Though I wither, your work is begun

spatch sent me this tweet from the artist of My Life as a Background Slytherin which basically describes my relationship to the news at the moment. I have nevetheless a couple of items that I like:

DNA analysis of horse sacrifices from Scythian burial mounds proves that in addition to being serious riders, archers, metalworkers and tattoo artists, the Scythians were serious horse breeders. "Many, although not all, of the horses possessed genes associated with racing speed that are found in today's thoroughbreds. The genes also showed a variety of colorings—cream, black, spotted, bay and chestnut." It is notable that the Scythian horses were not at all inbred; somehow despite reading an inordinate amount of Marguerite Henry as a child, I had missed the degree to which modern horses are. I look forward to the follow-up paper on genetic diversity.

DNA analysis of bone and teeth fragments from the disastrous Franklin expedition suggests that some of the crew of HMS Erebus and HMS Terror were genetically female, "which is surprising since the crew was reported as all male." They might still have been, of course, however they were assigned at birth. Or they might not. Either way, I wish I knew those stories. With any luck, someone will work to write them.

So, yeah. Science.

I spent most of the afternoon cleaning the apartment, in which endeavor I was joined by Rob. For one brief shining moment, not everything is covered in cat hair. (Hestia and Autolycus are already doing their best to reassert the status quo.) We got out of the house in the evening, walked to Davis, had dinner at Punjabi Grill, ran errands, walked circuitously home. I ate ice cream. I am thinking of watching a movie. The fact that I am not already collapsed and/or asleep suggests I might be getting better. Fingers crossed!

How much free smoke can you breathe and still be young in the bones?

I have had a wonderful day.

Not very much happened in it. I woke up late. It was beautifully sunny outside and it smelled like late spring, not premature August. I called rushthatspeaks to find out if they wanted to take the baby for a walk and found that they had already had the inspiration; I changed my keys and wallet out of my coat pockets into the one purse I own (I am pretty sure I have had it since high school: it started out moss-green and has bleached and abraded to army green over the years; the string has been broken since something like 2015, but I temporarily repaired it using the twist-tie off a bag of bread, which made me feel like a successful tool-using creature) and got dressed in the lightest shirt I've had occassion to wear all year and stepped out in the beautiful sunlight and met Rush and Fox at the corner of Highland and Crocker. The trees are flowering and uncurling green. Davis Square was full of people who had all clearly had the same idea to emerge blinking from their winter caves and soak up as much sun as possible before the weather did something irresponsible like flash-forward through summer or start snowing again. I had a frustrating interaction regarding my health insurance at the pharmacy, but it does not seem to have left the dominant note on the afternoon; Dave's Fresh Pasta had restocked its supply of switchel since last night. We took the bus back from Davis, in the course of which Fox charmed the woman sitting to my left and later engaged in extensive dialogue with the four- or five-year-old who took her place (along with her mother and a vaguely Fox-aged sibling in a stroller) despite the fact that she spoke both English and Spanish and Fox mostly speaks glossolalia and drool. They held on to the pole like a regular commuter, but we had to dissuade them from starting to chew on it. Rush handed me the first volume of Kore Yamazuki's The Ancient Magus' Bride (2013–) when we got back to their house and I had finished it by the time we got back from picking up gaudior after work; I have made a huge tactical error in not borrowing the second volume while I had the chance, because it has great Faerie, great stealth weird, and reminds me for some reason of Diana Wynne Jones. I was going to nap as soon as I got home because I was yawning all the way in the car, but then Autolycus presented me with such a fluffy belly and such an appealing look that I have in fact just been petting the cat for about an hour now while he purrs and grooms my arm, which is very relaxing for both of us. A mysterious benefactor off the internet sent me a copy of Andrew Moor's Powell and Pressburger: A Cinema of Magic Spaces (2012), which looks wonderful; the author has already observed something about A Canterbury Tale (1944) that I've noticed a lot of reviewers miss, so I feel I can trust him to have seen more or less the same movies I have. spatch just let me know that the lobby-level bathroom of the Somerville Theatre is now gender-neutral. I am tired and should probably take it easy tomorrow, since Rush and I are planning a day trip to New York on Sunday and I don't want to burn out, but I think I am definitely on the mend. There was a gorgeous smoky slate-and-peach sunset over the commuter rail tracks as I walked home, cut across with one white-reflecting line of jet contrail.

I like days like this.