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Saturday, November 30, 2002 It started raining sometime during the afternoon so that the 8-10 inches of snow blanketing everything has begun getting more compact. (Perfect snowball material.) When I left the house this morning, the world was covered in thick, light snow, and between morning sunlight and the temperature floating up above freezing for the first time in a few days, the trees were shedding white material so that it came down like a second snowfall. Real pretty. I've been deeply into travel prep., both actual prep. for the trip and also readying the house for a friend who'll be staying here, taking care of the place during the months I'll be in Madrid. Have been going since I got up this morning with the result that I'm right on schedule, I think, as far as preparations. This is good. Plenty left to do, though. I'll be out of here tom'w a.m., won't touch down in Madrid until Tuesday sometime. Meaning that entries here will be spotty at best until mid-week. To get an idea of the effect Madrid has on my writing, take a look at this journal's entries for the second half of July of this year, beginning with the 15th. Change is good. Be well. Have a good few days. *************************** No Comment: From the News Quirks column ("Odd, strange, curious and weird but true news items from every corner of the globe") of Seven Days, a weekly alternative newspaper based in Burlington, VT: "Weeks after introducing its newest planes, the $200 million Airbus A340-600, Virgin Airlines said it is having to replace plastic tables intended for changing diapers in its 'mother and baby room' because passengers have broken them while having sex on them. 'Those determined to join the Mile High Club will do so despite the lack of comforts,' a Virgin representative said." rws 5:00 PM [+] |
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Thursday, November 28, 2002 Man, it's been years since I've experienced a genuinely cold, wintry Thanksgiving. And snow -- I literally can't remember my last white Thanksgiving. The day slipped by at a startlingly rapid pace, in part due to lack-of-sleep bleariness on my part (getting to bed too damn late, getting up too damn early), and here I find myself at the end of it feeling the need to attempt a wrap-up of some kind. Why? Well. A short time ago I watched Don't Look Back, the nearly free-form documentary filmed by D.A. Pennebaker during the course of Dylan's 1965 solo tour of England. An outrageously influential, iconic piece, which left me feeling a mix of emotions and thoughts that I'd be hard-pressed to express clearly. It's a bizarre work, a strange, slippery, powerful, exasperating bit of filmmaking, which somehow drew for me a starkly clear picture of the limited value of words. An odd place to be considering that I deal in words to an extent. There is so much blabber in the film, and it never clarifies anything, at least to my eyes and ears. It deals in smoke and fog, in obfuscation and a sharply aggressive brand of elusiveness. Standing in drastic contrast to the words of Dylan's lyrics, which the film's brief concert segments showcase as potent, dynamic expressions of thought and emotion, expressing with a clarity that seems strange to me considering how dense those lyrics are, how excessively packed with words. Blah blah blah. And right here, four miserable paragraphs into this entry, I find myelf hyperaware of my inability to express simply and clearly because I have to toss together a continually swelling accumulation of words, sentences, paragraphs to get at things having to do with feelings and perception, not with intellectual hooha. I rely on my feelings more and more as this life of mine wears on, and I talk less. I trust my feelings. They lead me to clearer experience, clearer understanding, both nonverbal states that get served in pitiful fashion when I try to cram them into verbal form. It's a curious, hilariously subjective thing, perception and all that. Example: take a look at some of the wildly varying takes on the film, beginning with the hyperlink in the second paragraph of this entry, and then here, here, here and here. The writers have distinct takes, all different in different ways and, apart from some factual goof-ups (i.e., Roger Ebert writes that "...Pennebaker's 1967 film... is a time capsule from the period when Sgt. Pepper was steamrolling Mr. Tambourine Man" -- the tour took place in '65; Sgt. Pepper didn't show up until two years later), who's to say that one is more valid than any of the others? It's a provocative film of a provocative artist carrying on in messy, provocative ways. And provocative is good. Just uncomfortable at times. ****************** I've been thinking about this life of mine a lot lately, this being Thanksgiving and all, a good time to assess and appreciate. Which led me to a thought I've had before, one which might sound silly though it's true: I'm grateful to every person who has passed through my life. Every single one, whether they played a featured role, a supporting part or a cameo. They've all contributed to this wacky existence I've stumbled my way through, and it's been a great existence. Hope you had a good holiday, whether you shared it with friends, family or no one but your worthy self. rws 11:12 PM [+] |
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Just stumbled across a quirky, specialized blog -- GoogObits -- which describes itself as "Obituaries and essays augmented by Google searches." That may not sound compelling, but yesterday's entry turned out to be worth the time it took to read it. It begins: "Lynda Van Devanter, whose pained account of her life as an Army nurse in Vietnam focused attention on the burdens of American servicewomen in the war, died on Nov. 15 at her home in Herndon, Va. She was 55." Again, that may not sound wildly interesting, but it's only the intro -- the intro to a brief description of an unusual life.
