far too much writing, far too many photos

Used to be that temperatures over 80 were the exception here and local folks hardly knew what to do with themselves during spells of truly hot weather. Or that at least is what some lifelong Vermonters have told me. If the last few years are any measure, it may be that sweltering weather’s becoming part of the state’s normal summertime mix.

This morning: warm. Humid. So humid, the air so soupy that it looked at times like snow was falling up the valley from here. Creepy. The kind of weather that gets my skin oozing low-grade perspiration on a more or less full-time basis. Not pretty, that, though my natural charm and adorable butt compensate somewhat.

Meanwhile, large portions of the weekend were spent plowing through the latest installment in the Harry Potter series. Yes, I confess — I am one of the hordes that picked up the book within 24 hours of it going on sale. I am one of the hordes that have made J.K. Rowling a wealthy woman. I am not, however, one of the foaming fanatics who blather and argue about the Harryverse in various cyber-hangouts. (Not that there’s anything wrong with blathering/arguing about the Harryverse.) On the other hand, I’m afraid I’ve read each of the first five books in both English and Spanish. And a couple of months back I actually coughed up the shekels to buy the DVD of the third H.P. film. (If the first two had been a bit more than bland, slavishly literal translations of books to screen, I might have glommed onto copies of them, too.)

The big post-installment-6-binge realization for me: it’s been a long while since I’ve found myself reading a book that really grabbed hold of me, kept me whipping through the pages, disappointed when I found myself finished, wanting more. A long, long while. Don’t know what I’m going to do about that. The last one may have been Close Range: Wyoming Stories by Annie Proulx. The last one before that, The Bird Artist by Howard Norman. I’ve read a substantial pile of books over the years — I find I now have far less patience to stay with one that doesn’t really grab me. (Same goes for movies.) The result: I take on far less books. I may need to do something about that — finding myself this last weekend in the middle of a story that hooked me and didn’t let go until the end was fun.

Blah blah blah. I’m stopping.

This morning, northern Vermont — mist, haze, passing showers:

Madrid, te echo de menos.

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