And she knows when we'll go to our graves and how we shall be born
Having been fed to eleven-year-old satiety on sushi and udon and tempura, the triplets were settled with my niece's birthday DVD of My Neighbor Totoro (1988) and her new squishmallows, a seal wearing earmuffs and a quilted jacket and a sort of grey-and-white body pillow of a cat instantly identified with the Catbus. Neither of the twins had seen the movie before and asked interested questions throughout. Cupcakes with pink almond icing and strawberry sugar were served halfway through. We struck out on the Geminids, possibly due to the brilliance of the full moon, possibly due to the still early hour, but Mars and Jupiter were particularly distinct and Orion was doing great sky-striding. The last meteor shower of the year is the Ursids, apparently, peaking on the winter solstice.
Other than my niece's birthday observed, and the movie which I went to see in theaters, it has been a pretty awful week. I did get a nice photograph of the McGrath Highway Bridge, otherwise known in this household as the Easter bridge, returning from a dentist's appointment in a fog so thick that all the red lights of the motionless traffic turned the evening overcast interplanetary colors.
I take the point of this post and its associated article about how super-gendered as well as cultily dangerous cheerleading has become over functionally the course of my lifetime, but I also flashed on the baton-twirling scene in A Face in the Crowd (1957).
Detectorists (2014–2022) has had a wonderful sense of deep time since its first season, and I enjoyed immensely that it actually did an antiquarian ghost story for Christmas, but I really appreciate the hauntological plunge the third season just took in the form of the Unthanks' "Magpie."
Courtesy of![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ashlyme: Cobalt Chapel, "We Come Willingly" (2017), by people who do sound as though they like Broadcast and the Focus Group, as fortunately do I.
Other than my niece's birthday observed, and the movie which I went to see in theaters, it has been a pretty awful week. I did get a nice photograph of the McGrath Highway Bridge, otherwise known in this household as the Easter bridge, returning from a dentist's appointment in a fog so thick that all the red lights of the motionless traffic turned the evening overcast interplanetary colors.
I take the point of this post and its associated article about how super-gendered as well as cultily dangerous cheerleading has become over functionally the course of my lifetime, but I also flashed on the baton-twirling scene in A Face in the Crowd (1957).
Detectorists (2014–2022) has had a wonderful sense of deep time since its first season, and I enjoyed immensely that it actually did an antiquarian ghost story for Christmas, but I really appreciate the hauntological plunge the third season just took in the form of the Unthanks' "Magpie."
Courtesy of
ashlyme: Cobalt Chapel, "We Come Willingly" (2017), by people who do sound as though they like Broadcast and the Focus Group, as fortunately do I.
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(aaagh)
It’s interesting being up to one’s considerable rump in folk magic that does not invoke or defy the Devil because we have a couple more-specific questions and in the meantime a full buffet of ghosts and demons and small household spirits and genius loci.
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"When the feldsher says, 'Oh, what is it this time?' is it considered a good sign?" —An-sky's Ethnographic Program, probably
(I wondered what Nathaniel Deutsch had done most recently and the answer seems to have been ethnographically investigate the neighborhood where my grandfather, pre-Satmar, grew up.)
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It’s deeply ironic to me that I must be the most fancified, fussyfrock, college-diction feldsher ever to steep an herb, thereby providing your bloodline endless chances to rotissomat-turn in their peaceful graves. The whole point of the tradition is to be quick and crookedy and have no chill and here I am with SPELLING COUNTS. (Do you get magpies in Podolia?)
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(That probably is healthier for for you to eat than a whole lot of black-hat dudes.)
It’s deeply ironic to me that I must be the most fancified, fussyfrock, college-diction feldsher ever to steep an herb, thereby providing your bloodline endless chances to rotissomat-turn in their peaceful graves. The whole point of the tradition is to be quick and crookedy and have no chill and here I am with SPELLING COUNTS.
*hugs*
(Do you get magpies in Podolia?)
It looks like we do! Соро́ка in Ukrainian, whence סאָראָקע af Yidish.
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They're all across the continent. I'm really charmed by the subspecies that hangs out on the Kamchatka Peninsula. But you get straight-up Pica pica pica in the Pale proper, plus anything west.
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