Not your usual blog. rws 11:08 AM [+] |
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Saturday, November 23, 2002 With Thanksgiving looming and me playing holiday music day and night, my thoughts have turned to big holiday meals. (Two contributing reasons for that line of thought: (1)I'm having company over tomorrow a.m. and will be baking a pumpkin pie (yes, a manly type like myself can pull together something like that); and (2) starting in a week and a half I'll be in Madrid for quite a while -- a place where it takes some work to track down Amurrican type holiday food, so I'm aware of what I won't have easy access to. Not that there's *anything* wrong with the local fare he reminded himself, moaning with food lust.) Therefore when I stopped in at foxvox.org today and saw the link to Eating Dangerously's Thanksgiving recipes, my salivary glands immediately hopped into a hyperactive state. A website, as it turns out, well worth a minute or more of your time. They're not kidding re: the 'dangerously' part, by the way. Check out the recipe for Dangerously Deep Fried Turkey. Dear god, just the thought of a table laden with beautifully prepared holiday food has my system in a state of longing that could result in some truly unfortunate bouts of shoveling chow into my system. rws 3:19 PM [+] |
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Friday, November 22, 2002 Two days ago: The dawn brought a clear sky and brilliant sunshine (for a change) so that despite early-hours temperatures in the 'teens, the mercury shot well up into the 50s by midday. This with something like ten inches of snow on the ground, mind you. A big day for melting snow, water dripping from the eves, water streaming through the gutters and downspouts. Warm enough that the air was full with insects brought to sudden life. Warm enough that one could walk outside without a coat or vest or sweater or sweatshirt (though waterproof boots remained a must). By mid-afternoon, the snow on the ground had shrunk to less than half its morning depth, becoming soft and dense (perfect snowball material). With the accelerated melting and evaporation, vapor began rising from the earth, producing a thick, white mist that hung above the fields, still and quiet. Ghostly. As the sun dipped behind the trees and daylight waned, the mist grew thicker, becoming fog that filled the air and lasted throughout the night. Rain started up yesterday morning, meaning hours of fog and rain. The fog eventually cleared up. For a while. This morning: no rain for the most part. Some fog. Later today: rain fell. The fog thickened. Rain. Fog. Rain. Fog. On the way back from Montpelier late yesterday a.m., I stopped in to say hello to Mo and Kay, my downhill neighbors. We're sitting around their small kitchen table marveling at the goofy weather, discussing this and that. Just after noon, there's a knock on the door and three people enter. Three salt-of-the-earth Vermonters, two men (mid-40s, late 20s), one woman (30-something). Local folk, probably lived here their whole lives, like Mo. Wearing bulky clothing, wool hats, big, clunky waterproof boots. Hands thick, reddish, the nails dirty. They had store-bought sandwiches and a bag or two of fried pork skins. They apparently weren't expecting to find a stranger there, their initial vibe toward me cautious and distant, almost suspicious. Mo introduced us all, they realized I was the person who lived up the hill across from the woods. Things relaxed a bit. I got up and pulled on my coat, the three new arrivals pulled up chairs around the table and sat down, stripping the plastic wrap from their sandwiches and digging in. The woman had roast beef on a roll, the meat as red and raw as I've ever seen. She pulled the bag of fried pork skins open, it made its way around the table. Mo and I continued talking, mostly about the mess Goddard College has been in. The others talked between themselves. At some point, it became clear they were listening to Mo and myself. I mentioned what we were talking about, they all began contributing opinions. Goddard is in the neighboring town of Plainfield. The younger guy mentioned that a group of people had bought close to 100 acres in Plainfield and were planning on creating a community on the property, a communal mode of living, not seen here in many years. From there the conversation turned to hunting, the reason they were up here on the hill. It turns out I've seen them going by on the road on a daily basis this last week, one of them driving a massive pick-up with a snowmobile loaded in the rear. I'd waved, they'd waved back. Local courtesies. The older guy began talking about their plans for the afternoon: to go up on the hill behind Mo's place and spread out, the idea being to flush out deer, drive the game into the area between them all, then close in and bring one down. I'm not a hunter. Their way of life isn't mine. But it's theirs, as it is for many local folk. They like it, they identify with it. It's something they grow up with, part of the fabric of their lives, part of the cycle of the seasons in these parts. Worthy of respectful interest, at minimum. There was more talk, eventually I excused myself, said