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O muriy Rákavay, uvi tuya klava?
I don't know what it expresses about my relationship to musicals or my relationship to housework that as soon as I start vaccuming, I find myself humming "It's a Hard-Knock Life" from Annie, but here we are.
(I just tried turning on the heat for the first time. It is forced air. I have only ever lived with radiators before. I understood it was unlikely that anyone had turned on the heat since last winter, but I had not taken into account that heavy construction was done in this apartment in the first half of September. I tapped the thermostat a half-degree Celsius up. The heat clicked on, the blowers started up, a fountain of paint flakes, sawdust, and other unnameable crud erupted into the air from the depths of the century-old house, I vacuumed. The cats freaked throughout.)
I had a nice birthday. There was a distressing catbox incident just as we were leaving the house that led to Autolycus being briefly known as "Emperor Poopfoot IV of Commodiana," and my treasured box set of pioneering African-American film got rained on, but the latter did not stop me and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel from watching two fascinating short films after dinner—the mini-golfing comedy Hot Biskits (1931) and the evangelist Hell-Bound Train (1930)—and the former purred his way to sleep while curled against my stomach later that night, so it was all right. We had dinner with my family at home, including little tournedos of beef wrapped in bacon and a Queen Mother's cake with whipped cream and sour cherries. Colin and Randi gave me a silver-wire mermaid, who now lives in the glass-fronted cabinet alongside the seventeenth-century onion bottle and an assortment of beachcombed shells; my parents gave me books. I have Le Guin's The Complete Orsinia (2016), W. F. Morris' Bretherton: Khaki or Field Grey? (1929), Anna Lawton and Herbert Eagle's Words in Revolution: Russian Futurist Manifestoes 1912–1928 (2005). I am looking forward to all of them except for the two new Orsinian folksongs which I have already read, immediately, at the dinner table last night. They are in the Orsinian language, which the end notes (which do not provide a translation) confirm works exactly the way I thought it did from the names and place-names, i.e., rather like Romanian. I have been listening to Barney Kessel: Live at the Jazz Mill 1954. My parents watched the debate. That was when we watched Hell-Bound Train.
I slept with cats and husband and managed to wake in time to enjoy lunch withrushthatspeaks, gaudior, and B. before he caught his flight home. I am about to abandon this computer in an attempt to catch The Manchurian Candidate (1962) at the Coolidge. So far, not a bad year at all.
(I just tried turning on the heat for the first time. It is forced air. I have only ever lived with radiators before. I understood it was unlikely that anyone had turned on the heat since last winter, but I had not taken into account that heavy construction was done in this apartment in the first half of September. I tapped the thermostat a half-degree Celsius up. The heat clicked on, the blowers started up, a fountain of paint flakes, sawdust, and other unnameable crud erupted into the air from the depths of the century-old house, I vacuumed. The cats freaked throughout.)
I had a nice birthday. There was a distressing catbox incident just as we were leaving the house that led to Autolycus being briefly known as "Emperor Poopfoot IV of Commodiana," and my treasured box set of pioneering African-American film got rained on, but the latter did not stop me and
derspatchel from watching two fascinating short films after dinner—the mini-golfing comedy Hot Biskits (1931) and the evangelist Hell-Bound Train (1930)—and the former purred his way to sleep while curled against my stomach later that night, so it was all right. We had dinner with my family at home, including little tournedos of beef wrapped in bacon and a Queen Mother's cake with whipped cream and sour cherries. Colin and Randi gave me a silver-wire mermaid, who now lives in the glass-fronted cabinet alongside the seventeenth-century onion bottle and an assortment of beachcombed shells; my parents gave me books. I have Le Guin's The Complete Orsinia (2016), W. F. Morris' Bretherton: Khaki or Field Grey? (1929), Anna Lawton and Herbert Eagle's Words in Revolution: Russian Futurist Manifestoes 1912–1928 (2005). I am looking forward to all of them except for the two new Orsinian folksongs which I have already read, immediately, at the dinner table last night. They are in the Orsinian language, which the end notes (which do not provide a translation) confirm works exactly the way I thought it did from the names and place-names, i.e., rather like Romanian. I have been listening to Barney Kessel: Live at the Jazz Mill 1954. My parents watched the debate. That was when we watched Hell-Bound Train.I slept with cats and husband and managed to wake in time to enjoy lunch with
rushthatspeaks, gaudior, and B. before he caught his flight home. I am about to abandon this computer in an attempt to catch The Manchurian Candidate (1962) at the Coolidge. So far, not a bad year at all.
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Thank you!