The windows reverberate, the walls have ears

[sovay]

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, 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.

Comments

re: a tequila you will voluntarily drink

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

Wednesday night I had the most potent drink I've ever had: it was a Manhattan, but wakanomori, who also had one (I'd never had one before) said it was like three ordinary Manhattans. Our drinking companion, who is made of sterner stuff than we are, had a second and declared on Thursday that he hadn't been so drunk in years--so Waka felt vindicated in his assessment of the 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!

[ap-aelfwine.livejournal.com]

I'm sorry for your awkward wakeup call.

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.

[selidor]

It's a funny one, those near-misses. I missed writing a thank-you to Kage Baker for providing large parts of my mental furniture; I managed one in time to a scientist whom I'd never met but who worked tirelessly to support early-career women in my field, and which I know she saw. I think the internet has helped a lot with awareness of those who are getting a bit worrisomely quiet.

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.

[fleurdelis28.livejournal.com]

You've been on LJ for EIGHT YEARS?! When the heck did THAT happen?!?!?

[ashlyme.livejournal.com]

I wish I'd written to Ballard while I had the chance; I had his Shepperton address for years. That was a blow to me, his death.

The jury's out on tequila, but I'm not much of a spirits man these days.