There are no antelopes in the city of Boston

Tonight ratatosk showed me and several other mostly unsuspecting persons a film called Pony Trouble (2005), which I cannot in any way recommend except as what might be called an experience. It was not the worst film I've ever seen, nor does it seem to have left me with traumatic brain injury, but it says something when a movie's utterly unraveling finale turns out to include vampire-hunting robots and they're not very interesting.

We chased it with The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T. (1953) and everything got better.

Before that, I had dinner with derspatchel at Martsa on Elm. The masala mint soda needs a Sumerian beer straw, but it's delicious and also a pleasingly shocking green; the lamb with pumpkin and cashews does not quite rival the raahra gosht at Tamarind Bay, but that didn't stop us from eating almost all of it. (He quite intelligently bailed before Pony Trouble occurred.)

I am re-reading The Lady's Not for Burning (1949). I will probably re-read whatever other Christopher Fry is not in boxes when I'm done; I have A Sleep of Prisoners (1951), The Boy with a Cart (1938), and Venus Observed (1950) within sight right now. But this one always was important to me.

All right! You've done your worst. You force me to tell you
The disastrous truth. I love you. A misadventure
So intolerable, hell could not do more.
Nothing in the world could touch me
And you have to come and be the damnable
Exception. I was nicely tucked up for the night
Of eternity, and like a restless dream
Of a fool's paradise, you, with a rainbow where
Your face is and an ignis fatuus
Worn like a rose in your girdle, come pursued
By fire, and presto! the bedclothes are on the floor
And I, the tomfool, love you.

I missed the equinox, but the year is getting brighter.