Nota bene: this post was actually finished around five in the morning, but I was too fried to bother with putting it up until now. Have a slight anachronism. Also a happy Saint Patrick's Day, if there are serpents in your life that need disappearing. There may be more pertinent content later.
I am collapsibility tired. I realize this makes me sound like a relative of Capability Brown (or Bloody Stupid Johnson), but I have spent most of today looking after a five-year-old, who is of course my beautiful second cousin Tristen. We had an unexpected sending of relatives yesterday: I was making a North African recipe for dinner, literally up to my wrists in ground lamb, when the doorbell rang and kept ringing as though someone were leaning their weight on it. Most of my day up to that point had sucked considerably,* so it was not with enthusiasm that I opened the door. On the doorstep, more wild-haired and about six inches taller than the last time I had seen him, was Tristen. He grabbed me around the neck and started yelling my name; his grandparents were coming up the walk with my grandfather. They are staying through Tuesday, although I will leave before they do. So my cousin's presence has not lessened my stress levels, but certainly has improved my mood; this afternoon we walked around the reservoir and he explained how sometimes he was a mermaid, sometimes a dragon, sometimes a Siamese cat. At dinner, I found a pearl in my fried oyster. I'm not surprised.
Also last night I went with Bob and Anita to see Josef von Sternberg's Underworld (1927) at the Somerville Theatre, with a live score by the Alloy Orchestra** and now I have another film in my catalogue of strange loves. Because I could do so much else in the same amount of time, I try not to watch movies unless I think they're going to be worth it, but I'm still surprised by how good some of them are . . . I suppose there are people who feel this way about reading.
( A great city in the dead of night . . . streets lonely, moon-flooded . . . buildings empty as the cliff-dwellings of a forgotten age— )
* What I had been hoping was a tenacious sunburn turned out to be a contact dermatitis that went systemic; I looked like a pox victim and was sent home from the doctor's with a steroid cream and instructions to buy, before departing for Florida, the strongest possible sunscreen and a hat. This I did not need.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schreibergasse, you shall still have the post I owe you.
** One-third of the Alloy Orchestra is Roger Miller, as in Mission of Burma, which I had not known when I saw their card at the Brattle Theatre. Eric and Bob had to enlighten me.
I am collapsibility tired. I realize this makes me sound like a relative of Capability Brown (or Bloody Stupid Johnson), but I have spent most of today looking after a five-year-old, who is of course my beautiful second cousin Tristen. We had an unexpected sending of relatives yesterday: I was making a North African recipe for dinner, literally up to my wrists in ground lamb, when the doorbell rang and kept ringing as though someone were leaning their weight on it. Most of my day up to that point had sucked considerably,* so it was not with enthusiasm that I opened the door. On the doorstep, more wild-haired and about six inches taller than the last time I had seen him, was Tristen. He grabbed me around the neck and started yelling my name; his grandparents were coming up the walk with my grandfather. They are staying through Tuesday, although I will leave before they do. So my cousin's presence has not lessened my stress levels, but certainly has improved my mood; this afternoon we walked around the reservoir and he explained how sometimes he was a mermaid, sometimes a dragon, sometimes a Siamese cat. At dinner, I found a pearl in my fried oyster. I'm not surprised.
Also last night I went with Bob and Anita to see Josef von Sternberg's Underworld (1927) at the Somerville Theatre, with a live score by the Alloy Orchestra** and now I have another film in my catalogue of strange loves. Because I could do so much else in the same amount of time, I try not to watch movies unless I think they're going to be worth it, but I'm still surprised by how good some of them are . . . I suppose there are people who feel this way about reading.
( A great city in the dead of night . . . streets lonely, moon-flooded . . . buildings empty as the cliff-dwellings of a forgotten age— )
* What I had been hoping was a tenacious sunburn turned out to be a contact dermatitis that went systemic; I looked like a pox victim and was sent home from the doctor's with a steroid cream and instructions to buy, before departing for Florida, the strongest possible sunscreen and a hat. This I did not need.
schreibergasse, you shall still have the post I owe you.** One-third of the Alloy Orchestra is Roger Miller, as in Mission of Burma, which I had not known when I saw their card at the Brattle Theatre. Eric and Bob had to enlighten me.
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