good-bye, headed back up the hill. I pulled up by my garage, was standing out in the snow looking off down the hill and up the valley when one of the hunters came out of Mo's place off down the hill, going to one of the parked cars. They got in and started it up, drove slowly up the hill, pulling over by the woods across the road, a couple of hundred feet away. The door opened, they got out and stood there pulling on gear, zipping up. I waved. No wave came in return. Could be they didn't see my gesture. Could be they didn't feel like responding. Could be something else. It felt, though, like the vibe I'd experienced when they first entered the kitchen, that standoffish you're-a-stranger thing, may have resurfaced. Or not. I can't say for sure. The coming days may bring more encounters. I'll be curious to see what comes of them. Meanwhile, the rain continues, as does the fog. The snow dwindles, patches of lawn slowly reappear. The forecast for tomorrow: colder temperatures/snow. Could be time to get the Christmas music cranking again, light a few candles to offset the chilly late November dark. We'll see. Later. rws 9:40 PM [+] |
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Tuesday, November 19, 2002 No meteors here last night due to overcast. (Sniffle.) Which is fine ‘cause way down deep inside, I wasn't too thrilled about dragging myself out of bed at 4 or 5 a.m. and going out into the glacially cold night to stand and stare up at the sky. With a playmate, maybe. On my own, not a hugely exciting prospect. But the early-holiday-season mojo continues. More and more Christmas lights are appearing between here and Montpelier, and considering that recent weeks have been mostly gray and cold, strings of lights bring a cheery note to the days as they head into the darkest time of year, growing shorter with every 24 hour span. (Meanwhile, the big illuminated plastic Santa that I mentioned in the entry of 14 November is now lying flat on his back in the snow. Hitting the eggnog? Making snow angels? Decked by the big illuminated plastic Frosty the Snowman positioned to Santa's left? Don't know, but it's a disturbing image.) Inside the house here, I've got Christmas music going and Christmas candles burning. Silly? Perhaps. But it feels just fine. The days, for the most part, have been so dark – between that and the close to one foot of accumulated snow, I need a boost. The early holiday thing seems to be doing the job. **************** An extremely cool news item tolen from Metafilter by way of foxvox.org: a small poetry magazine suddenly finds itself on the receiving end of a mammoth stroke of good fortune. rws 7:02 PM [+] |
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Monday, November 18, 2002 A few timewasters, copped from Mike's List: To make your own virtual graffitti on a virtual wall (and then mail it to a friend), go here. To draw little pictures then post them online, go here. To make your own fireworks, go here. ******************** It's continued snowing, getting heavier and wilder, the wind picking up, snow flying everywhere -- in swirling sheets before cold breezes, in huge, slow, majestic clouds across the valley to the north of here, obscuring the long arching lines of the hills. Tremendously beautiful, genuinely beautiful in a deep-winter-arriving-way-early kind of way. A kind of beauty that deals in transience, the scene up and down the valley constantly changing with the blowing snow and shifting light. The clouds overhead are whipping across across the sky, much faster than normal, bringing occasional glimpses of sun, bits of blue sky, sending patches of light and shadow undulating across the valley's slopes, visible through shifting curtains of driven snow. It's a powerful, primitive scene that feels a touch overwhelming to be out in, showing as clearly as it does how small we are before the force and scope of it all. Someone should consider rescheduling Christmas, move it up to, say, this Thursday. Call off work for the week, give everyone 48 hours to get shopping out of the way, break out the decorations and carols, get on the horn and round up friends and loved ones for a major celebration, and savor a classically beautiful white yuletide. 'Cause it's as perfect as one could ask for, and we should take advantage of it. Run out and pick up bunches of groceries, pull together a huge, multi-course, sprawling meal, share it with people we love, and let the cold world outside put on a spectacular display. I would enjoy that. And whether anyone take me up on the idea or not, I may have to break out some Christmas music and light a white candle or two. I'm not going to be here in December -- for the first time in this lifetime of mine I will be overseas for the holidays. It'll be lovely, I'm sure, but it'll be different. The world has provided the perfect surroundings for a fast, early bit of Christmas. I may have to indulge. There's nearly a foot of snow on the ground. Time to head out into the weather and tramp around in it all before darkness falls. rws 3:28 PM [+] |
