We celebrated family Christmas on Boxing Day, where many waffles were eaten with strawberries and maple syrup and my niece seemed to like the jigsaw puzzle of slow-moving tree-dwellers (potto! binturong! tamandua!) that ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and I got her. And then we were all razed by the post-Christmas hell-cold and I only am escaped alone to tell thee how much I enjoyed Stephanie Burgis' The Princess Who Flew with Dragons (2019) and William Attaway's Blood on the Forge (1941), which I read last night while trying to breathe on the couch. I ran a low-grade fever and dreamed that strangers came into our apartment and photographed us and reported us to some federal agency; at least when I woke Rob told me that the property manager's husband and another handyman had been crashing around the second-floor landing and the stairwell, they had just come for the third floor. We ran errands to the post office and the library and the nearest grocery and are otherwise endeavoring to move as little as possible. My ears hurt. Have some very disparate links.
1. I did not realize until I read Jerry Herman's obituary that he had been HIV+ since 1985. In that light I consider it more impressive that he died at the age of eighty-eight, but the fact remains there are a lot more people I would rather read had died for the day after Christmas. [edit] Sue Lyon was not one of them.
2. I don't want a skyscraper on top of South Station: I want a public transit system that works. See also Rob's point about the extreme Boston nature of Sullivan Square.
3. On a specter I knew little about, despite having glanced through the edge of it in Lone Scherfig's An Education (2009): Caryl Phillips, "The Real Meaning of 'Rachmanism'."
4. I had never read this oft-quoted, still relevant essay before: Tim Kreider, "I Know What You Think of Me."
5. I would love a book of the etchings of Martin Lewis.
spatch and I got her. And then we were all razed by the post-Christmas hell-cold and I only am escaped alone to tell thee how much I enjoyed Stephanie Burgis' The Princess Who Flew with Dragons (2019) and William Attaway's Blood on the Forge (1941), which I read last night while trying to breathe on the couch. I ran a low-grade fever and dreamed that strangers came into our apartment and photographed us and reported us to some federal agency; at least when I woke Rob told me that the property manager's husband and another handyman had been crashing around the second-floor landing and the stairwell, they had just come for the third floor. We ran errands to the post office and the library and the nearest grocery and are otherwise endeavoring to move as little as possible. My ears hurt. Have some very disparate links.1. I did not realize until I read Jerry Herman's obituary that he had been HIV+ since 1985. In that light I consider it more impressive that he died at the age of eighty-eight, but the fact remains there are a lot more people I would rather read had died for the day after Christmas. [edit] Sue Lyon was not one of them.
2. I don't want a skyscraper on top of South Station: I want a public transit system that works. See also Rob's point about the extreme Boston nature of Sullivan Square.
3. On a specter I knew little about, despite having glanced through the edge of it in Lone Scherfig's An Education (2009): Caryl Phillips, "The Real Meaning of 'Rachmanism'."
4. I had never read this oft-quoted, still relevant essay before: Tim Kreider, "I Know What You Think of Me."
5. I would love a book of the etchings of Martin Lewis.
