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I am the smooth world's double face
1. I think the strangest thing about yesterday was the timing: one moment we were hearing that the lockdown on Watertown and its adjoining cities and towns had been lifted and wondering how the uncertainty of a suspect still at large was going to affect the rest of the weekend, the next the suspect was no longer at large and we were listening to the last fifteen minutes of He Walked by Night (1948). ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel and I had already gone out in the afternoon; as the day wore on with very little in the way of actual news, I realized that if the shelter-in-place recommendation was going to continue through the weekend, I really needed groceries, and besides I was going stir-crazy. Quite a lot of Somerville must have felt the same way, because the number of pedestrians in Davis Square looked about usual to me. There were cars on the streets. Businesses were a coin-toss—it surprised me that Dave's Fresh Pasta was open, but since they had almost all of the foodstuffs that CVS turned out not to stock, I handed them my money and didn't complain. It was a warm day, the kind Rob and I had joked the previous night we were guaranteeing (on the model of the apotropaic umbrella) by walking back to my apartment to retrieve the sweater I hadn't packed when I left for the funeral on Thursday morning. What I did notice, as we were eating dinner at the Boston Burger Co., was that most of the conversations we could overhear were current events, bouncing around like a hall of mirrors. I like to think we managed to discuss some other things, just to make a change. I missed the press conference in the early evening because I was trying to write some Latin. Later, afterward, I bought ice cream from J.P. Licks. I have other thoughts; they mostly pertain to the alien-ness of a lot of human behavior to me. I am glad the Watertown dragnet did not, in fact, end like the Richard Basehart film noir.
2. Today was supposed to involve sleep and decompression. Instead it involved me walking into urgent care because of a crying-level headache that did not break or even ease slightly after two doses of extra-strength Tylenol equivalent, eventually reaching the point where I couldn't listen to street noises, children's voices were acutely painful, and a low-flying plane had me burrowing into Rob's shoulder until it was gone. I'd called around nine o'clock and gotten a noon appointment, but they saw me early because at ten-thirty I walked in and slumped in the waiting room, feeling like some kind of J-horror ghost. Covering doctor ruled out a bunch of scary neurological things and sent me home with painkillers, which are the only reason I slept the couple of hours in the afternoon that I did, exhaustedly, between Rob and an intermittent Abbie the Cat; I may still have to call more doctors on Monday. At least by evening I was functional enough to go out to dinner at the Cambridge Brewing Company with Rob, and then walk rather too far in search of dessert on a Saturday night, but I wouldn't say I feel well right now. Tomorrow had better not contain contractors, emergencies, people being politically stupid, or any more bobcat of any sort, unless we are talking actual bobcats, like, roaming the garden, in which case I'm all for it.
3. I got home and sitting on the living room table was my contributor's copy of Mythic Delirium #28, containing my poem "The Ceremony of Innocence." The title comes from Yeats by way of Benjamin Britten's The Turn of the Screw (1954); it is not quite the dream I had once of Britten setting Kipling's poems, but it started there, thinking of lost children and other echoes. The rest of the issue is a standout: Dominik Parisien, Rachel Manija Brown, Sofia Samatar, Alicia Cole, just to name a few. Get a copy, read the announcement. They are not the first magazine that published me, but the first that published me as a poet.
The Post-Meridian Radio Players are not performing tomorrow at the MIT Museum after all, which saddens me. I just re-read From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler (1967) and E.L. Konigsburg has died. I wish I were writing. I have to see if I can sleep now.
derspatchel and I had already gone out in the afternoon; as the day wore on with very little in the way of actual news, I realized that if the shelter-in-place recommendation was going to continue through the weekend, I really needed groceries, and besides I was going stir-crazy. Quite a lot of Somerville must have felt the same way, because the number of pedestrians in Davis Square looked about usual to me. There were cars on the streets. Businesses were a coin-toss—it surprised me that Dave's Fresh Pasta was open, but since they had almost all of the foodstuffs that CVS turned out not to stock, I handed them my money and didn't complain. It was a warm day, the kind Rob and I had joked the previous night we were guaranteeing (on the model of the apotropaic umbrella) by walking back to my apartment to retrieve the sweater I hadn't packed when I left for the funeral on Thursday morning. What I did notice, as we were eating dinner at the Boston Burger Co., was that most of the conversations we could overhear were current events, bouncing around like a hall of mirrors. I like to think we managed to discuss some other things, just to make a change. I missed the press conference in the early evening because I was trying to write some Latin. Later, afterward, I bought ice cream from J.P. Licks. I have other thoughts; they mostly pertain to the alien-ness of a lot of human behavior to me. I am glad the Watertown dragnet did not, in fact, end like the Richard Basehart film noir.2. Today was supposed to involve sleep and decompression. Instead it involved me walking into urgent care because of a crying-level headache that did not break or even ease slightly after two doses of extra-strength Tylenol equivalent, eventually reaching the point where I couldn't listen to street noises, children's voices were acutely painful, and a low-flying plane had me burrowing into Rob's shoulder until it was gone. I'd called around nine o'clock and gotten a noon appointment, but they saw me early because at ten-thirty I walked in and slumped in the waiting room, feeling like some kind of J-horror ghost. Covering doctor ruled out a bunch of scary neurological things and sent me home with painkillers, which are the only reason I slept the couple of hours in the afternoon that I did, exhaustedly, between Rob and an intermittent Abbie the Cat; I may still have to call more doctors on Monday. At least by evening I was functional enough to go out to dinner at the Cambridge Brewing Company with Rob, and then walk rather too far in search of dessert on a Saturday night, but I wouldn't say I feel well right now. Tomorrow had better not contain contractors, emergencies, people being politically stupid, or any more bobcat of any sort, unless we are talking actual bobcats, like, roaming the garden, in which case I'm all for it.
