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Which is just what the best men do
Tonight I had dinner with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schreibergasse, and hans_the_bold, who is staying with me until he can find an apartment, and a newly-met friend whose livejournal name I do not know, at Miya's, the home of crazy sushi. It was incredibly, impressively good. We tried all sorts of outlandish rolls, like the Passion Without Words (mushrooms and brie, tempura-fried) and Ebi Tori (shrimp tempura, chicken, melted havarti, and dill sauce) and Ginger Eggplant Teriyaki (with avocado and sweet potato), and dishes like Kung Fu Tuna (seared, with jalapeño sauce), and all of them were delicious, but what was most amazing was that the chef kept bringing us different flavors of sake on the house, greenpine, sumac, walnut, sassafrass—and for hans_the_bold who doesn't drink, equally insane nonalcoholic concoctions like hibiscus soda and another made with ginger and lemongrass—and made us a new and completely experimental dessert with tiny fried crabs sort of crusted sweet and spicy. I should send him a card, or write poems to his cooking, or something. This was unexpected and wonderful.
I have kept miserable track of my life lately. I neglected to mention that last weekend I attended the 2006 NOMAD Festival, where I metap_aelfwine and heard teenybuffalo perform ballads and dramatic recitations, of which I think the Spoonerized Adventures of Robin Hood may have impressed me the most, although "I'm Taking My Oyster for Walkies" is also ridiculously catchy. There were swans on the salt marshes when I came down on the train on Friday, and most of that night I spent in a Cadfael marathon with my dear friend who does not have a livejournal. I am re-reading Neil Gaiman's The Sandman.
And I missed posting anything for Armistice Day; so.
It's difficult with the weight of the rifle.
Leave it—under the oak.
Leave it for a salvage-bloke
let it lie bruised for a monument
dispense the authenticated fragments to the faithful.
It's the thunder-besom for us
it's the bright bough borne
it's the tensioned yew for a Genoese jammed arbalest and a scarlet square for a mounted mareschal, it's that county-mob back to back. Majuba mountain and Mons Cherubim and spreaded mats for Sydney Street East, and come to Bisley for a Silver Dish. It's R.SM. O'Grady says, it's the soldier's best friend if you care for the working parts and let us be 'aving those springs released smartly in Company billets on wet forenoons and clickerty-click and one up the spout and you men must really cultivate the habit of treating this weapon with the very greatest care and there should be a healthy rivalry among you—it should be a matter of very proper pride and
Marry it man! Marry it!
Cherish her, she's your very own.
Coax it man coax it—it's delicately and ingeniously made—it's an instrument of precision—it costs us tax-payers, money—I want you men to remember that.
Fondle it like a granny—talk to it—consider it as you would a friend—and when you ground these arms she's not a rooky's gas-pipe for greenhorns to tarnish.
You've known her hot and cold.
You would choose her from among many.
You know her by her bias, and by her exact error at 300, and by the deep scar at the small, by the fair flaw in the grain, above the lower sling-swivel—
but leave it under the oak.
—David Jones, In Parenthesis (1937)
schreibergasse, and hans_the_bold, who is staying with me until he can find an apartment, and a newly-met friend whose livejournal name I do not know, at Miya's, the home of crazy sushi. It was incredibly, impressively good. We tried all sorts of outlandish rolls, like the Passion Without Words (mushrooms and brie, tempura-fried) and Ebi Tori (shrimp tempura, chicken, melted havarti, and dill sauce) and Ginger Eggplant Teriyaki (with avocado and sweet potato), and dishes like Kung Fu Tuna (seared, with jalapeño sauce), and all of them were delicious, but what was most amazing was that the chef kept bringing us different flavors of sake on the house, greenpine, sumac, walnut, sassafrass—and for hans_the_bold who doesn't drink, equally insane nonalcoholic concoctions like hibiscus soda and another made with ginger and lemongrass—and made us a new and completely experimental dessert with tiny fried crabs sort of crusted sweet and spicy. I should send him a card, or write poems to his cooking, or something. This was unexpected and wonderful.I have kept miserable track of my life lately. I neglected to mention that last weekend I attended the 2006 NOMAD Festival, where I met
ap_aelfwine and heard teenybuffalo perform ballads and dramatic recitations, of which I think the Spoonerized Adventures of Robin Hood may have impressed me the most, although "I'm Taking My Oyster for Walkies" is also ridiculously catchy. There were swans on the salt marshes when I came down on the train on Friday, and most of that night I spent in a Cadfael marathon with my dear friend who does not have a livejournal. I am re-reading Neil Gaiman's The Sandman.And I missed posting anything for Armistice Day; so.
It's difficult with the weight of the rifle.
Leave it—under the oak.
Leave it for a salvage-bloke
let it lie bruised for a monument
dispense the authenticated fragments to the faithful.
It's the thunder-besom for us
it's the bright bough borne
it's the tensioned yew for a Genoese jammed arbalest and a scarlet square for a mounted mareschal, it's that county-mob back to back. Majuba mountain and Mons Cherubim and spreaded mats for Sydney Street East, and come to Bisley for a Silver Dish. It's R.SM. O'Grady says, it's the soldier's best friend if you care for the working parts and let us be 'aving those springs released smartly in Company billets on wet forenoons and clickerty-click and one up the spout and you men must really cultivate the habit of treating this weapon with the very greatest care and there should be a healthy rivalry among you—it should be a matter of very proper pride and
Marry it man! Marry it!
Cherish her, she's your very own.
Coax it man coax it—it's delicately and ingeniously made—it's an instrument of precision—it costs us tax-payers, money—I want you men to remember that.
Fondle it like a granny—talk to it—consider it as you would a friend—and when you ground these arms she's not a rooky's gas-pipe for greenhorns to tarnish.
You've known her hot and cold.
You would choose her from among many.
You know her by her bias, and by her exact error at 300, and by the deep scar at the small, by the fair flaw in the grain, above the lower sling-swivel—
but leave it under the oak.
—David Jones, In Parenthesis (1937)
no subject
Also--if you meant to include pictures in your last email to me, about the Halloween pumpkins--there was no attachment.
no subject
Miya's takes its vegetarian rolls seriously. You and
Also--if you meant to include pictures in your last email to me, about the Halloween pumpkins--there was no attachment.
Hm. There should have been. Fortunately,
no subject
And the quote is quite something.
I need to get the photos from Nomad off my camera and distribute them-- would you mind if I put them up on LJ? I'll have to ask
no subject
David Jones' In Parenthesis is a book-length narrative poem that filters his experiences in World War I through Welsh mythology, particularly the Battle of the Trees. It's amazing stuff.
I need to get the photos from Nomad off my camera and distribute them-- would you mind if I put them up on LJ?
I have no objection. Famous last words.
no subject
No worries. There's nothing bad there. Quite the contrary. ;-)
However, I get the feeling that the other person in the photos doesn't want them online, so I'll just shoot them in your direction by email instead, or something like that.
As soon as I've found my USB card reader (I can only locate the PC-card one, which doesn't seem to fit the slot in my current laptop) and got them off the camera. Which seems to be taking a while, unfortunately.
no subject
I am easy to look up through the directory at Yale; thanks!