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Saturday, November 16, 2002 Saturday morning. Man, it's cold outside. Right now, 9:45 a.m., the temperature is about 21. Just went outside to put a letter in the box for pick-up and move some plant pots into the barn. Though I wore a big down coat, the cold air made my hands hurt and, despite a scarf, insinuated itself down the back of my neck (one of the disadvantages of a real short haircut). Two huge pick-up trucks cruised by on the gravel road, probably scouting around for likely deer-hunting spots. Which reminds me – all those mentions I made in earlier entries re: deer-hunting season being in full swing? They were wrong, at least for rifle hunting. That season starts today. Which raises the question: what's with all the rifle fire I've been hearing over the last few weeks? Answer: could have been for any number of reasons. Black Bear season's been in effect since the beginning of September. The seasons for hunting rabbit, gray squirrel and ruffled grouse are in effect. Could have been any of them. Me, I'm just an ignorant nonhunter, so I can't say for sure. Another pick-up just drifted by, a big black one with silver trim. It's a strange time of year, hunting season. Men with rifles everywhere, wearing camouflage outfits, driving huge pick-up trucks, big enough that they could almost be ocean-going vessels. The local macho equivalent of low-rider cars or hopped-up street rods -- enormous, beefy, wide-flanked vehicles whose exhaust may contain testosterone. One of Vermont's many quirks. Two of the few residents of the neighborhood, Charlotte and Jody, just walked by out on the road, one of them wearing a luminescent orange vest, which brings up another strange aspect of hunting season: bullets flying everywhere make it a good idea to wear bright orange clothing so hunters won't be quite as likely to let loose in your direction. Meanwhile, the deer, who were cavorting everywhere during the warm season, have wisely taken cover. The only one or two I've seen during the last few weeks – when bow hunting season was happening – did not linger in the open. They made tracks, running directly for cover. They may not be rocket scientists, but they're no dummies. Another truck just drove slowly by, a red one. Deer rifle-hunting season lasts 16 days. A good time to stay out of the woods, maybe rent a few videos or catch up on e-mail. ************** To blow bubbles using Andie and Mike's bubble machine, go here. rws 11:42 AM [+] |
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Thursday, November 14, 2002 OH, yeah. Much better. I've been liberated from an overabundance of hair -- hair that, the longer and more copious it grew, grew less mindful of my instructions re: how it should look -- and am once again looking devilishly debonair. Much better. (On the other hand, I take grateful satisaction in the fact that, unlike many members of the male persuasion, my hair has not thrown in the towel and continues to grow in overenthusiastic plentitude.)('Overenthusiastic plentitude' -- dear god, did I actually write that?) Meanwhile, yesterday brought the season's first sighting of outdoor Christmas paraphernalia. A big, illuminated plastic Santa hanging out on a front lawn with a big, illuminated plastic snowman. Both looking excessively happy. And wny not? They're out of the closet (er, not that closet, Santa) early this year, in keeping with the early appearance of winter. Which actually has backed off, allowing autumn to reassert itself. Today was a beautiful November day -- sky blue, sun bright and hanging low in the sky. In Montpelier, autumn leaves blew cheerfully around the streets and sidewalks, no snow to be found anywhere. People walked about, enjoying the sunshine and the brisk air. Had me smiling. The simple pleasures. Speaking of which, I have a pint of Cherry Garcia to finish off. Later. **************** The morning started out thickly blanketed by fog, the sun slowly burning through. It's now a lovely mid-November a.m., quiet outside, less quiet inside where the stereo has been blaring for the past three or so hours (currently Jimmy Eat World; earlier Camarón de la Isla, the soundtrack to Monsoon Wedding). Have essentially finished with the novel I've spent the last, er, five years (on and off) writing, and find I don't really know what the hell to do with myself right now. Which feels logical and is maybe right where I need to be. Some unfocused time would probably be good for me. Will be going into Montpelier for a shearing later on, since my hair has become long and unruly. Combine that with a bit of facial stubble and a glance in my direction could send children away screaming. Made the hike into Montpelier yesterday evening to spend an hour in a Thai restaurant speaking Spanish with a local acquaintance who spent a couple of years living in South America a decade or two back. (Should I be worried about this pernicious multi-cultural thing I seem to have going?) Damn, it feels good to be speaking Spanish. English is an excellent language for the written word, but Spanish is much more fun to speak. (In my humble, ignorant opinion anyway.) Expressive and goofy. I'm looking forward to once again being where it's spoken all around me -- less than three weeks now. ************************ Something I stumbled upon during a bit of surfing this morning: for those into the art of Edward Hopper, a great place to spend a few minutes. rws 11:46 AM [+] |