3. I got home and sitting on the living room table was my contributor's copy of Mythic Delirium #28, containing my poem "The Ceremony of Innocence." The title comes from Yeats by way of Benjamin Britten's The Turn of the Screw (1954); it is not quite the dream I had once of Britten setting Kipling's poems, but it started there, thinking of lost children and other echoes. The rest of the issue is a standout: Dominik Parisien, Rachel Manija Brown, Sofia Samatar, Alicia Cole, just to name a few. Get a copy, read the announcement. They are not the first magazine that published me, but the first that published me as a poet.
The Post-Meridian Radio Players are not performing tomorrow at the MIT Museum after all, which saddens me. I just re-read From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler (1967) and E.L. Konigsburg has died. I wish I were writing. I have to see if I can sleep now.
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(Anonymous) 2013-04-21 06:42 am (UTC)(link)2. Ow. Unfair. May tomorrow bring quiet. I am deeply relieved that this was none of those scary things. Now could someone just banish it?
3. Lovely.
Sad.
Sleep well. Wake unheadached.
Nine
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(Anonymous) 2013-04-21 06:42 am (UTC)(link)2. Ow. Unfair. May tomorrow bring quiet. I am deeply relieved that this was none of those scary things. Now could someone just banish it?
3. Lovely.
Sad.
Sleep well. Wake unheadached.
Nine
no subject
2. Ow. Unfair. May tomorrow bring quiet. I am deeply relieved that this was none of those scary things. Now could someone just banish it?
3. Lovely.
Sad.
Sleep well. Wake unheadached.
Nine
no subject
The headache is not gone, but it is not worse, and I slept eight hours. Also had a dream I feel I should fire for being pointlessly symbolist, but there's not much I can do about that.
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Jennifer, Hecate . . . is the one I want to re-read, because I read it first and very early in elementary school and at the same time as a girl a grade older than me who wanted to use it as a manual for witchcraft, which from an adult perspective feels slightly like missing the point. I remember much less about it than I feel I should. I know I must have read About the B'nai Bagels (1969), because I can remember the cover, but again I'm not coming up with much. This is what libraries are for.
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Congratulations on the contributor's copy. I regret the non-performance at the MIT Museum and the loss of E.L. Konigsburg. I should re-read From the Mixed-Up Files... myself.
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You should. Among other things, it may be the first book in which I found mention of Michelangelo the sculptor.
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I too am sad about Konigsburg, as you may have seen from my blog. It is really too bad that The P-MRP cannot keep their date with the MIT Museum, given the givens. Also, I have been contemplating a re-read of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler through the lens of Don't Eat the Pictures which I believe casts Mrs. Frankweiler in the role of Osiris.
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I made do with Doppel-Abbie, overlooking the pine tree outside my window from his place on my pillows.
I too am sad about Konigsburg, as you may have seen from my blog.
I saw; that was beautifully written. I really need to read Up from Jericho Tel.
It is really too bad that The P-MRP cannot keep their date with the MIT Museum, given the givens.
I am really, really hoping they'll be able to reschedule. It's not in my hands, but it feels like a waste otherwise.
Also, I have been contemplating a re-read of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler through the lens of Don't Eat the Pictures which I believe casts Mrs. Frankweiler in the role of Osiris.
. . . must not watch Sesame Street specials when I have a doctor's appointment in the morning, thank you so much, especially since I can't remember the last time I saw one . . .
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Thank you. I am glad that I am spreading the meme of Up From Jericho Tel to new minds that will appreciate it.
I am really, really hoping they'll be able to reschedule. It's not in my hands, but it feels like a waste otherwise.
Do let me know if the museum date looks like materializing. It seems like a good reason to come up to Boston.
. . . must not watch Sesame Street specials when I have a doctor's appointment in the morning, thank you so much, especially since I can't remember the last time I saw one . . .
I hope all the doctors appointments go well and show conclusively that nothing is badly wrong, but also give you a way to avoid dire headaches in the future. I admit to being worried, and am thus sending Sesame Street in lieu of bobcats, since Doppel-Abbie is admirably filling that role.