The front porch of Mo's house, down the hill from here:
Hunter's Code (second photo, lower left):
Early to bed,
Early to rise,
Hunt like hell
And make up lies.
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 4:44 PM [+]
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Thursday, July 29, 2004 MYSTERY GRAFFITI At the edge of a vacant lot, Montpelier, VT:  (The explanation?) *************** Late this morning -- after two and a half days of gray, rainy weather -- patches of blue sky began seeping through the overcast. Sunlight poured down in increasing abundance, birds sang, the clouds continued clearing out. Before I knew it, I was out the kitchen door and cavorting around the landscape. (Well, cavorting may be an exaggeration. Sauntering -- grass whip in hand, going after the wild plantain that's been attempting to take over my hilltop fiefdom this warm season -- is more like it.) Sunlight. So simple, so nice. Midday found me making the drive into Montpelier. Gym, errands, summertime haircut. First time I'd seen Tamsen of Acme Hair since last autumn. A genuine character, one of Montpelier's more colorful personalities. When I stepped into her shop, I was met by a space stripped bare, everything gone except a chair in front of a mirror, a cradle/charger for her electric clippers, a small bag of shears/combs. All other accoutrement had been sold -- from here on in, she'll be driving around, cutting hair in people's homes. Why? Don't know. Each of these last years has brought plans for big changes -- none of the others happened. This one's taken root. Things learned during the ensuing cut/conversation: (a) she owns a pile of firearms (two double-barreled shotguns for self-defense, numerous collectible antique rifles), (b) she wouldn't be surprised if martial law were imposed in January (contingent on a Bush re-election), (c) this Saturday she's going to check out the bi-weekly meeting of a local militia, just for the hell of it. First time I'd heard anything about a local militia. I tend not to pay huge amounts of attention to that kind of thing, though, so my ignorance means little apart from, er, me being ignorant. Vermont's a rural state, guns and hunting are part of the way of life here (as is a strong leaning toward independent living) -- guns are common, though not in an ostentatious way. I rarely see them on racks in pick-up tracks, a kind of display I've noticed in some other states. People tend to keep them at home, pulling them out when the various autumn hunting seasons roll through. (And when the urge for target practice takes hold, leading to the faint pops of rifle fire that can sometimes be heard echoing between the hills and mountains around here on weekends of fair weather.) I have no guns, have never owned one (apart from an air rifle in early years and the usual toy jobbies/water pistols) -- the only holdout among my family's offspring -- though I have nothing against rifles and have thought at times about getting one to have in the house. Not a thought that's so far pushed me to make the move. I imagine when and if that thought feels right enough, I'll do it. Or not. As with everything in this life, time will tell. Meanwhile, since yesterday's shift in the weather, summer has returned -- high summer, in its lush, sultry fullness. A.M. fog -- normal out here -- gave way this morning to an intense July sun, the temperature leaping from below 60 to 80+. The metallic keen of cicadas started up, it looked like an intense day was cranking up until a relaxed breeze moved in, along with enough cloud cover to filter the sunlight some. Providing a kinder, gentler day. A good day to soak up fresh air and get some work done. Or get no work done. Could go either way. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 9:48 PM [+] |
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Monday, July 26, 2004 The summer so far: ~ Getting up early on the morning of June 14th, going to bed here in northern Vermont that night. ~ Two and a half weeks of dazed adjustment. ~ Far, far too much lawn-mowing. ~ Baby foxes. ~ Wild turkeys. ~ Planting bunches of flowers. ~ Driving back roads. ~ Far too much photo-taking. ~ A farmer's tan. ~ Nights packed with dreams. ~ Bug bites. (^#@%!!!) ~ Zits. (^@%#&!!!!!!) ~ The gym. ~ Sunshine. Rain. Sunshine. Rain. Rain. Sunshine. Rain. Rain. Rain. Rain. Rain. Sunshine. ~ Foggy mornings. ~ Crickets singing outside my windows. ~ Listening to little music, little radio. ~ Planting two baby plum trees. ~ The occasional Law & Order binge. ~ This journal somehow copped the People's Choice Award in the The Pink Bee Best Freakin' Blog Ever 2004 (summer) Contest (as a write-in candidate). ~ Spiderman2. (Some good acting/special effects, but I may be past the time of getting a major charge from superhero movies.) ~ Mist rising from green, green hillsides. ~ A weekend visitor from the Spanish side of my life. ~ The Bread & Puppet Theater. ~ Lightning bugs. ~ Butterflies galore. ~ Now and then, a hummingbird. Or two. ~ No Spanish food. (Waaahhhh!) Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 9:22 PM [+] |
