Nothing short of a miracle
Yesterday I couldn't sleep for pain: I finally got out of bed around eight in the morning, when the sky had gone right back to winter with the flooding light of a much later season. Spring is technically the end of this week and it had better mean it, is all I'm saying. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schreibergasse dropped by around noon with hugs and hot cross buns. My father picked me up in the afternoon and took me to the Harvard Art Museums and Burdick's, both of which were profoundly appreciated. I wished I had brought a camera; some of the views from the third floor of the museum were the exact kind of clear-lit brick-and-concrete angles I love. I acquired a collection of Ben Shahn's photography—which I hadn't even known existed; I grew up with one of his posters in my grandparents' house, but I'd thought he was a painter and printmaker only—from the basement of the Harvard Book Store. We made carrot-ginger soup for dinner and derspatchel and I watched the first half-hour of a movie I had waited actual years to see. I hope to finish the rest tonight.
In the night, I dreamed that I was late for a therapist's appointment; I had thought it was in Lexington when it was in Somerville and I was trying to walk back before I missed the whole session, after dark, with no money for bus fare.
Today the mail brought me a package from![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yhlee, containing a potpourri of CDs and a first edition of A.E. Housman's More Poems (1936). (This is for all ill-treated fellows / Unborn and unbegot, / For them to read when they're in trouble / And I am not.) I met Matthew for an hour and a half at Diesel, which has new chalkboards and a new menu. Some small cat was very ill in the night and I'm hoping they don't feel like an encore, especially since Autolycus has staked out my computer bag as his newest sleeping spot. We're making grits and cheese for dinner, because right now I can't chew anything denser than noodles or soup. I am still here.
schreibergasse dropped by around noon with hugs and hot cross buns. My father picked me up in the afternoon and took me to the Harvard Art Museums and Burdick's, both of which were profoundly appreciated. I wished I had brought a camera; some of the views from the third floor of the museum were the exact kind of clear-lit brick-and-concrete angles I love. I acquired a collection of Ben Shahn's photography—which I hadn't even known existed; I grew up with one of his posters in my grandparents' house, but I'd thought he was a painter and printmaker only—from the basement of the Harvard Book Store. We made carrot-ginger soup for dinner and derspatchel and I watched the first half-hour of a movie I had waited actual years to see. I hope to finish the rest tonight.In the night, I dreamed that I was late for a therapist's appointment; I had thought it was in Lexington when it was in Somerville and I was trying to walk back before I missed the whole session, after dark, with no money for bus fare.
Today the mail brought me a package from
yhlee, containing a potpourri of CDs and a first edition of A.E. Housman's More Poems (1936). (This is for all ill-treated fellows / Unborn and unbegot, / For them to read when they're in trouble / And I am not.) I met Matthew for an hour and a half at Diesel, which has new chalkboards and a new menu. Some small cat was very ill in the night and I'm hoping they don't feel like an encore, especially since Autolycus has staked out my computer bag as his newest sleeping spot. We're making grits and cheese for dinner, because right now I can't chew anything denser than noodles or soup. I am still here.
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*gives you a broom for chasing away your anxiety dreams*
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Oh, neat. I've never seen those. We had this poster—it hung in my grandparents' dining room and now hangs in my parents' kitchen—and an oversized book of his drawings and lithographs, which I think now must have been the exhibit book for a museum. I don't think I've ever seen any of his murals in person. He occupies some of the same space as Chagall in my head and I'm not sure if this is artistically supported.
*gives you a broom for chasing away your anxiety dreams*
Very much appreciated. I'll let you know.
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It would be hard for me to say personally, because Chagall is embedded in my consciousness in ways that probably defy conventional logic. We had two works hanging in my house, and a giant coffee table book, plus, my paternal grandmother did needlepoints of at least 10 of the 12 Chagall windows that are in Hadassah hospital, one of which I inherited (the tribe of Benjamin). While she was embarked on this project, two of the kits became unavailable. At some point I'm going to poll my relatives and find out which of the needlepoint windows they have, and see if I can figure out which two are missing. I've discovered that these days you can have just about any work of art printed as a needlepoint canvas, and the idea of finishing the set appeals to me as an odd sort of memorial for my grandmother.
It would seem my parents have fairly obscure taste in Chagall paintings. I can't find either of them online. One is a very orange portrait of a woman and her child travelling through a forest on a donkey, and the other has a descending bird figure hurtling towards a donkey. Apparently my parents like Chagall's donkeys, which are indeed diverse.