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Saturday, August 16, 2003 Written last Monday evening: Today: A difficult day. The kind of day some people refer to as "ONE OF THOSE *#@^!! DAYS," if you know what I mean. Got a little better after 2 p.m. -- up until then, however, my internal dialogue went something like this: It's okay. Don't worry, it's okay. (FUCK!!) Hang in there. It can't go on like this all day. It'll get better. (FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! This SUUUUUUUCKS!!) Really, you're all right. Everything's fine. This will all pass. (Jumpin' JESUS, what is going ON HERE? What the FUCK is going ON?) Etc. Written today: After four weeks of daily, often torrential rain, water seepage began collecting on the garage floor for the first time ever. Big spreading puddles. To the point that, as the rain continued and the puddles expanded, the place began to feel like a swamp or a dungeon. Dank. Nasty. Finally, after one final bout of heavy-duty rainfall moved through Wednesday morning, the weather changed. Abruptly, completely. Someone switched the sun on, the clouds vanished, the intense humidity of the last month evaporated. Leaving jaw-droppingly classic summer conditions. Perfect weather. And that was the story for the rest of the week. Company showed up on Thursday, leading to an evening out in Montpelier whichended with a meal at The Chef's Table, one of the three eateries associated with the New England Culinary Institute -- the high-end one. Nouvelle cuisine, I guess, which I often tend not to be wildly keen on. Sheer pleasure in this case, though. Students do the cooking and serving, they want to do it right. They're earnest, hard-working, endeavoring to be professional but endearingly rough around the edges. Except for the meal itself, which was superb. Killer. Easily the best meal I've had all summer, me made even more obnoxiously ecstatic by the fact that my visitor bought me dinner. (Woo-hoo! Thank you, G. -- I grovel with gratitude.) Friday. Perfect weather, day 3. Went to Nichol's Ledge – a hike of ten 10 to 15 minutes up a fairly challenging grade with a payoff of one of the two or three most spectacular views I've seen here in Vermont. Thankfully, Nichol's Ledge is well off the beaten track, not at all overrun by people. In fact, unless you're a local it's unlikely you'll know about the place. My visitor took off post-hike, leaving me to more routine life. Gym, lawn-mowing, blahblahblah. You don't want to know. This morning: rain, humidity have returned. Damp. Gray. Hazy air. Which did not stop me from sticking a small pear tree and some herbs in the ground. (Yes, I'm living the rustic life. So sue me.) More company will be arriving within the hour, here until sometime tomorrow. August is tilting toward September, suddenly friends/loved ones are coming out of the woodwork making threatening noises re: undertaking the several-hour shlep to Casa Runswithscissors. Until Columbus Day. Once the fall display of color run amok has past peak, the desire to head north seems to wither quickly away. Until next summer. (What's with the three-word sentences beginning with ‘Until'?) I blather. Time to go prepare for the next wave of visitors. Later. rws 2:02 PM [+]
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