far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Sunday, June 25, 2006

One advantage of wearing clothes: they keep us warm in cold weather. Also, they cover up certain bodies that maybe shouldn't be running around uncovered.
A disadvantage of wearing clothes: they tend to get dirty, necessitating washing.

One advantage of washing clothes: once they're dry, they can be worn again.
One disadvantage: if you'd rather not look like you came home from a major bender and wound up sleeping on the floor, fully dressed, some clothes will likely need to be ironed.

One disadvantage of ironing clothes: it consumes hours that could be spent doing, well, just about anything else.
An advantage of ironing clothes: it provides the perfect guilt-free opportunity to crank up the TV and tune in daytime broadcasts of the World Cup.

A disadvantage of watching the World Cup: it eats up big chunks of time that could be spent in genuinely productive activities.
One advantage: it provides the perfect opportunity to iron clothes.

One disadvantage of ironing clothes: moments of carelessness can result in painful, unsightly burns on upper extremities.
An advantage: It gets rid of annoying piles of laundered non-wash-and-wear clothes.

One disadvantage of washing clothes: if one doesn't want to stand ankle-deep in a stream pounding garments on rocks, piles of money will have to be donated to laundromat owners or washer/dryer manufacturers.
An advantage of washing clothes: they can be worn again.

A disadvantage of wearing clothes: they keep us warm in cold weather. Also, those lacking what some might call fashion sense sometimes provide wholesome entertainment for the rest of us.
One disadvantage of wearing clothes: they tend to get dirty. And so on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dusk -- Montpelier, Vermont




Espaņa, te echo de menos.

rws 1:46 PM [+]

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

And that pause, that last quiet fourteen days of silence, is the longest this journal has ever gone without an entry. I think. Far as I know.

ure went by quickly on this end. Life's been jammed with, er, stuff. Going on. Some of it stuff that's felt good, and some of it, well, you know, not quite so wonderful. The less than wonderful stuff passes, though, and Vermont's grown more and more beautiful with every passing day, the warm season finally taking hold over the course of the last week.

So. What I've been doing: Plenty of work. A mountain of work. (My work, mind you, labor I want to be doing, so I do not whine and/or bitch.) And the more mundane warm-weather homeowner's toil. With the bizarre overabundance of rain during May and the first half of this month, the lawn alone -- the ocean of grass that gets mown here on my hilltop -- occupied a fair amount of time whenever the weather eased up enough to allow the pushing of the mower. Plus, some big, beautiful highbush cranberry greenery outside the kitchen door underwent an infestation of cranberry blossom worms, which resulted in a fair amount of time spent out there cleaning it all out, a time-intensive affair since I opted not to go the bug poison route. After which an invasion of brown beetles took over for the many dead worms, gnoshing out on the same greenery and ranging far beyond. Resulting in more time out there killing local representatives of the bug kingdom. Me triumphing, of course, the greenery recovering and looking fairly smug.

There's more. As I said, life's been jammed. But it'll have to wait. I've got stuff to do.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Along East State Street, Montpelier, Vermont




Espaņa, te echo de menos.

rws 9:36 PM [+]

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Yesterday evening, driving back from Montpelier, evening shadows stretching across the road, everything so lush and green it almost seemed unreal. As I passed North Montpelier pond, I saw two kayaks out on the water, two more still on land, the people on the shore preparing to join the paddlers already out on the pond.

Each kayak was a different color -- one white, one yellow, one red, one green. Bright, eye-catching shades, all of them, contrasting with the intense blue of the sky reflected in the calm water. And I noticed the two individuals getting ready to push their kayaks into the water were short and hefty. Portly, one might say, extremely so. As were the two already out on the pond, looking like they might have had to bend the laws of physics some in order to fit into their kayaks. Not an image you see every day.

And then I was by, heading home, the evening moving slowly toward twilight. The end of a beautiful early June day, with blue skies and sunshine from start to finish -- feeling especially excellent coming after a cool, rainy weekend. This morning started out with clear skies, clouds eased stealthily in. The wet blankets in the local weather biz claim those clouds will bring rain later today, that the rain will likely continue well into the weekend, maybe beyond. Time will tell.

On with the day.


Espaņa, te echo de menos.

rws 12:41 PM [+]

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Four days ago, Friday: two trips to town, two interesting return drives.

First: Two p.m. Route 2, heading out of Montpelier. Behind a fast-moving truck -- looking like a dump truck: same wheel base, same kind of cab, but with a bed half the length or less than standard issue. We cross the bridge where the limit goes up to 50, the truck driver gives it the gas. With the increased velocity, stuff begins flying out of the back, mostly short strips of plastic, like the stuff used by surveyors to mark trees. Yellow mostly, now and then pink. Punctuated by bits of white paper that fly up out of the back, swirl off to the side of the road in the truck's wake. Whatever they've got back there, no one threw a cover over it, it launches colorful litter all the way to East Montpelier, me feeling unhappier about it with each passing mile. I moved close enough to get their plate number, passed them when they slowed at the junction of 2 and 14 in East Montpelier, got the company name and town..

Back home, I gave them a call, trying to remember the last time I'd done something like this. (Answer: years. Maybe years and years and years.)

A woman answered, speaking with what sounded like a faint English accent. (Go figure.) We swapped hellos, I gave her a quick rundown of my drive behind the truck, asked if they would consider throwing a tarp over the back next time they had a similar load. Her response: flat-out denial. They only carried mulch and loam, she said, and they always covered the back of their trucks. What I saw, according to her, could not have happened. After a couple of minutes of that, I got firm. Wasn't my imagination, I told her and I was not calling to chew them out, just to ask for good will and consideration. I could have called the State Police, I pointed out, but gave the company the respect of speaking directly to them instead of passing it off to the law. Her manner changed with the words "State Police," her tone softened, she became more tactful. I gave her the truck's plate number, she said they'd check into it, we wished each other a good weekend and rang off.

Later, around 8 o'clock. Just beginning the drive home, I pass an older guy who has his thumb out. On impulse, I pull over, clear a bunch of stuff off the passenger's seat, get the door open just as the guy reaches the car. I say hello, ask where he's going. Barre, he responds quietly. I tell him we won't be traveling the same route for long but I'll be glad to give him a lift to the fork in the highway. He settles into the seat, pulls the door shut, and a wave of body odor fills the vehicle, intense enough that I take a moment to make a mental adjust. The guy looks to be around sixty, is thin, unshaven, with a prominent adam's apple. He wears work clothes -- old, a bit threadbare, but neat, the pants pressed -- with heavy shoes, a quilted vest, a lunch box.. He leans away from me, shoulder up against the door, speaks quietly, sparingly, doesn't look me in the eye. I fill the space between us with some polite talk and a question or two, his responses are minimal. He reminds me of an older, smaller, more gaunt, more reticent version of Henry Fonda's version of Tom Joad.

A minute or two later, we reach his disembarcation point. I pull off the road, let him out, say good-bye, wish him luck, again doing most of the talking. The door closes, I pull back out onto the highway and head home, the lingering odor strong enough that I open a couple of windows. Last I saw of him, he was walking off in the direction he needed to go, thin body moving tentatively in the fading daylight. And then he was out of view.


Espaņa, te echo de menos.

rws 3:09 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
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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