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Way out in the water, see it spinning
Out of a lingering sense of holiday charity, I have not yet fired this year, but it's on probation: so far my computer is dead and my grandfather is in the hospital, and while this order is infinitely preferable to the reverse, neither is an ideal situation. Here is therefore a list of nice things that have happened to me since the year turned, because they are useful to keep in mind:
New Year's Day, I went to see Aurélia's Oratorio at the ART with Eric, Anita, and Eddy. We had just seen the Underground Railway Theater's Alice's Adventures Underground a few days before, so we had to promise him that someday we'll take him to a play with traditional characters, a plot Chekhov would recognize, and possibly even an absence of masks and puppets; that day was not Thursday. Bare black stage, black backdrop, the classic red velvet curtains of the proscenium arch visible as the lights come up, but these curtains shift and belly fluidly, they can fold around one another like lovers or be run up like rigging, shipwreck-shaken by acrobatics, so rich in the darkness their color is a character itself. Endless scrims of lacework pile up like winter drifts, black-velvet tricks of disappearance as the actress knits herself into existence again; she emerged in disembodied dishabille from a chest of drawers. She buys ice cream that burns the mouth, from a vendor with a tray of flames; arranges roses upended in a vase, exclaims over her pet mouse and gingerly carries outside the cat it has brought in, hangs out her clothes and waters them. Her head performs, Punch and Judy-like, for an audience of antique puppets, one of whom becomes her stalker. A man is already looking for her, calling, "Aurélia!"—he is himself pursued, by a jealous overcoat that jerks him around like a ragdoll, wrestles him to the floor and has its will of him. Even the space of performance is perversely animate: anything thrown off stage right instantly flies in from stage left. Especially considering that Aurélia Thiérrée's parents invented the tradition, you could call it a one-and-a-half-person Cirque du Soleil. It starts like a dream and ends like one, with the same haunting, sideways logic and images that linger, whether comic or chilling. Our seats were right next to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
farwing and ratatosk; coraline was in the next row down. Maybe we all dream alike.
I discovered on Saturday a package that had come for me the previous day:tithenai had sent me a mix CD entitled Songs to Drown By. It has booklet artwork by Waterhouse and Rackham, CD artwork by Amal, and the only track I already own is Malinky's "Thaney." (There looks to be a variant of "The Twa Sisters" and a cover of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren," but one can never have too many of either—and they are by someone I have never heard of.) That almost salvaged the new year for me right there.
Saturday night, Eddy and I baked a pie (apple, cinnamon and nutmeg, scattered with blueberries and blackberries) and a crumble (out of the remaining berries). He made the piecrust, I saw to the filling and the crumble, Eric reported the results were Nedworthy. I was at Mount Auburn with my grandfather by that time, but I was still pleased.
A New Year's card arrived from my very dear friend who does not have a livejournal. It expressed a desire for the rocks and hard places of my life to disintegrate into well-wishing leprechauns who would offer me cider rum and good fortune in US$. This made me feel surprisingly better.
Today I saw my best cousingaudior, as well as rushthatspeaks and weirdquark, returned from Montreal. We went to the Boston Museum of Science and looked at mythic creatures. They also fed me dried raspberries, which I really think should be eaten with space ice cream, and a papersky-made scone. It was, as they say, best.
It is now Rhysling season. In consequence, while it is now legal to pursue poets with forks and hope, it may be more profitable in the long run to nominate their poems for the 2009 Rhysling Awards, thus leaving them alive and honored enough to write more. My eligible publications can be found here. Myself, I am going to re-read a lot of poems in the next few days.
I have my preliminary schedule for Arisia. I should be able to post it tomorrow.
I think that's it. Now I want my grandfather out of the hospital and all my music and photographs not irretrievably lost, and then maybe this year can keep its job.
