While she took the orange from the autumn sky
I accidentally Stanley Milgram'd someone today.
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spatch and I have a tradition of meeting at the Boston Public Market after my appointments at MGH; I get a bagel with some kind of salmon from the Boston Smoked Fish Co. and he gets something else (shakalatkes this time) and then we walk around somewhere. This afternoon it was the harborwalk in Fort Point, where at a quarter to five the sky and the channel were the same Whistler-blue, the tomb of the seagull kings still floating chalkily off the Summer Street Bridge and the red and green lights of the postal service's loading docks rippling in the water like oil. We crossed the MBTA's Cabot Yard at Traveler Street and watched commuter trains move past in a thicket of gantries and catenaries. There is street art tucked under the roaring concrete of the Southeast Expressway, streetlit enough to make me think it's a park rather than graffiti; the channel itself seems to disappear into a culvert like Millers River, the one real lost river I know. At the derelict joke shop that still sells propane and welding gear, a long-haired black cat blinked at us from its side of the chain-link. But first we walked down Pearl Street and I still have absolutely no idea why there are four glass pyramids set into the sidewalk after the corner of Franklin Street. The building which they abut appears to belong to a fitness company called Equinox, which between its Brutalist concrete and its tracklit glass looks like it's waiting for a Ballard novel; I figured they were skylights for a lower level, although in the late overcast they seemed to be illuminated from within. I peered into one to see what was underneath the glass. I couldn't tell you. I saw four bars of bright white unshielded light and stumbled back with a plaintive cry of "I looked in the trap, Ray!" Three or four young men were passing us at the time; I did not walk into them with my vision full of afterimages, but I did look behind me to make sure. One of the young men was peering into the exact same lit-up glass pyramid and his friends were hanging expectantly around him. I consider this to be a successful reenactment of Milgram's crowd crystal experiment.
I also voted. That makes a much less exciting story except for how democracy is vitally worth participating in and the results—locally and nationally—are way better than the political news I was receiving around this time last year. I got unexpected free hot fudge on my ice cream at Gracie's because I had an "I Voted!" sticker on my coat. I got pandan ice cream because it is the color of dragonfly ripple and delicious and there is not enough pandan anything around here. I had dreams last night that were not nightmares for the first time in months. I hope it would irritate Hitchcock that my unconscious takes the presence of Anthony Perkins as a strictly good sign.
I think this was not a bad day.
By now
spatch and I have a tradition of meeting at the Boston Public Market after my appointments at MGH; I get a bagel with some kind of salmon from the Boston Smoked Fish Co. and he gets something else (shakalatkes this time) and then we walk around somewhere. This afternoon it was the harborwalk in Fort Point, where at a quarter to five the sky and the channel were the same Whistler-blue, the tomb of the seagull kings still floating chalkily off the Summer Street Bridge and the red and green lights of the postal service's loading docks rippling in the water like oil. We crossed the MBTA's Cabot Yard at Traveler Street and watched commuter trains move past in a thicket of gantries and catenaries. There is street art tucked under the roaring concrete of the Southeast Expressway, streetlit enough to make me think it's a park rather than graffiti; the channel itself seems to disappear into a culvert like Millers River, the one real lost river I know. At the derelict joke shop that still sells propane and welding gear, a long-haired black cat blinked at us from its side of the chain-link. But first we walked down Pearl Street and I still have absolutely no idea why there are four glass pyramids set into the sidewalk after the corner of Franklin Street. The building which they abut appears to belong to a fitness company called Equinox, which between its Brutalist concrete and its tracklit glass looks like it's waiting for a Ballard novel; I figured they were skylights for a lower level, although in the late overcast they seemed to be illuminated from within. I peered into one to see what was underneath the glass. I couldn't tell you. I saw four bars of bright white unshielded light and stumbled back with a plaintive cry of "I looked in the trap, Ray!" Three or four young men were passing us at the time; I did not walk into them with my vision full of afterimages, but I did look behind me to make sure. One of the young men was peering into the exact same lit-up glass pyramid and his friends were hanging expectantly around him. I consider this to be a successful reenactment of Milgram's crowd crystal experiment.I also voted. That makes a much less exciting story except for how democracy is vitally worth participating in and the results—locally and nationally—are way better than the political news I was receiving around this time last year. I got unexpected free hot fudge on my ice cream at Gracie's because I had an "I Voted!" sticker on my coat. I got pandan ice cream because it is the color of dragonfly ripple and delicious and there is not enough pandan anything around here. I had dreams last night that were not nightmares for the first time in months. I hope it would irritate Hitchcock that my unconscious takes the presence of Anthony Perkins as a strictly good sign.
I think this was not a bad day.
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I looked up iHalo Krunch (which I have yet to visit – perhaps if I stop by in winter, the lineup won’t be as long) but it appears they don’t have pandan – their green ice cream is matcha. They do have ube ice cream, which looks to be a very pretty shade of purple.
ETA -- I still haven’t read any actual Mary Renault, but yesterday I ended up looking through the fanfic for Return to Night, and concluded that Julian sounds like the sort of character who’d be tolerable if he were played by Perkins. Not sure who’d be a good Hilary for him.
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I would have needed a confederate! Crowd crystal you can do solo.
I looked up iHalo Krunch (which I have yet to visit – perhaps if I stop by in winter, the lineup won’t be as long) but it appears they don’t have pandan – their green ice cream is matcha.
Many people like it as a flavor! It just falls into the category of "ice cream I can't eat or it will give me a headache."
They do have ube ice cream, which looks to be a very pretty shade of purple.
That sounds both attractive and delicious. iHalo Krunch sounds like a pretty neat ice cream shop in general.
ETA -- I still haven’t read any actual Mary Renault, but yesterday I ended up looking through the fanfic for Return to Night, and concluded that Julian sounds like the sort of character who’d be tolerable if he were played by Perkins. Not sure who’d be a good Hilary for him.
Oh, nicely suggested. I've seen Deborah Kerr fancast as a very plausible Hilary; usually this assumes the film was made in the 1950's, whereas the presence of Anthony Perkins means the 1960's and probably the first half of the decade when he was making most of his movies outside of the U.S., but it's not like Kerr wasn't acting then—she's tremendous in Jack Clayton's The Innocents (1961). Perkins of course is not British, but that didn't hamper Phaedra (1962) any. There's just about a decade between them, too.
(Return to Night was the first contemporary Renault I read after The Charioteer; I actually love it. I disagree with its inevitable downer ending, but I disagree with a lot of Renault's endings.)
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There was at least one fic (ETA it's by lilliburlero) in which they were still together twenty years later, Hilary snarky, a bit jealous, but mostly happy; Julian still a bit clueless but adoring, and their son fond of his parents though slightly embarrassed by them, and beginning to wonder why Grandma says the things she does…
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I am pretty sure that is directly contra Renault, but as a textually credible fix-it, I'll take it.
The ending of Return to Night stayed in my head for a long time after a very bad breakup—it got into a related poem a number of years later—but that doesn't mean I have to think of it as aspirational.
Hilary snarky, a bit jealous, but mostly happy; Julian still a bit clueless but adoring, and their son fond of his parents though slightly embarrassed by them, and beginning to wonder why Grandma says the things she does…
Aw. Link?
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oooh...
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The trouble with most green ice cream is that either it's caffeinated or artificially colored and Gracie's pandan avoids both of these problems!