They're made of what I was before I had to break it down

I am under actual doctor's orders to take time for myself, so that's my plan for the rest of this weekend: it's my first chance in weeks. The weather seems to be seesawing on whether it's going to snow tomorrow or just fall back on freezing rain, but I am still thinking that I will walk to a used book store. Monday, I intend to tour Boston's bridges. Have some links in the meantime.

1. I have been informed by selkie that I am plentifully available on Kindle. I don't have an e-reader, so I never think to look. I recommend everything I'm in. If you buy my (about to be no longer most recent) collection, I even get royalties.

2. I am not at all surprised to hear that Heurtebise, Death's chauffeur, had been in Cocteau's head for years before he found his way into Orphée (1950). He was my favorite character from the first time I saw that film. I am older now than his actor, whose face has always been more beautiful to me than either his mistress' or the poet's. I suspect him of getting into both of these poems.

3. I am not surprised to hear about the rediscovery of Coleridge's coffin, either, and I'm glad the Guardian didn't think anyone would be.

4. I forgot to mention that Sarah Monette's "The Testimony of Dragon's Teeth" in the latest issue of Uncanny Magazine is a new Kyle Murchison Booth story. He is one of my favorite fictional characters currently being written and I look forward to the day there are enough stories not already collected in The Bone Key (2007/2011) to make a new volume.

5. Kathryn Millard's Experiment 20 (2018) makes a neat chaser to Michael Almereyda's Experimenter: The Stanley Milgram Story (2015): a 14-minute recreation of the experiences of three female participants in Stanley Milgram's experiment on obedience to authority figures, their reactions and eventually resistance to the experimenter's instructions recorded in 1962 as part of the late, disproportionately small inclusion of women in the experiment. The dialogue is history; the interpretation is noir-lit black box theater. The women are identified only by their professions, their places of birth, and their case numbers—2006, 2019, and 2036—but they are distinct people, reluctant or jumpy or resolute, cautiously pushing back, unease flashing over to anger. One even resists the debrief afterward, refusing to rate herself on a scale of nerves and tension: "I got mad more than nervous . . . I got good and mad. I can write down 'Good and mad'!" The experimenter too is nameless, a disarmingly awkward young man taking notes in his shirtsleeves, his insistence as apologetic as if he himself has been tasked with carrying out some unpleasant but unavoidable orders. (The actor reminded me of Anthony Perkins, which is not a pejorative by me, but I suspect suggests what the director thought of Stanley Milgram. Sasha is thanked in the credits, however.) I am not sure the film is doing much more than highlighting the underrepresented presence of women in the obedience experiment and reminding the audience that not all participants blindly flipped the switches and pressed the red button until they believed the man on the other side of the glass had been shocked into silence, but for that alone it's valuable. My bias here is that I once wrote Milgram a ghost poem. I do not think Experiment 20 is a disservice.

P.S. Hans Conried was born a hundred and one years ago today. What a weird thing to be able to say. In his honor, please enjoy my favorite partly hypnotized threesome song: "Get Together Weather" from The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T (1953).

P.P.S. And that reminds me that I fully intended to write something for Leslie Howard's hundred-and-twenty-fifth birthday, but that was last Tuesday: nope. Here he is in one of my favorite modes, the skeptical note-taker, trying to figure out how to be human from the outside in. He got it right most of the time.

P.P.P.S. I can't leave my computer; there is a cat asleep on my lap.

Lusty letters all leatherbound

There was both rain and snow as I walked to and around Harvard Square with no hat and an umbrella that kept trying to blow inside out, but it was so good to be outside and moving around without a schedule, I did not care. I had gloves.

Between now and Friday when I last saw it, someone bought the NYRB edition of Gert Ledig's The Stalin Front (Die Stalinorgel, 1955) that I had been dropping in on for weeks at Raven Used Books and each time leaving on the shelf because I could not justify buying it for myself; I had concluded I was the only person in the greater Cambridge-Somerville environs interested in a German novel about the Eastern Front of World War II, but in keeping with the laws of irony, no. Fortunately, I found very nice paperbacks of Nelson Algren's The Man with the Golden Arm (1949), which I have never read, and Millen Brand's The Outward Room (1937), which I had never heard of, and now that I know that the NYRB has also reprinted Mezz Mezzrow's memoir Really the Blues (1946) I can keep an eye out for it.

I could not afford the green suede flat cap I found at Goorin Bros.; I just took it off several times and told myself firmly it would clash with my green corduroy coat in season. I could afford a brown butter snickerdoodle and a rooibos chai from Crema Café and enjoyed them at one end of a bench by myself, reading the first chapters of The Outward Room. It's a novel like an Edward Hopper painting: a young woman who thinks of herself as dead runs away from the mental hospital where she has been living for years with depression and maybe some other things (the Freudian-speak of the time makes it hard to tell), makes up a name for herself, pawns the ring which is the one remaining token of her much-loved, definitely dead brother, and begins a life in Depression-era New York City, which she does not recognize as such, but it is. It is not inspirational, nor does it lean too hard on its metaphors, although they are resonant with me and so it could probably fall asleep on them for all I cared; the narrative cares very much for its protagonist and does not sentimentalize her. At the point where I put the book down, she has just ridden a subway all night, half-asleep and homeless, in one long gorgeous paragraph full of rushing and rocking and advertisements and strangers and glares of light and speeding, swaying dark. The other thing it's like is my favorite line from Outrageous! (1977): "You're not dead. You're alive and sick and living in New York like eight million other people." It will really have to fall apart in the second half for me not to love it. I have no idea if I will love The Man with the Golden Arm, but it was on my mind from planning to watch the movie and the language of the first few pages was good.

spatch thinks the college-aged kids I heard discussing their favorite accents as I came up Plympton from Bow Street might have been acting students; I just heard one of them say grudgingly, "A soft Irish accent is all right" before declaring her preference for French accents, although one of her friends strongly wanted an Italian accent if she could choose. They sounded all vaguely Northeastern American to me. I have no knack for accents myself and desperately wanted to be able to walk past them saying something Irish. I went into the Harvard Book Store instead. Which was great, because while I had not planned to walk out of there with anything, I found a beat-up and thoroughly worth it trade paperback of Chester Himes' Yesterday Will Make You Cry (1998), otherwise known as the original, partly autobiographical version of his third, censored novel Cast the First Stone (1952). I am maybe a quarter of the way in and already I can see that, on top of the general racist fuckery which Melvin Van Peebles details in his excellent introduction, the publishing industry in the early '50's might not have been very friendly to a prison novel which deals so non-judgmentally with queer relationships, including on the part of the protagonist. I am finding it refreshing and rather sweet and glad it has been recovered.

Getting home on public transit was much more piecemeal on account of the MBTA and Sundays, but I walked home from the top of School Street in a grey-violet dusk; I wanted a camera for the subdued rain-wet glow of the bricks on either side of Medford Street and the orange and teal graffiti in the windows of the ex-warehouse until I reached the split with Pearl Street and realized the whole slope above the train tracks has been deforested. There was a bright yellow backhoe sitting up there among the splinters, like a Tonka truck left out in the rain. I am sure it has something to do with the Green Line Extension, but I like trees. I was just appreciating these ones last month. Now there's the back of the high school and a rather industrial chimney stack. The streetlight where the signs change flicked on like a punctuation and I kept walking; I came home and made omelets for dinner with Rob and vanilla pudding with goat's milk for dessert and now I am listening to the rain slap itself against the windows. I will need to remember a hat for the bridges tomorrow.

I think my best plan for the remainder of the evening is either watching a movie or curling up with a book. A cat no matter what.