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.
no subject
no subject
It's stunning! The sequel Martin Pippin in the Daisy Field (1937) is not as strange or as beautiful to me, but some of the inset stories are very fine—"Elsie Piddock Skips in Her Sleep" is frequently and deservedly reprinted.