far too much writing, far too many photos

This morning: woke up early from hours of long, complex dreams, all set in a city I’ve never seen in 3-D life. The last part featured Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg, both of whom seemed to be pursuing me for some obscure reason, tirelessly, tenaciously. Not sure I knew exactly why in the dream, I sure as hell don’t remember why now. That Tom Cruise smile: relentless, impressive, scary. Or at least the dream version of it was.

Good thing I woke up early. Sometime before 8 o’clock, the phone rang, a friend who was to come over this morning canceling out. At five of eight, it rang again, I picked up expecting to find my friend on the other end again. Turned out to be someone calling in response to a for-sale handbill I posted in Montpelier yesterday advertising a never-used generator. At five of eight, I am nowhere near high-functioning level and so let the caller know the hour was too early, asked him to call back later in the day. He sounded confused and/or put off by my firmness, has not rung back.

The last few nights have turned cold enough that the storm windows went down Sunday evening and have gone down every night since. The days, meanwhile, have been classic September fare — golden, the air filled with insect music, butterflies galore hanging about and monarchs passing through on a regular basis. A bit dreamlike in their beauty (puncuated by gunfire from down the valley on Monday, Labor Day, which just upped the surreal factor). Ah, autumn in New England.

The days, meanwhile, seem to be flying by at hair-raising velocity. In just under four weeks, I’ll be back in Madrid — a thought I am so far having trouble wrapping my teeny little brain around. Preparations have already begun, blended in with work around the house. My body, meanwhile, is seriously jonesing for downtime, as in couch or lawn chair for hours at a stretch, reading/snoozing. Ah, well.

On with the day.

Madrid, te echo de menos.

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