Yesterday I couldn't sleep for pain: I finally got out of bed around eight in the morning, when the sky had gone right back to winter with the flooding light of a much later season. Spring is technically the end of this week and it had better mean it, is all I'm saying. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schreibergasse dropped by around noon with hugs and hot cross buns. My father picked me up in the afternoon and took me to the Harvard Art Museums and Burdick's, both of which were profoundly appreciated. I wished I had brought a camera; some of the views from the third floor of the museum were the exact kind of clear-lit brick-and-concrete angles I love. I acquired a collection of Ben Shahn's photography—which I hadn't even known existed; I grew up with one of his posters in my grandparents' house, but I'd thought he was a painter and printmaker only—from the basement of the Harvard Book Store. We made carrot-ginger soup for dinner and derspatchel and I watched the first half-hour of a movie I had waited actual years to see. I hope to finish the rest tonight.
In the night, I dreamed that I was late for a therapist's appointment; I had thought it was in Lexington when it was in Somerville and I was trying to walk back before I missed the whole session, after dark, with no money for bus fare.
Today the mail brought me a package from![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yhlee, containing a potpourri of CDs and a first edition of A.E. Housman's More Poems (1936). (This is for all ill-treated fellows / Unborn and unbegot, / For them to read when they're in trouble / And I am not.) I met Matthew for an hour and a half at Diesel, which has new chalkboards and a new menu. Some small cat was very ill in the night and I'm hoping they don't feel like an encore, especially since Autolycus has staked out my computer bag as his newest sleeping spot. We're making grits and cheese for dinner, because right now I can't chew anything denser than noodles or soup. I am still here.
schreibergasse dropped by around noon with hugs and hot cross buns. My father picked me up in the afternoon and took me to the Harvard Art Museums and Burdick's, both of which were profoundly appreciated. I wished I had brought a camera; some of the views from the third floor of the museum were the exact kind of clear-lit brick-and-concrete angles I love. I acquired a collection of Ben Shahn's photography—which I hadn't even known existed; I grew up with one of his posters in my grandparents' house, but I'd thought he was a painter and printmaker only—from the basement of the Harvard Book Store. We made carrot-ginger soup for dinner and derspatchel and I watched the first half-hour of a movie I had waited actual years to see. I hope to finish the rest tonight.In the night, I dreamed that I was late for a therapist's appointment; I had thought it was in Lexington when it was in Somerville and I was trying to walk back before I missed the whole session, after dark, with no money for bus fare.
Today the mail brought me a package from
yhlee, containing a potpourri of CDs and a first edition of A.E. Housman's More Poems (1936). (This is for all ill-treated fellows / Unborn and unbegot, / For them to read when they're in trouble / And I am not.) I met Matthew for an hour and a half at Diesel, which has new chalkboards and a new menu. Some small cat was very ill in the night and I'm hoping they don't feel like an encore, especially since Autolycus has staked out my computer bag as his newest sleeping spot. We're making grits and cheese for dinner, because right now I can't chew anything denser than noodles or soup. I am still here.
