|
Saturday, August 02, 2003 After a couple of mid-week days of glorious weather, rain and gray returned. Since then, mama, it's been damp. I've heard rumors that sunshine may poke its way through the cloud cover this afternoon, and in fact the overall gray seems to have lightened up. So I have my hopes.** A couple of days back, a lull between downpours found me working, out by what would probably be called the front stoop.* Digging up ground on either side to plant a bunch of perennials, the first plantings on that side of the house. In turning the earth, a bunch of stuff turned up, generally falling into two categories: (a) stones/rocks of all sizes, from teeny and nondescript to big honking flat slabs of slate, and (b) sea shells. That's right, sea shells. Loads of 'em, big and small, every shovelful bringing up more. Indicating, I figure, a major obsession by one of the house's previous owners. What the hell else could it be up here atop a hill in the middle of the Vermont countryside, several hours from the nearest bit of coastline? Seashells. The atmosphere here at Casa Runswithscissors has been quiet, restful. Therapeutically peaceful. I've mostly kept the stereo off, leaving me with the sound of rain or the breeze when there is one, the calls of birds, the ongoing burble of the little living room fountain thingie (built by me!), times I have it plugged in and going. When the rain gives way, a thrush starts up in the woods off across the road, its song clear, deliberate, measured, sometimes melancholy. When sunlight reappears, cicadas begin keening, also off in the woods, the air suddenly alive with the rising and falling of their metallic hum. Far enough away that the sharpness of the sound is softened as it drifts toward the house. The weather's put a stop to lawn mowing, so there's been no two-stroke engine racket. Once in a while, the household ghost (no, I'm not kidding -- see entries of 8/14/02, 9/11/02, 9/30/02) will make some noise off in another part of the building -- the sound of movement, the sound of something dropping or of a single rapping against a surface. Nothing unnerving, nothing threatening. Augmenting, in a strange way, the atmosphere of quiet in the house, perhaps through pointing up the reality of me being the only person -- the only sentient, 3D person -- here. Yesterday: I'd planned to get myself into town to the gym. When the time arrived to do it, I found I did NOT want to go. Truly, seriously did not want to drag myself into the car, down Route 14 then Route 2 into Montpelier. So I didn't. I made a deal with me: gave myself the day off in exchange for getting up and going this morning. This morning: The early hours arrive, I find myself awake, hauling myself out of bed, going through the a.m. routine, getting into the car and out on the highway around 7:10. Makes me shudder when I think about it. The American willingness to get up at ungodly hours and go punish oneself at a gym is drastically different from the Spanish concept. There, everyone knows the early hours are for sleep. Here, well, it's a different paradigm. Funny thing about the gym here -- far as I can tell, the workout rush-hour takes place weekday mornings, pre-work, when the place is as close to being packed as I've ever seen it. The facility opens at 5 a.m., folks show up and running/jiggling/heaving weights around. (The very idea would provoke snorts of Spanish laughter. Weekday mornings there, the gym I go to doesn't open until 8 a.m., the first true rush hour begins as noon approaches. Weekday mornings, they don't open until 10 a.m. My body likes that concept much better.) I've gone at just about every other time of the day -- it's never as crowded as when the pre-9-to-5 maniacs are going at it. And the facility closes at 8 p.m. weekday evenings. 3 p.m. on Saturdays. Sundays: noon. The big city. One of the first signs that I was adapting to being back here: a sudden tendency to wake up early, like most people in these parts do. I continued going to bed real damn late, though, which meant I found myself getting seriously short on sleep. Within the last week or so, I've made a push to begin getting to get to bed at an hour more congruent with my body's current waking-hour mojo. Meaning a bit more sleep, and a further step toward adjusting to life here. Everything changes. The notes below refer to the astericked text earlier in this entry. Later. ******************* *Note: I qualify what it would be called because whoever built this house buggered most of the normal parameters by which the determination can be made. Two features that might indicate the house's 'front' -- in this case the only two features -- are the facts that the stoop for the 'front' door is twice the size of the stoop for the kitchen door and that the living room abuts the foyer for the 'front' door, looking out that same side of the house. Also, the bigger stoop is flanked by two outside lights, where the kitchen stoop only sports one. (Fine, three features.) The bigger stoop was clearly designed for more traffic, but there's no walkway leading to (or away from) it, it's way the hell down at the other end of the house from the garage, it gets no traffic whatsoever. There's not much of a yard off that stoop, what there is quickly turns into overgrown meadow. That side of the house has the most spectacular view, hence the positioning of the living room and its picture window. Other than that, the kitchen side of the house sees most of the foot traffic, the kitchen door is the major point of entry. (Unless one enters from the garage, then the door from the garage to the laundry room gets the traffic.) What faces the road is an end of the house's rectangular structure, featuring two featureless windows, two garage doors. To sum up: going by most of the standard indicators, this house has no actual front: it has four sides. (Why are you reading all this? Isn't it boring?) **Around mid-afternoon, the sun did begin pushing through the overcast. By late afternoon, the clouds had moved on. Light! Blue skies! Birdies singing! Woo-hoo! rws 6:59 PM [+]
Comments:
Post a Comment
|