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And leave some gin beside the bed for breakfast in the morning
The first thing of any substance I did this morning was bake an eggnog spiced rum cake. The rest of the day then involved making a CD of songs about impressment into the Royal Navy and annotating them for my father, looking at African and Oceanic art and prints by Albrecht Dürer at the MFA, and watching Eight Men Out (1988), which last caused me to spend about an hour reading about the Black Sox Scandal and being surprised my copy of W.P. Kinsella's Shoeless Joe (1982) is not in a box somewhere. Clearly I should start more days with spontaneous baking.
In my ongoing, probably doomed quest to post about things I've actually promised to: there may not be much to say about the Macbeth reading that took place two days after Christmas, except that it was a great deal of fun and we lost four people from the planned cast the day before, prompting last-minute reshuffling and Eric's remark that it seemed very unfair that a living-room line-reading of the Scottish Play should be just as cursed as a full-scale theatrical production. Nonetheless, it was good. I hadn't read a play aloud with people since my friend group at Yale did Much Ado About Nothing in 2005, and before that since a friend of mine who no longer keeps a livejournal shared all the parts in The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus with me at Brandeis in 1999. Further discussion in comments, I suppose, if anyone's interested, but I am proud of the fact that having been given the role of Hecate, the witches' goddess who has two songs, I interpolated "O Death" in place of "Come away, come away," since the setting by Robert Johnson1 was not going to work without at least a lute, and it was judged a suitably uncanny effect.
As a kind of belated holiday present, my father made me a small thing out of clay, celadon-glazed. He kept referring to it as a sea creature, some species of bottom-dweller; it seems to have started life as a fantasia on a trilobite and mutated from there. I think it's a sea-hedgehog. It has quills and tube feet. I'll try for pictures tomorrow.
1. The seventeenth-century lutenist, not the bluesman who met at a crossroads with the Devil; although I'm now thinking I should commit "John Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore" on them, because that would be awesome.
In my ongoing, probably doomed quest to post about things I've actually promised to: there may not be much to say about the Macbeth reading that took place two days after Christmas, except that it was a great deal of fun and we lost four people from the planned cast the day before, prompting last-minute reshuffling and Eric's remark that it seemed very unfair that a living-room line-reading of the Scottish Play should be just as cursed as a full-scale theatrical production. Nonetheless, it was good. I hadn't read a play aloud with people since my friend group at Yale did Much Ado About Nothing in 2005, and before that since a friend of mine who no longer keeps a livejournal shared all the parts in The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus with me at Brandeis in 1999. Further discussion in comments, I suppose, if anyone's interested, but I am proud of the fact that having been given the role of Hecate, the witches' goddess who has two songs, I interpolated "O Death" in place of "Come away, come away," since the setting by Robert Johnson1 was not going to work without at least a lute, and it was judged a suitably uncanny effect.
As a kind of belated holiday present, my father made me a small thing out of clay, celadon-glazed. He kept referring to it as a sea creature, some species of bottom-dweller; it seems to have started life as a fantasia on a trilobite and mutated from there. I think it's a sea-hedgehog. It has quills and tube feet. I'll try for pictures tomorrow.
1. The seventeenth-century lutenist, not the bluesman who met at a crossroads with the Devil; although I'm now thinking I should commit "John Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore" on them, because that would be awesome.