The landscape is all so beautiful. Gentle hills and tree-cupping valleys marked by charmingly curving waterways--this is glacier carved territory, smoothed by centuries of rain and flourishing greenery, unlike the drama of tectonic violence at my end of the continent.
From Tuesday night until Saturday morning early, I enjoyed intense sensory experience--walking about Montreal, talking books, writing, and all related subjects (and the thing is, everything
is related) with papersky
Except for a brief hour or so at the peak of Friday, the air was deliciously cool, which makes walking about so lovely. Actually Friday wasn't hot, but it turned out the direct sun, northerly as it is, was too much for me for a time. These meds I'm on have a lot of "DO NOTS" attached, and strong sunlight is one of them. So rysmiel
(who kindly gave up half a day of work to explore the botanical gardens with me, as well as some of the niftier downtown streets, where we were able to spy out some really good street art) and I cut short the gardens. I didn't get to see flowers, which are heading toward winter hibernation anyway, but got my fill of trees, most still hanging on to summer green, with sudden bursts of brilliant color here and there. What makes some trees flash out like that, while all the others around retain their uniform green? I could see patterns of air movement in the reddening of sides of trees around water, but that doesn't explain those single color-flares among the shadowy greens.
The joy of really, really good food and a stream of excellent conversation, always coming around to books and writing, is difficult to articulate without resorting to burbling superlatives and a great deal of hand-flapping. So I won't, though maybe I'll try to think out the why of the intensity of the enjoyment . . . is it the sense of maybe connection? Of being understood? Of not having to be afraid of being boring? No, that fear never
leaves me. If I come out of my head I'm always checking my companion to see if they are looking away in the manner people do when they wish they were elsewhere.
The sense of a city readying for winter is totally new to me. But I get this feeling of okay, here it comes, we are going to get every jot of enjoyment before it is time to close the windows, pull in the window boxes, shut up outside work projects. (Which go on year round at home.)
Came away with a cluster of book recommendations, not surprising.
Was glued to, and charmed by, Helen S. Wright's A Matter of Oaths, a delightfully diverse space opera,
on the train ride down from Montreal, got off at Albany, where I was met by asakiyume
and before we left the parking lot, there we were, talking writing!
EDITED TO ADD: You can read it for free here
We joined her dad in this charmingly pretty town adjacent the state capital. He is a writer, too; was bemused to discover one of his short works on the Nebula ballot recently, as he isn't a part of the sf world, though has attended a couple of cons. We got deeply into the history of small press publication (poets have a tougher time hitting print than about anyone else) and writing and characters and cultural patterns and aging and children and what makes behavioral patterns happen.
Now it's time to trundle my aged bones out of this comfortable bed, and get ready for a delightful day of exploring in nature, and more good talk.