far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Tuesday, July 21, 2009

[continued from previous entry]

Waking up in the wee hours, listening to the sound of surf. Walking through shallow pools of saltwater at low tide, ripples of light moving through the water.



Listening to music made by wrens and warblers (one sitting atop the arm of an anemometer mounted on the water-facing side of a nearby building, singing its heart out from morning till evening). Taking long walks into the town center to get caffeinated, to enjoy excellent people-watching, to wander in and out of galleries.

G. & S. spend a substantial part of their time in this small corner of the world, during a walk to the farmers market in the town center with them on Saturday morning, I got a bird's-eye view of the depth of their social network, them running into friend after friend, stretching a simple excursion into a three to four hour jaunt. An amazing display, featuring a pile of good people.

And speaking of amazing displays, that weekend kicked off 'Bear Week.' By Monday, a near flood of large men flowed through the streets of the town. Large, sometimes brawny, sometimes brawny/heavyset, sometimes just heavyset ('heavyset' here meaning something beyond a modest pudginess). Surprisingly, not that many seem to be furry.

My final day there, S. suggested a trip out to the town's west end to walk out along the jetty. Good idea, thought I. We got out the two resident bicycles, made our way through the town center, continued along residential streets lined that led us into sweet, funky neighborhoods and out to the moors, the jetty, sweeping views. Locked up bikes, headed out along the breakwater, talking, moving from one massive chunk of concrete to another, until we'd crossed over to the spit of land that forms the tip of the Cape.



A sweet cool breeze blowing, beachgoers scattered around, gulls standing at the water's edge, facing into the wind. From there, we made a decision to walk the long way around instead of doubling back over the jetty, an extended slog -- very, very, very extended -- ending two hours later, my farmers tan massively darker than it had been that morning. (And why a farmer's tan? Because for some inexplicable reason I set out on this jaunt wearing black jeans, a loose shirt, sneakers, socks, leaving only face, forearms and neck exposed to lovely, life-giving sunlight.)

That evening, my final evening: the day's second field trip, this time to see Paula Poundstone -- she whose trademark is talking with members of the audience, riffing off of what comes out of that. In this case, talking to a couple who own and run a B&B in P-town, it came out that one of them had been an attorney in an earlier incarnation, leaving job and life in the N.Y./N.J. area to move to lovely P-town and change careers. Probing questions from Ms. P. about the kind of law the innkeeper used to practice produced this answer: "I worked for a company called AIG." A nanosecond of amazed silence gave way to a string of gleeful commentary from Ms. P., the laughter in the room growing louder, more intense second by second. S., next to me, sat laughing helplessly. A genuine scene.

After the show, at a popular cafeteria-style joint for supper, the place turning out to be packed, bears providing a huge percentage of those in attendance. And as S. and I. ate at an outside table, watching the scene swirl around us in the newly fallen darkness Miss Richfield 1981 appeared on a scooter-cart -- wearing an amazing, whacked-out get-up -- threading her way through the heaving mass of bears, tourists, etc., talking at the top of her lungs, shmoozing tirelessly, promoting her current show, attempting to drum up a full house for the 10 p.m. performance. Her manner balanced out the visual outrageousness -- a relentless display of good-humored extroversion, attracting all kinds of people, handling them with glib fearlessness. Her scooter-cart moved slowly through the crowd, patter continuing non-stop as she went, until she disappeared into the restaurant. A short time later, she emerged, energy not even close to waning. She piloted her way back to the street, parked, got to her feet and held court. As skillful and likeable a performance as Ms. Poundstone's, in its own out-there way (though with that out-thereness many with mainstream tastes might find it a whole lot more scandalous and unnerving).




[continued in following entry]


Espaņa, te echo de menos

rws 2:22 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

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


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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