far too much writing, far too many photos

Since getting back to Madrid, however long ago it was now — 2 weeks? 3? — my sleep patterns have so far not seemed completely able to re-establish themselves. Which sometimes means not feeling drowsy until 3 or 4 in the a.m. 5 o’clock, once or twice. And when one’s night of shuteye only gets going at that hour and you can’t really afford the luxury of sleeping in, the resulting bleariness takes a teeny bit of the oomph out of the following day. Makes the idea of crawling back into bed a near-constant temptation (that one occasionally succumbs too, resulting in a different class of bleariness afterward). You know all this, I’m sure. And I am not actually complaining — this kind of crimp in one’s existence is small potatoes, really, when one considers all the items crowded together into that existence’s ‘plus’ column (shelter, food, clothing, friends, the luxury of being able to do work you actually want to do, being in city you love being in, blah-de, blah-de). So, seriously, I’m not bitching. More like making a fast sketch of one aspect of my current sitch, such as it is.

It is interesting how we, in general, have been trained to bitch. And how much positive reinforcement so much of the world is willing to bestow when one does bitch in creative fashion. That’s part of the reason I stay away from television news outlets — man, talk about bitching and painting a distorted picture of the world. But they get to do that, it’s not really any of my business. And I get to ignore them (Stewart and Colbert being the notable exceptions, ’cause I have no problem with high-quality silliness).

That is also a part of why I tend not to talk about difficulties and/or physical maladies I may be sailing through. Having problems, talking about problems was an acceptable way of getting attention in my family of origin. The trouble is it tends to type us, tends to form an indelible part of the image of who we and others identify as us. And I have no interest in that. I’m far more interested in creating my ‘image’ in a deliberate, conscious way, reasonably free of sympathy-worthy or scorn-worthy tics and problems. (In part ’cause I really don’t have much to complain about.) And I tend not to take part in it when someone tries to project something onto me that I’m not interested in having as part of that image of who I am, no matter how well-intended those someones may be. I get to choose, and I mostly don’t care a huge amount what anyone else might think about that.

So what I started out with here, sleep patterns not yet re-established and all? Small potatoes. Ignore me. ‘Cause I mostly go about my day perfectly content, and if my bod insists on a nap and I’m at home with a little time to burn, I’m all for falling into bed and checking out for an hour.

Meanwhile, the days continue sailing past. It’s now mid-November, a fact that boggles my teeny brain. (It was just June! No, wait — it was just Christmas!! And yet another bigass holiday season is now preparing to heave itself into view!) Nights are cold enough that the building’s heat has been cranked up (the heat melts away quickly once the radiators go cool, what with my squat’s old, single-pane, non-heat-retaining windows — so the covers can go from next to nothing to two heavy blankies in the course of a given night), the days are mostly crisp and sunny, dry leaves swirling around streets and sidewalks (until local street-cleaning crews sweep them up). Life moves along, for the most part — and this is the simple truth — sweet. Benign.

But you don’t want to hear about the simple sweetness of my days. That can wait for another entry.

Later.

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Light/shadows, mid-November — Madrid:

EspaƱa, te amo

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