All the things that split us up are soft-spoken
This morning when I woke was full of sunlight and spring blossom against the sky; now the view out my window is full of slate-blue steel-lighted clouds suggesting either imminent thunderstorm or sorcerous apocalypse, although the forecast tells me it's just going to be cold. The cherry blossoms are doing their impermanence thing and covering a block of our street with small fallen fragile pink petals. I didn't get a picture of them, which is all right.
Yesterday the buses were so terrible that![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and I just walked to Davis Square so that I could make my doctor's appointment and he could get to work, in between which we had bowls of different kinds of soup (boat noodle, khao soi) at Dakzen. Today I walked to the library to discover that my traditional route of access—a concrete stair up the hill behind the high school—has been blocked off with chain-link and plywood, which with all the GLX going around makes me instantly nervous. I would prefer not to have to feel protective about every single piece of twentieth-century architecture within walking distance of my house, especially since some of it is objectively meh. The library's on the National Register of Historic Places, at least. I am fairly confident Eleanor Farjeon's The Glass Slipper (1955) is a novelized play like The Silver Curlew (1953); it has the same feel of translated pantomime, although I liked the other, sillier, more numinous story better. Samuel Fuller's Brainquake (2014) was gonzo and now I really want to read The Dark Page (1944).
I have been sleeping very badly for weeks, but last night I zonked out at something halfway resembling a reasonable hour and dreamed of rafting down the Charles, which I don't know if anyone actually does. Then I dreamed of rafting down canals which are currently train tracks; awake I recognized one from the commuter rail, one from the Orange Line, both rather attractively framed between Venice-walls of brick. I hope that wasn't prophecy.
This first-century cameo of Minerva looks amazingly over everyone's nonsense.
Yesterday the buses were so terrible that
spatch and I just walked to Davis Square so that I could make my doctor's appointment and he could get to work, in between which we had bowls of different kinds of soup (boat noodle, khao soi) at Dakzen. Today I walked to the library to discover that my traditional route of access—a concrete stair up the hill behind the high school—has been blocked off with chain-link and plywood, which with all the GLX going around makes me instantly nervous. I would prefer not to have to feel protective about every single piece of twentieth-century architecture within walking distance of my house, especially since some of it is objectively meh. The library's on the National Register of Historic Places, at least. I am fairly confident Eleanor Farjeon's The Glass Slipper (1955) is a novelized play like The Silver Curlew (1953); it has the same feel of translated pantomime, although I liked the other, sillier, more numinous story better. Samuel Fuller's Brainquake (2014) was gonzo and now I really want to read The Dark Page (1944).I have been sleeping very badly for weeks, but last night I zonked out at something halfway resembling a reasonable hour and dreamed of rafting down the Charles, which I don't know if anyone actually does. Then I dreamed of rafting down canals which are currently train tracks; awake I recognized one from the commuter rail, one from the Orange Line, both rather attractively framed between Venice-walls of brick. I hope that wasn't prophecy.
This first-century cameo of Minerva looks amazingly over everyone's nonsense.
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Thank you! Apparently Minerva doesn't disapprove of me sleeping. I appreciate it.