far too much writing, far too many photos

If it weren’t for darkness falling around 7 p.m., this could easily be a July evening. Hazy, warm, crickets singing away. It’s nice to be able to sit out on the stoop in nothing but shorts, only the occasional no-see-um spoiling the fun. Shorts/stoop season is brief in these parts — a bug bite or two is a small price to pay for that kind of simple pleasure.

Spent the morning sitting in front of the ‘puter. Spent the afternoon up on a ladder slapping paint on house trim (then cutting lawn, then practicing piano). No music playing, few cars passing on the gravel road. Just the sound of crickets and their cousins, punctuated by birds carrying on in the trees near this end of the house. Quiet. Meditative.

Spent yesterday working as well, never managing to come to complete consciousness (after having woken up in the wee hours, taking a long, long time getting back to sleep). Felt kind of like wading through molasses as I went about the day, the simplest things requiring effort, focus. Happened to glance at myself in the bathroom mirror around 9:30 yesterday evening, the eyes that stared back were beyond fatigued, beyond bloodshot. Red in a way that instructed me to listen to my bod and crawl into bed without delay. Did that, got a better night’s sleep — packed with dreams, none of which I brought back to waking life.

A long, hazy dusk is now underway outside. I need to make chow, relax a little. Maybe I can coerce myself to drag my adorable booty in the direction of bed at an early hour again. We’ll see.


Madrid, te echo de menos.

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