It was not long before we began doing experiments together in Chemistry

[sovay]

Readercon continues apace. So does the rest of my life, which is why I am reading slush.

1. I mean to post this a week ago, but it's been that kind of week: The Moment of Change has been very well reviewed at Weird Fiction Review. I am pleased to be name-checked, but even more pleased with the review as a whole. Rose Lemberg should edit more anthologies.

2. A friend of a college friend of mine has a son in this show: Pink Milk: A Magic Tragedy. I suspect I'd disagree with some of its directions of "loosely based" (Alan did like to watch Christopher play the piano, but they bonded over astronomy, chemistry and maths), but I like the fact of more Turing art out there. I like this image. Anyone in New York City, want to give me a review?

3. All right, I've been convinced to see Hitchcock's The Lodger (1927). I don't suppose I can get it on DVD in this country?

The trackpad on this machine is still broken. I suspect it is back to the Apple store today. Again. Knock it off, computer. You are not a metaphor.

Comments

[strange-selkie.livejournal.com]

I am very glad you got a trackpad.

If I had to guess about the "loosely based," I'd venture it gets loose because most playwrights who get their stuff mounted in NYC aren't at their strongest in astronomy, chemistry, and maths. :) See also the late-night emails full of what the hell does this symbol do? What was that thing about black holes?

Profoundly itchy, and saddened for the passing of Gore Vidal, I nonetheless appreciate the link to the good review. Look at you being all mentioned.

[sovay]

I am very glad you got a trackpad.

I feel like a sociological experiment every time I'm in the Apple store. It's full of people waiting, but there's nowhere to sit, so either they roam the store and look at merchandise or stand around staring at their smartphones or the machines on display, which is I presume the whole idea, although it seems like it would be hard on someone with bad feet. Directed to wait while an employee took my laptop off into the back room, I put down my computer bag, put down my hat, settled myself on a corner of floor near a rack of adaptors nobody was paying much attention to—cross-legged so as not to trip anyone up, still in my corduroy jacket because a mall in summer air-conditions itself into Andean mummy deep freeze—and read the giant anthology of Irish poetry I take with me everywhere when I think I might be waiting for hours. I can't prove what other people are doing with their screens, but I'm the only person with a book. Aside from some children at their low table for baby's first touchscreen, I'm the only person sitting down. Everyone else just sort of mills in a vaguely technological fashion. A cluster of people showed interest in the adaptors and I relocated to a clear spot against a wall of computer cases. Nobody said anything. I find it intensely strange.

most playwrights who get their stuff mounted in NYC aren't at their strongest in astronomy, chemistry, and maths.

. . . razza-frazza not that difficult star globes π iodine and phosphorus don't they know a comet is a beautiful metaphor . . .