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The windows reverberate, the walls have ears
I was woken this morning by a realtor who had mistaken me for someone with whom he had an appointment later that afternoon to show a one-bedroom apartment over a bakery in Sullivan Square. I had to remind him gently that no, I was the person who'd walked in off the street last night and been told all their properties were out of my price range. To his credit, he did not actually make the noises of someone trying to stick their entire fist in their mouth à la Rimmer in Red Dwarf, but the rest of the conversation was very brief. He said he'd keep my contact information just in case anything turned up. I just hope whoever really had that appointment took the place.
On the deaths of people you hadn't realized were still alive,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel said, "There is sometimes this feeling, when you hear of a death like that (and I'm sure the Germans have a compound word for it) of 'My god, I could have still written him! I could have communicated with him!'" The conversation had started with Conrad Bain, but I had just been mentioning Christopher Fry, who I consider my worst case of that particular shock. I was in New York City to hear Waterson:Carthy with nineweaving in the summer of 2005. We had just bought some books at the Strand. I thought he'd been dead since the '70's. I might have written to him if I'd known there was anyone still in East Dean to receive the letter; he gave me a touchstone play, a textblock in my LJ profile that after eight years still doesn't embarrass me, and an array of evocative verse shorthand for emotional situations (I love you, but the world's not changed/I was only suggesting fifty years of me/THIS WILL ALL BE GONE INTO AT THE PROPER TIME). I did write to Diana Wynne Jones in late 2010, when it was clear she would not recover from her cancer; I do not know if she received my letter, but it mattered to me to send one. I still wish I'd thought of writing to Lloyd Alexander, whose death felt like a piece of the landscape dropping out from underneath me as I sat checking my e-mail on a mattress on schreibergasse's floor in New Haven. And then we started wondering who we should write to now, in case an inopportune bus comes out of the scenery tomorrow. The problem with the still alive?! list, though, as Rob pointed out, is you never know who's on it until suddenly they're not.
Most of tonight was spent at Papagãyo on Summer Street with several people I hope to see this weekend at Arisia. Crazily loud, but I may have found a tequila I will voluntarily drink. I think that's a good thing.
On the deaths of people you hadn't realized were still alive,
derspatchel said, "There is sometimes this feeling, when you hear of a death like that (and I'm sure the Germans have a compound word for it) of 'My god, I could have still written him! I could have communicated with him!'" The conversation had started with Conrad Bain, but I had just been mentioning Christopher Fry, who I consider my worst case of that particular shock. I was in New York City to hear Waterson:Carthy with nineweaving in the summer of 2005. We had just bought some books at the Strand. I thought he'd been dead since the '70's. I might have written to him if I'd known there was anyone still in East Dean to receive the letter; he gave me a touchstone play, a textblock in my LJ profile that after eight years still doesn't embarrass me, and an array of evocative verse shorthand for emotional situations (I love you, but the world's not changed/I was only suggesting fifty years of me/THIS WILL ALL BE GONE INTO AT THE PROPER TIME). I did write to Diana Wynne Jones in late 2010, when it was clear she would not recover from her cancer; I do not know if she received my letter, but it mattered to me to send one. I still wish I'd thought of writing to Lloyd Alexander, whose death felt like a piece of the landscape dropping out from underneath me as I sat checking my e-mail on a mattress on schreibergasse's floor in New Haven. And then we started wondering who we should write to now, in case an inopportune bus comes out of the scenery tomorrow. The problem with the still alive?! list, though, as Rob pointed out, is you never know who's on it until suddenly they're not.Most of tonight was spent at Papagãyo on Summer Street with several people I hope to see this weekend at Arisia. Crazily loud, but I may have found a tequila I will voluntarily drink. I think that's a good thing.
re: a tequila you will voluntarily drink
--I could't feel my legs when we left the bar--it felt like I was flying (at very low altitudes) down the street. All from one drink!
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It's cool that there's a tequila you find worth drinking. I've always felt rather turned off by the stuff as well, but I'd be curious to know the name of it, just in case. I hope you indeed will see the folk you hope to see at the weekend at Arisia.
PS: I love that song, but I didn't know June Tabor had recorded it. Will have to track down her version sometime, I suppose.
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Sometimes I use Christmas cards that way: it makes a time to think about remembering, a time to say thank you. We make our own traditions.
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The jury's out on tequila, but I'm not much of a spirits man these days.
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(Well, happened recently, but was set in motion eight years ago.)
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December 30, 2012.
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Wah. Do you have any idea what went into it?
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Ta-da. It's off Aqaba (1988), which also gives you the title song and "The Reaper," "Verdi Cries," "Seven Summers," and "Mayn Rue Plats," all of which I am very fond of.
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I'll definitely think about getting that CD. Something makes me think I once saw it in a Green Linnet catalogue, in which case it might be on Compass now, in which case I'll hold it in mind for the next time Compass have a sale.
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I have spoken to both Jane Yolen and Susan Cooper in person, so at least I do not need to worry about that.
The ones I find really strange to consider are the artists who were alive in my lifetime but I didn't know would be important to me until years after their deaths. Actors more often than writers, for whatever reasons—Hans Conried, I'm looking at you. (I can also look at Peter Cushing if it helps. I've been looking at him a lot lately). I could have written to both Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. I'd have been in elementary school, but I had pen-pals then.
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1985, Louise Brooks!
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How did you come by it? I didn't know most of my authors' addresses except through their publishing houses, growing up.
The jury's out on tequila, but I'm not much of a spirits man these days.
I like whisky a lot. I like weird mixed drinks, mostly the astringent, herbal kind. If it is sticky and has a paper umbrella in it, I'm only staring at it for the comedy value. With any luck, that's the only reason they're serving it.
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Astringent and herbal is fine by me.
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2004 was still well after most people I knew personally had gotten journals—the whole rationale in the first place was because they kept making important life announcements in locked posts and I wouldn't find out until weeks later. Facebook I didn't join until 2011.
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