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Wednesday, November 13, 2002 Mmmm... Cherry Garcia. rws 10:58 PM [+] |
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Sunday, November 03, 2002 I have the feeling that deer hunting season commenced today -- I walked outside about an hour ago, the hills were alive with the sound of gunshots. Don't think I'll be taking many walks in the woods in the coming days. It's a beautiful early winter's Sunday, balancing out yesterday's nippy gray Saturday. Snow fell on and off during most of yesterday morning -- not my preferred early-November weather, but real damn pretty, with little accumulation. The nights here have been authentically cold, temperatures dropping to the mid-teens, the overnight temperature in the house also drifting down to genuinely cool levels. Which suits me just fine, actually -- I love sleeping under warm, thick covers, the air in the room nice and cool. I've gotten into a pattern of waking up on those cool mornings, pulling on warm clothes, heading downstairs to clean out the ashes from the previous day's coal fire, a process which would goes on for a bit as I sift through the ashes to take out the bits of unburned coal (the 'clinkers,' my downhill neighbor Mo calls 'em) and toss them back into the stove as a foundation for the coming day's load. Go outside, dump the ashes into a bucket, pick up some wood to start a fire with, build that, get it going. Once that's well underway and most of the wood's been reduced to embers, coal gets added, two or three shovelfuls at a time. Which gradually builds up a good bed of hot, cherry-red coals, the kind that gets the stove cranking out serious, concentrated heat. Not as much fun as being able to walk outside into summer sunlight in shorts and t-shirt, but it'll do. It does feel good to head out into the cold for a while, then return to a warm living space, the northern Vermont landscape doing its thing outside every window. And it's deer-hunting season. Not my kind of activity, but part of life's fabric up here. There have been one or two hunting seasons during the past few weeks, the more recent being deer bow-hunting season, nowhere near as popular or noisy as rifle season. And now everyone gets to bring their rifles everywhere they drive in the hope they'll stumble across some deer in a field. Trucks cruise slowly up and down country roads, looking for something legitimate to let loose a few shots at, the more serious hunters find a spot in the woods to settle down and wait for a likely source of meat (or antlers) to happen by. Me, I'll watch 'em all and write about 'em here. And the days will roll on. **************** Went to see a French film this afternoon, a kickass concoction called "Read My Lips." The scuttlebutt is that this film is already slated for an American remake. It's HIGHLY unlikely they'll improve on the original -- if you can check this one out, do it. **************** Cribbed from www.foxvox.org (w/ thanks to Kristen): "What would it be like if you lived each day, each breath, as a work of art in progress? Imagine that you are a Masterpiece unfolding, every second of every day, a work of art taking form with every breath." -- Thomas Crum rws 1:44 PM [+] |
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Saturday, November 02, 2002 So I rented an old Marx Brothers film, "Horsefeathers." Hadn't seen it since college and wanted a fix of cinematic anarchy. Yee-ha! The beginning of the film goes as follows: The outgoing President of Huxley College addresses an auditorium filled with students. The Trustees of the College sit behind him, two rows of middle-aged academic men with black robes and four-corner caps.: Outgoing President: ...and so in retiring as president of this college, it is indeed a painful task to bid you all good-bye. And now, with the utmost pleasure, may I present to you the man who is to guide the destiny of this great institution, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff (Applause. Wagstaff is seated at the side of the stage -- in shirtsleeves, his suspenders down --shaving, a lit cigar hanging from his mouth. He grabs his robe, moves quickly to the podium.) O.P.: Professor, it is indeed an honor to welcome you to Huxley College. Wagstaff: Never mind that – hold this coat. (Gives robe to O.P., who holds it while Wagstaff gets it on.) O.P.: By the way, Professor, there is no smoking. Wagstaff: That's what you say. O.P.: (Trying again.) It would please the faculty if you would throw your cigar away. Wagstaff: The faculty members might just as well keep their seats – there'll be no diving for this cigar. (Wagstaff picks up the gavel, hammers for order.) Members of the faculty, faculty members, students of Huxley and Huxley students – I guess that covers everything. Well, I thought my razor was dull until I heard his speech. And that reminds me of a story that's so dirty I'm ashamed to think of it myself. As I look out over your eager faces, I can readily understand why this college is flat on its back. The last college I