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Friday, September 17, 2004 [continued from last entry] That night: me, alone again in the house. Turned on the TV, cruised through the strange combination of American and Canadian programming, including a hefty number of French-language channels, some featuring fairly goofy sexually-themed fare. Fell asleep late, woke up early, wind blowing outside, torrential rain beating on the house -- the remains of Hurricane Frank, stopping by to say hello. Never got back to sleep. L. had invited me to check email whenever I felt the urge, I did so during those wee, sleepless hours. Discovered a note from an agent asking me to send the first three chapters of my novel for his perusal (shameless self-promotion: links to excerpts from the novel can be found at the bottom of this journal's MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS section). Got me feeling like I needed to return home and attend to work like that, began thinking of starting back that evening, post-rush-hour -- go partway, hit a motel for the night, finish up the drive the next morning, Friday. L. eventually showed, we made surprisingly coherent morning conversation over coffee/croissants. The conditions outside being tourist-hostile, I didn't feel terribly inclined to venture out. Indoors, however, I had no space of my own to retreat to, began feeling at loose ends, a bit claustrophic, despite the continuing abundance of good conversation. We eventually bit the bullet, pulled on foul-weather gear, headed out into the slop. Blah blah blah. Hit the road that evening, making great time. Found myself ready to do the entire slog instead of stopping at a motel. Zipped right along, going in and out of rain. Until Montreal, where road construction fouled up traffic and prevented me from making the highway connection I needed, sending me off into poorly-lit hinterlands for an extended tour of, er, suburb-like places I didn't especially want to see. But it passed. I resorted to country two-lanes, passing through small southern Quebec towns -- quiet, mostly dark. Crossed the border around 11 p.m. And as much as I enjoyed being away, it felt so sweet to come back to the green mountains. This autumn has turned out to be a long, drawn-out affair, the leaves turning slowly after an early start at the beginning of August, the earliest I've ever seen. Since the summer's excessively rainy weather transformed about three weeks back -- becoming drier, kinder, more user-friendly -- the gathering of color has slowed right down, and most of it's been muted. Pretty, but quiet. The cold season's coming, though -- the second half of September has weaseled its way in, October is around the corner. In preparation for which three tons of coal arrived here yesterday and now resides in the garage -- a small, dark mountain of fossil fuel, ready to go into the stove a bucket at a time to keep casa runswithscissors liveable when the days get short and cold winds rattle the windows. And somehow it's become Friday again. Another weekend looms. May you enjoy yours, whatever it brings. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 2:10 PM [+]
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