far too much writing, far too many photos

My fingers smell like microwave popcorn. Logical, since I’ve been on a bit of a binge lately — and it’s good I don’t care if anyone knows. ‘Cause if I wanted to keep it a secret I would be screwed — the residual aroma is that tangy and impossible to hide. (Yes, my hands have been washed, thanks very much. Harrumph.)

Meanwhile, I’ve been waking up on recent mornings with music cycling through my teeny brain. Songs or phrases from songs. Two mornings ago the soundtrack was the theme song from the excellent, now-long-defunct British cop show Inspector Morse. And yesterday morning? The very first cut from the very first Grateful Dead album. Believe when I say that I have no freakin’ clue where either of them came from. But they both stayed with me throughout the morning hours, fading in and out, finally disappearing after midday.

Meanwhile, after months of being out of whack — since my return from that fast jaunt back stateside in October — my sleep patterns suddenly seem to have settled back into something close to normal. Meaning getting to sleep around midnight instead of 1, 2 or 3 a.m. Which means, in turn, waking up at hours that are more like my bod’s customary wake-up times, instead of me wanting to remain huddled under the covers until, well, late enough that I don’t feel incurably bleary. I’m hoping this will mean the daily slog back to full consciousness won’t take the hours and hours it’s taken during recent months. ‘Cause seriously, there are days when my state of persistent semi-consciousness gets the teeniest bit pathetic. Makes me dopey and slow and not much for conversation. And at times turns my Spanish into goofy, garbled blathering. Not very dignified.

I’m thinking that the return to more normal cycles may have to do with the gradual lengthening of the days here, sunlight hours now lingering until 7 p.m. My little squat gets dark during the winter months, much darker than what I’m used to, possibly resulting in a kind of reflexive turning inward — which is fine up to a point. After that point, it’s not what I would call helpful or productive. Or fun. Coming out of it feels better. Like being able to breathe more easily.


El Museo Naval — Madrid:

EspaƱa, te amo

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