New Year's Day, I went to see Aurélia's Oratorio at the ART with Eric, Anita, and Eddy. We had just seen the Underground Railway Theater's Alice's Adventures Underground a few days before, so we had to promise him that someday we'll take him to a play with traditional characters, a plot Chekhov would recognize, and possibly even an absence of masks and puppets; that day was not Thursday. Bare black stage, black backdrop, the classic red velvet curtains of the proscenium arch visible as the lights come up, but these curtains shift and belly fluidly, they can fold around one another like lovers or be run up like rigging, shipwreck-shaken by acrobatics, so rich in the darkness their color is a character itself. Endless scrims of lacework pile up like winter drifts, black-velvet tricks of disappearance as the actress knits herself into existence again; she emerged in disembodied dishabille from a chest of drawers. She buys ice cream that burns the mouth, from a vendor with a tray of flames; arranges roses upended in a vase, exclaims over her pet mouse and gingerly carries outside the cat it has brought in, hangs out her clothes and waters them. Her head performs, Punch and Judy-like, for an audience of antique puppets, one of whom becomes her stalker. A man is already looking for her, calling, "Aurélia!"—he is himself pursued, by a jealous overcoat that jerks him around like a ragdoll, wrestles him to the floor and has its will of him. Even the space of performance is perversely animate: anything thrown off stage right instantly flies in from stage left. Especially considering that Aurélia Thiérrée's parents invented the tradition, you could call it a one-and-a-half-person Cirque du Soleil. It starts like a dream and ends like one, with the same haunting, sideways logic and images that linger, whether comic or chilling. Our seats were right next to
farwing and ratatosk; coraline was in the next row down. Maybe we all dream alike.I discovered on Saturday a package that had come for me the previous day:
tithenai had sent me a mix CD entitled Songs to Drown By. It has booklet artwork by Waterhouse and Rackham, CD artwork by Amal, and the only track I already own is Malinky's "Thaney." (There looks to be a variant of "The Twa Sisters" and a cover of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren," but one can never have too many of either—and they are by someone I have never heard of.) That almost salvaged the new year for me right there.Saturday night, Eddy and I baked a pie (apple, cinnamon and nutmeg, scattered with blueberries and blackberries) and a crumble (out of the remaining berries). He made the piecrust, I saw to the filling and the crumble, Eric reported the results were Nedworthy. I was at Mount Auburn with my grandfather by that time, but I was still pleased.
A New Year's card arrived from my very dear friend who does not have a livejournal. It expressed a desire for the rocks and hard places of my life to disintegrate into well-wishing leprechauns who would offer me cider rum and good fortune in US$. This made me feel surprisingly better.
Today I saw my best cousin
gaudior, as well as rushthatspeaks and weirdquark, returned from Montreal. We went to the Boston Museum of Science and looked at mythic creatures. They also fed me dried raspberries, which I really think should be eaten with space ice cream, and a papersky-made scone. It was, as they say, best.It is now Rhysling season. In consequence, while it is now legal to pursue poets with forks and hope, it may be more profitable in the long run to nominate their poems for the 2009 Rhysling Awards, thus leaving them alive and honored enough to write more. My eligible publications can be found here. Myself, I am going to re-read a lot of poems in the next few days.
I have my preliminary schedule for Arisia. I should be able to post it tomorrow.
I think that's it. Now I want my grandfather out of the hospital and all my music and photographs not irretrievably lost, and then maybe this year can keep its job.
no subject
And I hope your music and photos can be recovered.
I'm glad to hear of the interesting play and the other pleasant things. And *word* to the wishes expressed in your LJ-less friend's card.
I certainly hope nobody pursues you with forks, with or without hope, and I hope that if anyone does there's somebody closer who's able to pursue them with larger and sharper forks, or possibly with stout sticks and cutlasses. If nobody nearer is available, you have only to summon me.
I remember a line something like "pursued him with forks and with hope" from a book in my childhood, and nothing else about it other than a vague sense of Victorian or Edwardian-esque illustrations in pen-and-ink with perhaps some pastel. Was it about a mouse? Or am I conflating two or more books?
no subject
And I hope your music and photos can be recovered.
Thank you. I am hoping for all these things.
I remember a line something like "pursued him with forks and with hope" from a book in my childhood, and nothing else about it other than a vague sense of Victorian or Edwardian-esque illustrations in pen-and-ink with perhaps some pastel.
It's from Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark.
no subject
You're most welcome.
It's from Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark.
*smacks forehead*
Of course! Arrgh, I can't believe I didn't remember that one instantly. Although I still think there was a very similar line in some other book, which is what made me confuse the two. "[blanked] [him/her/it] with [blank]s and with [blank]" is, I suppose, a fairly obvious formula. And, of course, Carroll was both an active satirist and an inspiration to generations of future writers.