far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Whoops -- hard to believe so much time has elapsed since this journal's last installment. Not that the silence has been deliberate (or that people have been hammering at my virtual door jonesing for an update). Two, three days back I made several attempts to pull together what passes as my thoughts and dump them here in reasonably coherent fashion. The result: pure, blithering, unintentional comedy gold, me finally giving up when my word processing program decided to have a seizure, wiping out a paragraph or two of ponderings in the process (producing a brief blizzard of colorfully foul language from yours truly). Which I took as a sign to call it a day. Sometimes you have to know when to fold up your tent and slouch off into the metaphoric night.

It continues feeling strange to find myself out in the middle of northeast Vermont's snowbound hills instead of Madrid's noise and energy. There is a part of me that experiences this time here as an especially long session in a sensory deprivation tank. A beautiful, endearing sensory deprivation tank, but still -- awfully damn quiet.

I returned from Montreal just in time to miss my downhill neighbor Mo's 84th birthday bash. When I stopped in the next day to grovel with apologies and see how he was doing, I found him looking tired, a little strained. Normal, I suppose, for someone in his situation: three days post-installation of a pacemaker. His heart had developed a tendency to slow way the hell down during the long Vermont nights, slow enough that implanting a cardiac metronome seemed like a good idea.

He was sitting at the kitchen table paging through an outdoorsy magazine when I showed up, his live-in sweetie off driving a schoolbus. Home alone, feeling kind of isolated, especially in the wake of the previous day's houseful of birthday partyers. He let me know he was going to be home alone a lot during the next couple of weeks, told me to stop by any time I felt like it -- sounding like an indirect way of asking for company.

I walked down there one afternoon during the following week. Both cars were gone, but I made my way through front-yard snow and dog poop to knock on the door just for the hell of it, just in case one of his kids or grandkids had temporary use of his vehicle, leaving Himself in the house, at loose ends. The response: silence. An eerily deep silence, unusual in a house where the two resident canines generally make an unholy racket at the sound of knuckles on door or footsteps on porch. More knocking, more silence. And at some point Mo's chubby beagle, Sally, appeared in the kitchen window, staring quietly out at me, expression strangely mournful. I talked to her, she gazed back, eyes sad. When I finally gave up and returned home, I found myself feeling strangely disquieted, decided to return the next day to make sure Mo was all right.

And I did. And he was. More than all right –- spirits and energy high, his body feeling better than it had in some time, the pacemaker doing its job and then some. Him talking about resuming the long daily walks he used to take up the road past this house, something that disappeared a few years back as various ailments took hold. He cut a priceless image on those walks -- a long, gnarled walking stick in one hand (longer than Mo was tall), the end of Sally's leash in the other, the dog jerking him in various directions as they moved along the road, Mo attempting to maintain a straight course, a creature about 1/10th his body weight dragging him pretty much anywhere it felt like. I'd love to see that kind of vaudeville pass here on a daily basis again.

He's a tough old bird, Mo -- it would not surprise me if he proved to be indestructible. It wouldn't surprise me if he wound up outliving everyone else on this hill, cackling gleefully while shooting squirrels off our headstones.

In the meantime, winter has returned to these parts. Proper, ass-freezing Vermont winter, not the strange, slushy global warming pseudo-cold-season we've been experiencing in recent weeks. A bit of a shock to the system, but beautiful.

And the days roll on.





España, te echo de menos.

rws 5:47 PM [+]
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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
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


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

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
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:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done.



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