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Sunday, July 25, 2004 This morning, cool and gray:      Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 10:07 AM [+] |
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Friday, July 23, 2004 [continued from previous entry] Happy, happy, joy, joy:  The main event went on for an hour or more, rain moving through with little effect (the performers carried happily on, spectators unfurled umbrellas or pulled on rain gear), flouncing off when it tired of being a pain in the butt. After the final number, the activity moved up the hill away from the amphitheater, to stranger, quieter things -- mysterious performances in nearby woods. Slow-moving, cryptic, largely silent, dealing in images reminiscent of the kind of primal myths and symbolism that pagan, agrarian folk might come up with.    A little heavier than I'd been looking for, demanding more patience and intellectual heft than my little brain was prepared to marshall. I was ready for music, spectacle, wackiness -- the darker, deeper material could only hold me for so long. On top of which, my bladder was signaling for attention in a way that could only be ignored at the risk of public disgrace.  The facilities: Hootenanny HotelMy companion felt more or less the same (minus the bladder thing). The ride home took place under gray skies, through intensely localized rainstorms, the car moving through curtains of rain (from no precipitation into torrential downpour, from torrential downpour to rainless tranquility, literally as if moving through a curtain). My companion had to make an 8 a.m. flight in Burlington the next morning, an hour's drive from here. Which meant pulling myself out of my nice, comfy, peaceful bed at an authentically ungodly hour. So that once we got back to the house, the rest of the evening passed quietly, apart from me making my guest watch the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical episode. The weekend passed so quickly it had a surreal feel, as have the subsequent days, especially with the weather cycling the way it's been. That finally stopped today with the arrival of an entire day's worth of primordial conditions (cool rain, mist, low gray skies).  Nice, actually, in an introspective way. A day to stay home, get things done inside, make comfort food, do some reading. But I blather. I've overdone the photo bit with this entry, I know. I'll show some restraint in the future. Sometime. Maybe after this one last image from Bread & Puppet.  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 6:27 PM [+] |
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Sunday, July 18, 2004 Field trip #2: The Bread & Puppet Theater, Glover, VT:   Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 7:26 PM [+] |
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Thursday, July 15, 2004 MYSTERY SIGN OF THE DAY Seen about two miles from here:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 3:49 PM [+] |
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Wednesday, July 14, 2004 [continued from previous entry] I go off about the getting-light-so-goddamn-early thing not simply because I'm a, er, crank. During most of my adult life I have not been inclined toward sleeping in. I've rarely been part of social groups given to staying out way late (behavior which might lead naturally to sleeping in). People in my family didn't tend to sleep late.* It simply hasn't been part of my experience, apart from high school/college. And then four years ago I went to Madrid, where staying up late and sleeping late are features of the culture. Weekend mornings are quiet, the streets mostly deserted until ten, eleven o'clock, because virtually everyone stays in bed. Sleeping late is in the air. And I found myself gradually falling into that pattern, realized how much better it feels than the not-sleeping-in option, how much happier it makes my body. So it's not simply that I'm a convert and regularly go off in obnoxious fashion, as some converts will do.** It's also that my body's rhythms seem to have changed during the last four years, so that sleeping late feels more natural than the up-and-at-'em model. My body now prefers sleeping late. And wakes up far more slowly, in a far more leisurely manner than it used to. I tell this to people here, but I'm not sure how many really get it. If I run into someone in the a.m. hours and they're trying to be social, my conversation may not qualify as the high-performance variety, or at least will probably peter out faster than it might later in the day. I'll make a point of mentioning that I haven't yet reached full consciousness, the response is sometimes to look at a watch, say something like, "It's 10:30!" Yes. It is. