But time will pull us to the floor

Of course, the longer one goes without making a post, the more impossible any kind of catch-up becomes. Have some abbreviations. There may be content someday.

The reading on Saturday was awesome; highlights included cinnamon tea with asakiyume and friends at 1369 Coffee House, unexpectedly introducing my mother to stealthmuffin's parents, the chance to talk with Theodora Goss, and meeting Athena Andreadis in person. I read "ὡς πολλοῖς ὄμμασιν εἰς σὲ βλέπω" (with annotations), "The Gambler," and "Radio Banquo." I have a CD of kenjari's music. My mother wants to read some of the writers I know now.

I have met the black cat and her daughter. They are quasi-feral, though they live with wind05 and Sabitha's landlord; they used to be responsible for a shocking volume of kittens. The black cat circled me as I sat on the steps, staking out my jacket and my fingertips and my knees as hers. Next apartment I get, a cat is the first priority after I unpack my books.

I am not only still enjoying Foyle's War, the second-series episode "War Games" contained more than one tip of the hat to The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943). This sort of thing makes me happy.

I missed International Talk Like a Pirate Day. I feel as though I have failed one of my callings.

Last night I dreamed of a half-shadowed room with cartons of white raspberries—not the peach-colored variants that are sometimes sold as white or golden raspberries, but colorless, sticky and pale as mistletoe—on sanded tables. It was not a disturbing image, though in the dream I knew it should have been. I cannot remember the context at all.

An afternoon at the MFA with Eric, Richard Avedon, and Jean-François Millet is an afternoon well-spent.

Tonight I am watching Tampopo (1985) with eredien and Abe. There will be food.