Wonder where our love is bound
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spatch met me at the airport with a tongue and chopped liver 50/50 from Mamaleh's which I ate in the car as we drove home down Route 1A. Have an inconsistent assortment of pictures taken over the last six days.
The most stressful note in my departure of Logan was the TSA's insistence that I take my mask off, however briefly. With those millimeter-wave scanners, I can't imagine they need to see my face to confirm my biometrics. Otherwise it seems I remembered all of the motions of checking the same black gym bag in which I have packed my clothes to travel for twenty-five years, tramping the distance of the concourse with my backpack over one shoulder, and curling up to read at the nearest window to the gate. I have more than forty-year-old memories of staring through similar windows, waiting for planes to arrive or depart.
"'If paper could speak, what a tale your card could tell when it gets to New Zealand!' The pillar box began to bob up and down in Eve's mind until it was an ark swimming on dark tropical seas. 'I saw a film once, I remember, about a bank note. They ought to make one about your letter. I should begin with the mail'—she thought of the taxi roof that she had seen that morning on her way to work, just visible at the rim of a gigantic crater—'then there would be the docks, the ships being loaded in spite of the fires, the submarines in the Bay, at last, after the fear and the stars, sunlight on the other side of the world.' Only nothing really would explain their experience; there would be a gulf between the bombed and the unraided."
I never got bored with aerial views of Boston when I was flying with any regularity and I have not gotten bored with them since.
I lost track of the flight path once it curved out past the Cape, but I kept watching the cloud shadows instead of reading Bryher and Leo Rosten.
I had no idea of the flight path by the time we were approaching our destination, but the sea looked even more like metal in the haze of the afternoon light.
I was lying on the couch in
selkie's office when I took this picture, having successfully and phonelessly navigated by Metro and bus from DCA. (Directions provided by darthrami.) I may or may not have eaten half a roast beef sandwich by this time. I had definitely been presented with even more books, of which I immediately began to read Le Guin's last poetry collection.
It really isn't Martin Buber's fault that I can't read his name without thinking of Schmekel's "FTM at the DMV." It's a very catchy song.
Almost as soon as he got home from school, my godchild showed off Jorts (Jr.), who was absolutely uninterested in an audience.
She was interested in getting out into the yard for a happily writhing dust bath like a fluff-bellied sparrow.
For Erev Yom Kippur, my godchild looked swell in my commandeered coat.
It is entirely C. S. Lewis' fault that even when I know that a lamppost has a normal reason for appearing against a line of late afternoon trees, it looks like a demarcation of the fantastic.
The gloves which I found in the juncture of two branches on the same walk no doubt had a similarly mundane explanation, but looked frankly like one of those spectacular slime molds.
As promised, photographic evidence of the deranged monk hoodie, taken by Selkie. When I showed the object itself to Rob this evening, he couldn't decide between accompanying it with Night on Bald Mountain or the Carmina Burana.
For my return trip, Selkie accompanied me as far as the airport. We sat on a hostile bench outside the security line at the terminal from which my flight was departing, which was of course not the terminal in which I needed to check my luggage. We both miss—we can't imagine who doesn't—the days when you could actually see someone onto their plane.
I am actually pretty sure I had never interacted with this airport before last week. About fourteen, fifteen years ago I was as likely to visit the D.C. metro area via BWI as Amtrak, which was geographically convenient at the time. I did not purchase anything from the Smithsonian store, but I thought seriously about the astronaut ice cream.
I have not yet finished the biography of Billy Haines which I read for most of the flight back, but it has given me several films to look out for and a portrait of queer 1920's Hollywood that seems overall credibly different from even the pre-Code era. The title is itself a shibboleth: I hadn't known that wisecracker was ever an in-group word for queer.
The smashed-out blinds in this picture come courtesy of Hestia, who may want a less obstructed view of Bird Theater or may just like the noise the plastic slats make when she claws them in half. She delicately sniffed my luggage all over before investigating my hands and face and very precisely licking my temple before trotting off to the kitchen to be fed.
It feels incredibly mid-century that I was able to turn miles on a credit card into round-trip tickets. I am very tired and have too much capitalism to get back to and the days run together and I had such a good time.
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The weather is in fact autumnally bright and cold as we speak and should stay that way, thank you. I feel I could also make a good job of sidling along the edges of shadowy frames of film like a practical effect.
I am pleased you made it safe home, and you will be pleased I am taking enough cephalexin to scorch a chipmunk (2000mg/day).
Mazel tov! Forget the chipmunk, I might not survive that much Keflex. How's your body responding?
*hugs*
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I’m never doing that again.
*hugs*