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to not converse for a while. A strange fact: when I have the leeway to wake up at the speed my body's looking for, it feels extremely nice. Could be my little bod knows what it needs. Some of my best friends, by the way, could be described as converts of one kind or another.*** *Especially my mother. **Especially my mother. ***If it was good enough for my mother, it's good enough for them. ***************** This afternoon, visiting my downhill neighbor, Mo, at the house he's lived in for over 60 years -- this season his first summer there without his wife, Kay (see entries of October 27 and November 6 and 8, 2003):     Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 10:23 AM [+] |
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Friday, July 09, 2004 The time I woke up trying to scream: When: a year or two after the time I actually woke up screaming. [See entry of June 29.] Still a turbulent period, me still generally clueless, just not as severely so. Spending the night at my brother's house in upstate New York, sleeping in a small spare room. I found myself in a dark dream, located somewhere I'd never been in waking life, the sequence that I remember taking place in a large warehouse-style building, being used as a barracks of some kind. Me asleep on a metal cot in a broad, high-ceilinged room, no one else nearby. Intensely dark, no lights shining anywhere to provide relief. In the dream, I woke up, sensing someone nearby. Gradually, I made out a human form standing by my bed. Tall, silent, unmoving. Focused on me. With time, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I made out shadowed eyes fixed on me, saw that the form appeared to be wrapped in a black cape. A vampire, I realized in disbelief (the first and only time, I think, that a vampire has ever played a part in one of my dreams). Not cartoonish, not exaggerated -- realistic, with serious intent. Sudden fear set in -- panic, in fact -- with the sure realization that I was in extreme danger. At which time the looming figure began to bend noiselessly down toward me, me trying ineffectually to scrabble away. Unable to move, frozen beneath the covers, watching my death move soundlessly closer. A scream tried to make its way out of my mouth, without success, my jaw and lips refusing to open, the sound remaining trapped in my heaving chest, audible only to me. I awoke for real then, that same throttled scream trying to find its way out, then stopping as I realized where I was -- safe, in my brother's home. It's been a long time since I've had a nightmare. A long, long time. I dream a lot, though I mostly don't remember more than fleeting images or feelings, sudden flashes of memory that appear without warning during the course of the day, leaving me with a sudden, clear sense of a nighttime adventure, even if the story doesn't expand into something more complete in my conscious memory. And in truth, I'm generally not concerned with remembering my dreams (though it's fun when one gets remembered). I know my nights are active with them, that seems to be good enough. My attention is well-occupied with my days, with all the experiences and sensory information the passing moments bring. That's more then sufficient for right now. Anyway, there it is (not that you asked): the time I woke up trying to scream. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 1:37 PM [+] |
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Wednesday, July 07, 2004 This journal -- don't ask me how it happened -- picked up the People's Choice Award in the The Pink Bee Best Freakin' Blog Ever 2004 (summer) Contest. Piling up more than 400 votes out of a total of nearly 1,000. As a write-in candidate, no less. The only mention I made of the contest -- anywhere, to anyone -- was a paragraph here eight or nine days ago, a post I took down the following day. So the outcome has left me a bit stunned. Who are those 400 people? Or was it actually a much smaller group -- repeat voters, a bunch of devoted obsessives with hyperactive trigger fingers? Whatever the answer, this is fun. Inexplicable, but fun. Meanwhile, I consider the fact that dooce, one of the contest's official nominees, didn't walk away with a top award to be a major miscarriage of justice. And then there's the shocking absence of Mimi Smartypants' page among the nominees. Ah, well. Maybe next time they'll have their own devoted obsessives working on their behalf. ************* Scrap wood sculpture (horse grazing) -- Plainfield, Vermont:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 5:42 PM [+] |
