God is a lusty tire fire

After an array of tests and disruptively early doctor's appointments, the official word on the mysterious pain that knocked most of my week off kilter is an apologetic shrug. The good news is that it does not then look like anything dire. The bad news is that I have no idea what it was (it felt very much like something there was no evidence for, so either I healed faster than expected or it wasn't that) or if it will return. Let's hope not.

Following the advice of rushthatspeaks and gaudior, I tried the Pokéworks in Davis Square for the first time and was rewarded with an absolutely enormous bowl of salmon and two kinds of seaweed over sushi rice with a wasabi aioli dressing and a pile of lotus chips, masago, and further seaweed on top. "More biomass for your buck," spatch pronounced approvingly before acquiring a bowl of his own.

Days late to National Poetry Month, I was very struck by this poem: Terisa Siagatonu, "Moana Means Home: A Contrapuntal."

I agree with all the people who are saying there should be a biopic of Gertrude Jeannette.

Someday when I can afford new books again, I will have to track down Laura Horak's Girls Will Be Boys: Cross-Dressed Women, Lesbians, and American Cinema, 1908–1934 (2016) for obvious research purposes.

This afternoon, as it rains, I think what I am going to do is sleep.