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I ain't afraid to be a fool to be your lover
I walked into Harvard Square tonight to buy some household sundries and ideally a dessert. I didn't see any meteors in the luminous blue sky, but I wish I knew if the bright reddish object above the trees on my right as I passed the Common was Antares or Arcturus or Mars or what. My astronomy has gone all to hell and even that makes it sound better than it is. I could rule out "airplane," but that was about it.
I left a book at Raven that I will almost certainly go back for: Thomas Doherty's Pre-Code Hollywood: Sex, Immortality, and Insurrection in American Cinema, 1930–1934 (1999). Other books on the shelf by the same author included Projections of War: Hollywood, American Culture, and World War II (1993) and Hollywood and Hitler, 1933–1939 (2013). He's a professor at Brandeis. He was teaching there when I was an undergraduate. If only I had known then that in about ten years I would really care about his field! I can't beat myself up too badly: I was just starting to care about movies then and I can't imagine when I would have found the time to take any more classes, considering that I was already auditing things like twentieth-century Russian poetry, having maxed out on actual credits. But it would have been neat.
If all the poems in it are like "The War Photographers" and "Mrs G. Watters," I may need Frank Ormsby's latest collection. It's just a bonus that it's called Goat's Milk (2015).
I really don't need the new fiftieth anniversary edition of Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, especially when I already own three different editions and one of them is the previous Pevear-Volokhonsky translation, I just really love the cover art. It's by Christopher Conn Askew; it wraps around and the back shows Woland and his retinue setting off through the unsuspecting streets of Moscow, recognizable even in miniature and from behind. He does a great Korovyev, Behemoth, and Azazello. I was even wearing the right T-shirt.
I have one black cat in my window and another in my lap. My father encourages them to talk to him every time he sees them—"I know you're holding out on me!" I will hold him responsible if, like Behemoth, they take up vodka and target practice.
I left a book at Raven that I will almost certainly go back for: Thomas Doherty's Pre-Code Hollywood: Sex, Immortality, and Insurrection in American Cinema, 1930–1934 (1999). Other books on the shelf by the same author included Projections of War: Hollywood, American Culture, and World War II (1993) and Hollywood and Hitler, 1933–1939 (2013). He's a professor at Brandeis. He was teaching there when I was an undergraduate. If only I had known then that in about ten years I would really care about his field! I can't beat myself up too badly: I was just starting to care about movies then and I can't imagine when I would have found the time to take any more classes, considering that I was already auditing things like twentieth-century Russian poetry, having maxed out on actual credits. But it would have been neat.
If all the poems in it are like "The War Photographers" and "Mrs G. Watters," I may need Frank Ormsby's latest collection. It's just a bonus that it's called Goat's Milk (2015).
I really don't need the new fiftieth anniversary edition of Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, especially when I already own three different editions and one of them is the previous Pevear-Volokhonsky translation, I just really love the cover art. It's by Christopher Conn Askew; it wraps around and the back shows Woland and his retinue setting off through the unsuspecting streets of Moscow, recognizable even in miniature and from behind. He does a great Korovyev, Behemoth, and Azazello. I was even wearing the right T-shirt.
I have one black cat in my window and another in my lap. My father encourages them to talk to him every time he sees them—"I know you're holding out on me!" I will hold him responsible if, like Behemoth, they take up vodka and target practice.
no subject
With a pickled mushroom on a stick.