presided over, things were slightly different: I was flat on my back. Things kept going from bad to worse but we all put our shoulders to the wheel and it wasn't long before I was flat on my back again. Any questions? Any answers? (Breaks into song:) Any rags, any bones, any bottles today? Any rags.... (Stops singing.) No doubt you would like to know why I'm here. I came into this college to get my son out of it. I remember the day he left to come here, a mere boy and a beardless youth. I kissed them both good-bye. By the way, where is my son? (Looks out over audience, addressed a female student in the first row:) Young lady, would you mind getting up so I can see the son rise? (She stands up, we see she's been sitting on the lap of Wagstaff's son (Zeppo Marx).) So, doing your homework at school, eh? Zeppo: Hello, old timer! O.P.: My dear professor, I'm sure the students would appreciate a brief outline of your plans for the future. Wagstaff: What? O.P. I said, the students would appreciate a brief outline of your plans for the future. Wagstaff: You just said that. That's the trouble around here: talk, talk, talk. (Adopting a melodramatic pose:) Oh, sometimes I think I must go mad. Where will it all end? What is it getting you? (Addresses O.P. more aggressively:) Why don't you go home to your wife? I'll tell you what, I'll go home to your wife and outside of the improvement she'll never know the difference. Pull over to the side of the road there and let me see your marriage license. O.P. Professor Wagstaff, now that you have stepped into my shoes... Wagstaff: Oh, is that what I stepped in -- I wondered what it was. If these are your shoes, the least you can do is have them cleaned. O.P. (Forging ahead:) ...the trustees have a few suggestions they would like to submit to you. Wagstaff: I think you know what the trustees can do with their suggestions. (Begins song: "I'm Against It.") rws 2:34 PM [+] |
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Friday, November 01, 2002 Last night: no trick-or-treaters. (Sniffle.) Not that I made it easy for them. Went out for most of the evening, driving through the early darkness into Montpelier around 6 p.m. to see a film. The town turned out to be hopping, way more active than your normal weekday evening. It's a funny place, Montpelier -- a small town (population: around 8,000) situated at just the right place (a junction of two rivers, essentially midway between Boston and Quebec, between the Maine/N.H. coast and Lake Champlain), that it wound up becoming the capital of the state. Because of that, the population doubles between 9 and 5 on weekdays as people roll in to work in government offices, one or two major insurance companies and a bunch of small businesses. After 5 p.m., everyone goes home, the town quiets down, by 6 most businesses have closed, most store windows are dark, the streets are generally quiet. Not the case last night -- plenty of traffic, people in make-up and/or costumes wandering about, grown-ups accompanying little ones in mostly homemade outfits on the quest for sugary ca-ca. Kind of nice. The film: Lovely & Amazing. Lots of good, low-key acting, with a story that leans toward the depressing. Hmmmm. Back home, no evidence that anyone had come around seeking ca-ca. Of course, while I was gone I left no outside lights on -- it's dark out here, so it's possible any potential sugar-seekers would have had real difficulty finding their way to one of the doors. Could be frustrating. I found no indication of thwarted sugar lust -- no eggs, no chalk, no toilet-papered house, nothing. It's probable no one made the attempt out here in the cold and dark of the hill. The upshot: I now have a bowl of Reese's sticks that will slowly go stale, 'cause there's no way I'm eating all those buggers. Meanwhile, it's snowing outside. Welcome to November. Bleah. It's early. Time to pull myself together and head into town for the morning. Later. *********************** I got home last night around 8:30, in time to see the last 90 minutes of the original Twin Peaks film on TV. I'd forgotten how much fun that series was, and how far afield from the rest of the television programming of the time. A great synthesis of creepy, comic, dramatic, silly, surreal. Somewhere I have virtually all of it on videotape. I had, at some point, a copy of The Diary of Laura Palmer, which turned out to be so creepy I finally got rid of it. And I still have a cassette of the Dale Cooper tapes. I may have to hold my own mini-Twin-Peaks-Fest. Or not. We'll see. *********************** The snow let up mid-morning, no accumulation. About fifteen minutes ago, snow showers approached down the valley to the north, blotting out the view as it came. When they hit, it snowed like hell for a while. No accumulation, but real damn pretty, just like the ride in to town this morning. The view to the north has been mostly restored and is looking as alpine as one could ask -- low hanging clouds brushing the tops of the mountains, mist rising from the hollows between the ridges, some snow swirling around. I have some trouble getting my teeny little brain around the concept of snow on November 1, but there it is. rws 7:36 AM [+] |