far too much writing, far too many photos Wednesday, November 07, 2001 Well. Cambridge, Massachusetts. A beautiful, blustery November afternoon, wind blowing, bringing down leaves. And there are still leaves, there's still color to be seen. When the plane made its final approach to Boston on Monday afternoon, after a long mother of a flight across the Atlantic, it came straight up the South Shore, the land below showing reds, oranges, yellows -- some of it past peak, becoming November's normal browns and faded greens, but a fair amount still bright and alive. The last exuberant display before winter. Being back's been interesting, for the most part in good ways. I'm pretty much ignoring the political side of things -- a small part of life, really -- leaving piles of other stuff to absorb time and attention. Good stuff, by and large. Friends, autumn, daily life in Cambridge, the process of packing up an apartment and all the reflection that comes with that. TV, way better here than in Madrid. (Is there dreck? And how. But the decent programming is generally leagues ahead of Spanish programming.) Plus I get to plug back into the Simpsons and Buffy the Vampire Slayer in English. A drastic improvement over the dubbed Spanish versions, in my humble, ignorant opinion. The flight: long, surprisingly smooth. The only hiccup: the little Hitler working for American Airlines who grilled me before I checked in. I'm living a fairly unconventional life right now, and looking a bit shaggy on top of that. (Every haircut I've gotten in Madrid has been less than wonderful, the most recent an out-and-out disaster. That was a few months back, I've simply put off dealing with the increasing topside abundance till getting back here.) He didn't know what to make of me or some of my answers to his questions. And that was fine -- he's simply doing his job, he didn't seem hostile in a personal way. At least until he took a good look at my passport. My original had disappeared about five weeks ago -- I literally have no idea when or how it vanished. Theft? Loss? Don't know. I went to the American Embassy where they confounded all stereotypes about U.S. government bureaucracy with kindness, sympathy and extreme efficiency, replacing the passport in two hours. But the new passport was blank, all the accumulated international stamps gone -- something Torquemada apparently couldn't deal with. From there, the grilling intensified, stretching on and on. And, maybe because the Q&A went on so long, I was immediately grabbed for a random luggage search. That agent pulled on latex gloves in a way that made me wonder just how thorough a search I was in for. He turned out to be polite, well-mannered, fast, for which I gave thanks. Post-gauntlet, everything went smoothly. The flight was maybe 40% full, the onboard crew in great spirits. The customs process in Boston proved to be more rigorous than in the past, but the agents -- all of them -- did their damndest to be considerate and courteous while getting the job done. And I abruptly found myself in Boston, then Cambridge. Cold, cloudy, a bit misty, leaves on the ground. Very familiar, surprisingly pleasing If you've read many of this journal's overabundant posts, you know I've missed fall. Autumn in Madrid is fine, but the northeastern U.S. version is more intense, more dramatic. Deeper, more extreme, packed with color. Part of it is simply being further north than the Spanish capital, part of it is the difference in the terrain/vegetation. New England is autumn country in the way I think of autumn. Out back of my apartment here, off the small porch that juts out from the building, stands a line of old maples. Old and big. Five, maybe six stories in height. Come autumn, they turn a shade of yellow that is practically luminescent, and they waited for me before they started letting go. In the afternoon, sunlight slanting through them produces a brilliant, unearthly kind of brightness and color. The light and shadows are in constant movement, the cold breeze gets the leaves sounding strangely like surf at the beach. Other maples around here turn brilliant reds, when the breeze gets going leaves of all these colors fill the air. With all that going on outside, I've been inside, working away at packing. My question: how the hell do we accumulate so much shit? Is it innate or is it the trained behavior of a consumer society? Or is it part of nature's aspect, something that develops over time, slow and insidious, the way hangers breed and multipy in closets? (And if so, do socks disappear during the washing process as part of nature's attempt at balance?) rws 1:58 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 June 2008 July 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 kung fu grippe 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 © 2001-2008 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