There's more room on the basement couch
It was very nice to be told by the ophthalmologist this afternoon that I do not need surgery on my eye. I had been given some reason for concern. It was aggravating to be told that I should persist in spending hours of my time with a warm sheep, i.e. the cereal-filled microwaveable hot pack that lives in our freezer applied to my face, but at least it's working.
I read like a medical diary. Yesterday had social interludes in the form of![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rushthatspeaks and selkie and genarti who dropped unexpectedly by with a lifetime supply of bagels and other heymishe staples from Mamaleh's. I paused Samurai III: Duel at Ganryu Island (宮本武蔵 完結篇 決闘巌流島, 1956) in order to show spatch that Kōji Tsuruta lived up to his character's billing of looking more like an actor than a swordsman, which had sounded self-referential until he stepped onscreen as if exactly out of an ukiyo-e print. This evening I felt so set on fire that I curled up in bed for an hour and Hestia snuggled herself under the covers and pushed her head kitten-fashion against my knee. I made myself a sesame bagel with chopped liver and watched another of the Warners B-pictures written by Raymond L. Schrock that TCM has been running to more than fast-cheap effect so long as they do not contain Ronald Reagan. I feel as though I measure my time by what I can do in between managing my health.
I cannot manage the state of the world and it remains exhausting. Nearly a decade of my life seems to have folded itself like a tesseract of the Echthroi and it is hard at the moment not to feel that all that happened in the interval is that people died.
I read like a medical diary. Yesterday had social interludes in the form of
rushthatspeaks and selkie and genarti who dropped unexpectedly by with a lifetime supply of bagels and other heymishe staples from Mamaleh's. I paused Samurai III: Duel at Ganryu Island (宮本武蔵 完結篇 決闘巌流島, 1956) in order to show spatch that Kōji Tsuruta lived up to his character's billing of looking more like an actor than a swordsman, which had sounded self-referential until he stepped onscreen as if exactly out of an ukiyo-e print. This evening I felt so set on fire that I curled up in bed for an hour and Hestia snuggled herself under the covers and pushed her head kitten-fashion against my knee. I made myself a sesame bagel with chopped liver and watched another of the Warners B-pictures written by Raymond L. Schrock that TCM has been running to more than fast-cheap effect so long as they do not contain Ronald Reagan. I feel as though I measure my time by what I can do in between managing my health. I cannot manage the state of the world and it remains exhausting. Nearly a decade of my life seems to have folded itself like a tesseract of the Echthroi and it is hard at the moment not to feel that all that happened in the interval is that people died.
no subject
Also, they discovered those orcas ramming yachts are menopausal. From my perspective, the next five years promise limitless opportunity for entertainment and murhem, which is when we cross murder and mayhem. Like cetacean Bacchae.
no subject
It's true. It just feels like the only thing I'm doing with my time!
Also, they discovered those orcas ramming yachts are menopausal. From my perspective, the next five years promise limitless opportunity for entertainment and murhem, which is when we cross murder and mayhem. Like cetacean Bacchae.
I am skeptical of menopause in my imminent future, but I have spent decades swimming with my period; I'm pretty sure I can sink a yacht. Evoe!