Wrote a scholar from the island that they kept from me
Having access this evening to a tableful of newspapers, I saw the front-page article in the Globe about the climatically imminent flooding of the Seaport and it was pretty much exactly like reading that water is wet. I still have difficulty regarding that neighborhood as a real part of Boston, not merely because of its glass-shelled gentrification but because it is even more obviously on loan from the sea than the rest of this flat gravel-fill town. As soon as there was sea-rise in the future, Boston was going to be under it, long before the governments and corporations of this world blew through the 1.5C deadline. I love the harborwalk and I have seen the harbor walking over it. Urban renewal was faster cash in the moment than streets that would not flood the next minute. I do not believe in the stupidest timeline because I was exposed too early to the folktale in which it could always be worse, but it is nonsensical and nightmarish to me that this is the one we are all trapped in. It is because the universe is an unjust place that so many in power are not found in the morning blue-lipped, salt-lunged, sea-strangled on land.
On the other hand, tonight I watched Hestia trot over to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch's new computer on which was still stuck the silver-paper bow of its early holiday present and pluck it in passing, after which she hunted it up and down the front hall with much batting and biting and singing the high, clear song to her prey which is usually reserved for socks. Decades after bouncing off all the George Eliot I tried after Silas Marner (1861), I seem to be embedded in Middlemarch (1872). It washed out my plans for the day which I then did little with, but I slept a generally assessed normal number of hours.
On the other hand, tonight I watched Hestia trot over to
spatch's new computer on which was still stuck the silver-paper bow of its early holiday present and pluck it in passing, after which she hunted it up and down the front hall with much batting and biting and singing the high, clear song to her prey which is usually reserved for socks. Decades after bouncing off all the George Eliot I tried after Silas Marner (1861), I seem to be embedded in Middlemarch (1872). It washed out my plans for the day which I then did little with, but I slept a generally assessed normal number of hours.
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Faro table behind you, whist to the right!
Middlemarch was one of the Eliots I bounced off of originally. The others were Daniel Deronda and The Mill on the Floss, after which I settled for periodically re-reading Silas Marner. This time around it is reminding me favorably of Winifred Holtby's South Riding, only a lot more longitudinal. I broke off at the end of Book IV and am seriously considering hitting up a library for the second half because I hate reading novels in a scroll.
Last night Mac ignored a fragment of meatball in favor of the tomato sauce. Now in addition to his Perma-Gravy stain he is a little orangey-red on the chin. I hope you rejoice in your real cat.
She is a most dear and excellent cat and that silver-paper bow is hers now. Mac sounds like the second story in this Ask a Manager. (The best one in the bunch is hands down the fifth.)
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b) Theremin in a kilt! Whoa!
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I can't even read that description without cracking up.
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It happened the other way around for me but yes very yes.
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w00t!