far too much writing, far too many photos

Have spent the last 24 hours getting used to the sound of rain falling. During the day, with the windows open, the soft sound of it falling on countless leaves. At night, windows closed, the sound of it pounding on the roof — concentrated, insistent.

Somewhere during the course of the last few days, the warm season finally took hold. The beginning of the week brought cold nights, cold enough that local weather liars warned of scattered frost. Since then the feel of the air has changed, to which I say hallelujah. Even with the world outside gray and chilly, as it is right now, a tipping point has been reached — the house remains warm enough that there’s no need to crank up the heat. (Brief nervous pause to search for knockable wood.)

I remain kind of adrift in time — had no idea Memorial Day weekend had arrived until I heard it mentioned on the radio that Friday. Mostly remained at home during those three days, the sound of heavier traffic than normal drifting up from the two-lane in the valley this hill overlooks. Made the trip into town now and then for sweaty gym time and café wi-fi time (not having true high-speed in my hilltop squat).

My bod remains on a modified version of Madrid time, conking out early local time (more or less my regular sacktime over there), waking up far too early, a tendency aggravated by the hideously early sunrise hour here at this time of year. Got one deliciously long night of sound sleep a few days back, the kind of night that had me smiling contentedly as I stumbled through my morning. Must grovel for the gods/goddesses who handle that kind of thing and see if it gets me more deliciousness.

Am finally beginning to edge my way into the work that remains my supposed reason for being back here: going through possessions, getting rid of stuff, emptying out house, getting ready to put it on the market. A process that mostly feels overwhelming if I think about it the size of it all*, so I do my best not to think about it that way, cutting it down to manageable size instead, focusing on what needs to be done in any given day. Have become aware of my way of not seeing possessions (until they’re needed) once they find their place in the living space. They have their moment of newness, of freshness, after which they mostly fade into the background, into the overall picture of the room. It’s good having to look at it all more consciously. Which is something that holds true in my life in general — big changes are mostly good for me. They shake things up, get me seeing and feeling with fresh eyes, get me experiencing things in a way not yet settled into ‘the known.’ Not always comfortable, but usually good for me.

Recently, me in a local bank. A customer entered wearing a daypack, carrying an accordion by its strap. The accordion wheezed faintly with its owner’s every move, producing confused looks from bank personnel accustomed to a more orthodox nine-to-five soundtrack.

Out on the street early one morning, heading toward the gym. Heard someone talking, looked around to see a 30ish woman on a bicycle heading in my direction, having a discussion with herself. My first ever sighting of a two-wheeled self-talker. I watched, half-conscious brain torn between bemusement and amusement. As she approached, the woman saw me, paused her monologue to say good morning. I returned the greeting, watched her pass and cycle away, monologue in process once again, voice fading with distance.

Life: we never really know for sure what entertainment awaits.

*Also a process that’s bringing surprises. F’rinstance, going through CD’s, listening before making decisions. Sample verdicts: Afghan Wigs: pitch it. (Huh? But, dude, they are so alt!) AC/DC: pitch it. (Angus, you kick some serious ass. But it’s time to move on.) Air: don’t pitch it. (What?? I can count on one finger the times I’ve listened to that one!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This morning, far too early:

España, te echo de menos

2 Responses to “bemusement/amusement”

  1. mad

    Was the cyclist talking to herself or talking on her cell phone? The first is crazy, the second is sacrilege.

  2. rws

    To herself — I saw no cellphone or headset.

    Now that I think of it, I have yet to see a cyclist blabbing into a cell — just car drivers.

Leave a Reply

Proudly powered by WordPress. Theme developed with WordPress Theme Generator.
Copyright © runswithscissors. All rights reserved.