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Friday, July 02, 2004 Thank you, Marlon Brando, for performances that redefined American acting and impacted the craft in deceptively deep ways. For an eyeful of spectacular work, watch A Streetcar Named Desire, On The Waterfront, The Godfather and Last Tango In Paris. For something lighter, try Guys and Dolls or The Freshman (in which Brando put together a sly, extremely funny send-up of his work in The Godfather). ************* Yes, in case you were wondering, Ms. Nature supplied hours of wholesome entertainment last night. All evening long, thunder muttered, lightning flickered off in the distance, west and north of here. Around 11:30 it decided to move this way -- becoming progressively louder, rain starting to come down -- until it reached the hill, bringing an intense display of sound and light. I'm not sure I've ever experienced anything like it -- a continuous, nearly hour-long barrage of flashing and window-rattling explosions. During the rare moments when both lightning and thunder paused, the roar of torrential rain filled what would otherwise have been blessed silence. For a while the storm hovered directly over the hill, producing a string of lightning bolts paired with thunderclaps that refused to wait for a one-thousand-and-one/one-thousand-and-two countdown. Immense, crackling explosions of nearly simultaneous light and noise, indicating strikes right here in the neighborhood. Got me wondering if I'd be seeing trees down come daylight. Got me feeling grateful that thunder/lightning don't tend to bother me in a frayed-nerves sort of way. Which got me thinking about a one-time family member who did get rattled in that way: Scout, our dog from my elementary school years (so named to commemorate the family's involvement in scouting -- or most of the family, me being the single truculent holdout). A smart, endearing little guy, the result of a party thrown by an Irish setter and a terrier. Or some ungodly blend like that, producing a handsome, mid-sized, slightly high-strung canine. (I would not be surprised, however, if the high-strung part of his character resulted from life with us rather than genetics.) Thunderstorms made him shiver with dread, got him whining from fear and nerves. We went away one weekend day, taking off early in the morning and leaving Scout home, in the kitchen. My parents had installed a small wooden gate in the kitchen doorway to keep him confined to that room on occasions like this. While we were gone, big storms moved through the area. When we returned late that night, we found wood shavings all over the place, the result of a frightened, lonely dog gnawing nervously at the bottom of the gate. That was in our little house on Long Island. The same little house in which I had the closest encounter with electrical storm weirdness I've ever experienced. One afternoon, in my 13th year: me, in the bathroom. On the throne, meditating. (Probably more information than you wanted, but instrumental in this story. Sorry.) I was into CB radio in those years, my father and I had installed a big mother of an antenna on the roof. Sizeable, impressively tall, moored to the eave at one end of the house, a grounding wire running down to a spike driven into the ground. As I sat pondering, that afternoon, a fast-moving storm rolled into the area, bringing thunder, lightning. The sky lit up especially intensely from one particularly close bolt, thunder sounded at exactly the same time. The house literally shook, as houses will do when their CB antennas are struck by massive atmospheric discharges of electricity. And there in that teeny bathroom, to the other side of the washbasin from me, a thin, purple stream of electricity extended out from the light switch, stretching across the room into the bathtub, making a quiet sizzling sound as it went, then disappearing. Happening so fast there wasn't even time for my jaw to drop open. One of those moments that whip by in no time flat, while moving so slowly within the moment that I could watch the stream of current as it elongated forth, made contact, vanished. I don't remember if I was regular before the event. I'm sure I was after. No wild weather today. A beautiful Friday -- clouds and sun, breezy, cool. Tranquil. Which is fine with me. And somehow, July 4th weekend has weaseled its way in. Last I knew it was Christmastime, I was in Madrid. We really need to figure out how to slow everything down just a bit. But that's a rant for another entry. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 6:40 AM [+] |
