re: the "for a while" part of that last bit is a story for another day.) Long story short: I made the move. Gave notice, will be out of this piso on the last day of April and back in northern Vermont on May 1. Will then begin the process of emptying out the house -- what that will mean re: the options of selling things, giving things away, dumping things and/or putting things in storage, I don't yet know -- and putting it on the market. Where I go from there, I have no idea. At least not yet. Like most humans, I tend to figure things out as I go along. No reason this should be any different. Right now, it feels like I'm getting ready to toss myself into the void. Or at least back onto a plane and off to points not yet known. Applications are now being accepted for the dubious experience joyous adventure of taking in a pointy-booted stray with an adorable bum for a short, medium or long-term stay. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Above la Plaza de los Cubos, Madrid: España, te quiero rws 1:36 PM [+] Saturday, March 29, 2008 [continued from previous entry] It's hard work writing about all this. It's hard work thinking about all this. I'm not especially anxious to dig into it, but it's what is happening in my little life, and with each passing day it feels more apparent that a moment is taking form that has to be engaged with now. If not for any concrete steps just yet, then for sifting through it all in advance of taking steps. I find myself waking up in the early hours, my teeny brain in motion, thoughts swirling slowly around all of what I've been describing. Then the daily -- and lately, with the weather easing gradually toward genuine springtime, it has become a daily affair -- early morning cavalcade of shouting, whistling clubbers materialize, some slowly passing through the streets in transit to other hangouts or home, others hanging about, their mission apparently to make existence less restful for neighborhood residents. (I will not bitch and moan. I will not bitch and moan. Happy happy, joy joy.) So. Despite what I said in the last entry about generally not seeing my life as turning corners or taking big, clearly-marked turns, it may be that my life is approaching one of those big turns it's not supposed to make, similar to the way it did eight long, yet lightning-fast years ago. Sure looks and feels that way lately, in part because what has been does not seem to workable as something that continues off into a rose-colored future. And where that leaves me right now? I'm working on that. I found myself submerged in all this during Easter week, in a way that had me keeping to myself, not feeling much interest in anything more than gliding quietly through the days in a brooding state of meditation. (For the first time in several years, I didn't bother to go check out the Easter processions that pass slowly through the streets of the city center. The local version doesn't compare to what I saw in Andalucía a few years back, the thought of wading through the crowds to witness Madrid's far less intense, far less compelling processions just did not move me.) But now and then I'd step outside for a walk, some errands, a breath of the local version of fresh air, and suddenly existence returned to something brighter, more three-dimensional. People, activity. Moments everywhere to watch and listen to. (A window washer at work, cellphone pressed to left ear with left hand, right hand on auto-pilot, squeegee passing methodically across wide expanse of glass. Couples in town from Germany, England, other places off beyond the horizon, conferring together over guidebooks, streetmaps.) And one afternoon in the gym, a place that generally pumps out a continuous soundtrack of techno through the in-house sound system -- me still half-submerged in the kind of thoughts I've been describing as I did my sweaty thing -- the music suddenly changed to something entirely different, the long, gradual opening of a very different kind of song replacing the customary fast, hyper-repetitive tunes. And suddenly there was U2, Bono going on about a place where the streets have no name (yes, I mentioned Bono -- please, no scathingly Pitchforkian comments), and I could feel the energy in the gym shift and lift, everyone visibly responding to the music. And inside me, the sun burst through, and suddenly I was with the lighter, more content me I'm more accustomed to. What a relief. It all passes, all of this. And light returns, maybe in sympathy with the season. