The river, where she sleeps

And probably because I spent yesterday at a parade, I fell over before one in the morning and slept for something like nine hours. I remember dreaming, about classes I never took. (Even in my dreams there were improbable connections between people I didn't think knew one another.) Waiting in my e-mail when I woke up was a contributor's copy of The Cascadia Subduction Zone, containing my poem "Ortygia to Trimountaine." It is about Boston landmarks and the nymph Arethousa; it was sparked by a late-night exchange with asakiyume and I hold derspatchel accountable as presiding muse. They're a new market for me. Print and electronic editions can be ordered here; all issues become freely available online six months after publication, meaning that you can now (if you didn't when I yelled about them in April) read Amal El-Mohtar's astonishing review of A Mayse-Bikhl and Rachel Swirsky's of The Moment of Change. It's a beautifully put together magazine. There may be more content here later, but right now you just get an eighteenth-century lion.

You won't shoot your own brother, Carla

Tonight was an inadvertent Fritz Lang two-fer: I went to see Ministry of Fear (1944) at the Brattle and then I came home and Fury (1936) was playing on TCM. I'd always thought of a sharp break between his earlier Expressionist work and his American films, but I had no idea what I was talking about. Blackout in London (as Powell and Pressburger proved four years earlier) is a beautiful playground for all sorts of strange light and shadow. Lang was a year out of Nazi Germany when he filmed small-town togetherness as a lynch mob, mothers lifting their children on their shoulders to watch a man burning to death behind bars. I knew I wanted to see You and Me (1938), but I might as well stick the whole catalogue on the list now.

I am ignoring Tiny Richardson (except for when he revs his bike threateningly at T. Witt.) and posting some of the photos from yesterday's parade. All by nineweaving unless otherwise credited.

( I've been incognito and lying low. )

Eagle-eyed readers may remember the flat cap from the last round of picspam. It's been in regular rotation ever since. The suit was the first one my father ever bought; the shirt is the one decent white shirt I still own, but I abstracted it from one of my parents years ago. I'd still like to have been wearing suspenders, but as it was I didn't have to buy a single article of clothing in order to dress like I worked in radio in 1938—or at least a lot closer to 1938 than now—and I'm actually rather proud of this.

Still want a pocket watch, though.