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Graffiti wall, Madrid: España, te quiero rws 8:25 AM [+] Thursday, March 27, 2008 [continued from previous entry] That all-encompassing version has underlain underloin been something I've felt underneath the ongoing living of what passes for my life these last months. Not something I'm overjoyed about, but it's the way it's been. I've been living by the seat of my pants since I fled the States in the summer of 2000. (Where exactly did that turn of phrase come from? How does one live by the seat of one's pants? It's a mysterious language, English.) Which has meant repeating the sentence "I don't know" many hundreds of times (no, not all at once) when people have asked what I'd be doing or where I'd be x weeks/months in the future. I haven't been able to say for sure, at least not in any long-term way. At any given point, I might know how long off in the short-term I'd be planted somewhere doing... whatever it is exactly that I do. But that's as far as it's gone. And though it's worked out into a basic cross-Atlantic pattern with a vague warm-season/cold-season kind of rhythm, it's been different every year, sometimes drastically different. And of course I wouldn't be doing it if it didn't include major aspects that I love. Or like. (Or like better than the other available options.) The excitement of the whole adventure, the unexpectedness of it all. Watching my life take a big veering turn, off in a direction that practically made my hair stand on end from the goofy thrill of it all. Discovering a deep, undeniable feeling of connection to places far away, with no apparent logic or explanation. Finding myself actually off exploring life in those places, learning a second language, bumping up against (metaphorically speaking, for the most part) folks from all over the map. (And me coming from parents who never strayed from the eastern U.S., from a family in which no one ever seriously took on a second language.) And confirming that I mostly like people, wherever they're from, that I mostly enjoy people and wish them well. I tend not see my life as turning corners, moving from one phase to another in clearcut fashion. I see its fabric composed of interwoven threads, all in constant flow and evolution. Sometimes lots of those threads develop momentum in a certain direction, manifesting big changes as the life I'd been riding gradually morphs into... the same life, but with different scenery, different headlines, brand new sensory input. My birth family gradually faded away in the few years, dropping off the twig one by one, my one remaining sibling becoming decisively distant once the funerals were finished and my parents' house down in the never-never land of mid-Atlantic coast Florida had been emptied out and sold. First distant, then impatient during our ever-briefer phone calls and 3-D visits, then opting out of exchanging Christmas gifts and finally to all contact of any substance. There have been lots of partings of ways during these years of my coss-Atlantic cavort, which is fine. People come and go, it's a basic part of life. But the goings have far outnumbered the, er, comings. And most people I've met during my time here in Madrid have passed right on through, becoming part of the picture for a while then moving on. Spaniards, ex-pats from the U.K. and the States, fellow-sufferers in the far too many language classes that I've subjected myself to during these years. This is not something I'm crazy about. The one and only thing I miss in any serious way about my existence back in the States is the handful of friends who feel like family. They're a long way away. And while I have another handful on this side of the ocean, they're mostly scattered around different parts of the European map. Which leaves me leading my life here, with a fair-sized void when it comes to companions in the daily slog. [continued in following entry] -- runswithscissors: the raw virility of Sonny Tufts, the timeless appeal of Zasu Pitts España, te quiero rws 2:23 PM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS Personal History Travels: London '01 Pamplona Italy '03 U.K. '03 Sevilla Casablanca Stoke-on-Trent Barcelona Québec/Ottawa Boston/Lisbon/Madrid Italy '04 Montréal La Sierra Events: Madrid -- arrival 9/11 Emergency Room I Holidays 2001 Holidays 2002 Holidays 2003 Holidays 2004 Holidays 2005 A neighbor's passing Madrid -- March 11 bombings   and aftermath Emergency Room II Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon Madrid -- Royal Wedding The DELE exam Excerpts from GONE, a novel: Chapter 1 (complete) Chapter 6 (complete) Chapter 8 (excerpt) Chapter 9 (excerpt) Chapter 9 (excerpt) Screenplay excerpt: BURBANK SHRUGGED Short stories: Murphy's Wife Another Autumn Queja de Una Hermanastra   Muy Conocida .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT People/Weblogs: dooce foxvox fudge it fear not rebekka bookslut 802online idle words madhaiku wockerjabby grow-a-brain digital camel letting me be franklin avenue fanatical apathy baghdad burning the happy booker mimi smartypants between the miles just a hippie gypsy tomato can brushes playing with my food sugar mountain farm Good Clean Fun: gizmodo futurismic postsecret dave barry human clock mcsweeney's spaceweather book-a-minute internet archive self-portrait day my cat hates you out of context quotes surrealist compliment   generator strindberg and helium Makin' Musical Whoopee: muxtape soma fm pandora last fm .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . ABOUT RWS/CONTACT This page copyright © 2001-2007 by runswithscissors unless otherwise noted. runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done. Syndicate This Site Blogarama BlogCatalog technorati profile www.flickr.com More of runswithscissors' photos