Have you read and liked Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere?
Then run don’t walk to read “The Invisible City; or, Dick Mayhew and his Marvellous Cat.”
I don’t remember ever recommending “fan fiction” to anyone. This kept me glued to the screen.
This afternoon the sun was shinin’ like there’s no tomorrow. Barely out of the door on my way to the only open nearby coffee shop, a car pulling out of the neighboring driveway blocked my path so that an elderly couple could get in. I didn’t feel like climbing over the melting snowbanks to both sides of the walk, so stopped and waited. The old lady looked at me with a slightly apprehensive smile and said, “We’re going to delay you for a while here.” I assured her that it was ok, and looked around at all the gleaming-clean houses.
They took their time with the complicated affair of one getting into the front seat, the other in the back, unable to do so simultaneously because of strange car-door geometry. “Merry Christmas,” the car people called out. “And to you,” I said, and meant it. I don’t like Christmas, but I liked the old lady and her partner with their slow ways and their festive sincerity.
I walked to the coffee shop wondering about what Christmas might mean to those people. Davis Square was ghostly-empty and, if not for the cold and the snow and the barren trees, if you only looked at the light and the buildings, felt like deep spring. Everything bathed in light.
Then there was a pumpkin spice latte by the dancing fire in the gas fireplace, and a book. By the time I came outside again an hour and a half later, clouds had moved in and the light was whiter, less expansive.
Then out again in the twilight, and the blue houses stood out among those of all the other colors. There are at least half a dozen blue ones between my place and Davis Square, and they’re all different glorious colors. If the house I live in weren’t a pleasing shade of purple, I’d be jealous of all those blues. As it stands, I get to look at them in the changing light of the sun.
Coming back home, it was dark enough that the strings of tiny lights on our porch were already lit. Whenever I open the front door in the dark, I feel like I’m entering the secret center of some deep-playa Burning Man installation. And speaking of Burning Man, if you haven’t yet, do check out Neil K. Guy’s photos from this year’s event. He is easily one of my two favorite BM photographers, the other being Bucky Sparkle.
Dinner of tiny quiches and raspberry vodka. Conversation with beautiful women. Cats sleeping on me for hours as I do my thinking and writing. The blissed-out quiet of a house large enough to make it seem like we’re all impossibly far away from each other. Aaand an 8:30am interview tomorrow morning. Nothing like job search to bring a girl firmly back onto the ground.
“Scarborough Fair” is an old one! The Fair itself, a huge month-and-a-half-long trade show, originates in the 13th century, and the ballad appears to have its origins in another one from the late 17th. I, of course, am partial to Simon and Garfunkel’s version (link to YouTube video), because it takes me all the way back to 1993, when I moved from New York to sunny southern California (and hated it). S&G’s “The Concert in Central Park” was one of the first CDs I mail-ordered from BMG, an unspeakable luxury back then. That CD came with the bonus of “A Heart in New York,” which I sang to myself whenever I missed Queens. Which was often.
Come to think of it, I also hummed it to myself whenever I flew into New York to visit my brother (or whatnot). Have you flown into New York City in the dark? It’s unbelievably cool.
But this is a recipe post, of course:
-Take a chicken breast. Preferably a locally-grown, awesomely outrageous chicken breast, like the stuff I get from these folks. Defrost if necessary. (Never ever defrost meat in the microwave: potential health problems aside, it just gets an icky texture.) Preheat oven to 400F (200C).
-Put some salt, pepper, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme in a leettle bowl. How much? I dunno. It’s hard to over-herb a chicken breast. Mix.
-Put in a couple spoons of mayonnaise. Again, I don’t know how much: enough to coat the chicken. Mix well with the herbs.
-Slather the mixture all over the chicken. Use your hands. Get some under the skin too, if you like.
-Put chicken in a foil-lined or greased baking dish. Bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the juices run clear when you poke it with a fork. Eat, and tell me you don’t love me. I dare you.
By the way: I’m generally not a white-meat person. The meat CSA share has changed that! The Chestnut Farms chicken – as all their other meats – is amazing, and given that I’m not going to give up meat for environmental reasons anytime soon, it’s just about the most eco-conscious stuff to get. We get to eat meat of animals raised humanely, meat that hasn’t been plied with mysterious ingredients and transported the usual long distances. Support local agriculture, and all that.
If you have a chance to support your local agriculture, meat-raising or not, I encourage you to do so. Chestnut Farms’ minimum monthly share (ten pounds) is way too much for us, so we share it among three households. That way, even though the per-pound cost is high ($7 or a bit less, depending on whether they have thrown in freebies), it doesn’t break the bank to get a 3-4 lbs a month. Paradoxically, this arrangement has encouraged me to eat less meat than I normally would: store-bought stuff just doesn’t compare unless it’s really great and thus even more expensive.
Being able to participate in this meat-share thing has made me very, very happy to be back in Massachusetts: there was nothing like it around Providence, although the fruit-and-veggie farmers’ markets there are pretty good. It’s just one more thing that makes Boston feel like home all over again.
Boy, am I grateful for excellent housemates and a snow blower. Especially since I’m not doing anything with the snowblower, but Eric is. Having gotten home at an ungodly hour from a drum and dance,* I’m in no condition to plow snow. I did, however, redeem myself a bit by making hot chocolate. That and a freshly-baked apricot-ginger-Grand-Marnier muffin == breakfast of the goddess.
Two things I just had to share with you. First up is the environmentally appropriate global warming mug (1 min long):
And secondly, because it’s insanely cool, an almost-six-minute-long evolution video. Nothing like 3D animation to make you feel like an alien on your own planet. It’s set to heavy rock music; you might want to turn your sound down (but not off):
Now I cuddle my cats and drink and read. Add a job into the mix, and I’ll be a happy camper. Keep your fingers crossed for me: I’m waiting to hear on one. Here’s hoping…
*Another drum and dance, yes. In Cambridge this time, lovely lovely, my hands still hurt a little, must get djembe of my own. Although, as I discovered yesterday, a bass drum is great to play too. It’s really too bad that this was the last such event in this long-running series, but it seems that there are plenty of others if I’m willing to drive a bit. And for this, I’ll drive.
I must be the last kid on the block to find Holy Tango of Literature by Francis Heaney, available in its entirety at the linked site. Brilliantly executed, authors’ names anagrammed and used as titles for pieces parodying original works. (For example, the title of this post is a line from “Is a Sperm Like a Whale?” by William Shakespeare.)
Not only is this good reading, it’s a good metaphor for my days, which of late have been spent rearranging the insides of my head and heart for a healthier, happier result. It’s mostly working, all things considered. But (and?) it’s a process far from finished.
OK, so I hadn’t seen much of Oscar Niemeyer‘s stuff until today, but just check out his work in Brasília, Brazil’s capital city!
The man turns 100 today, and is still working – in BBC’s words, “sculpting curves from [steel-reinforced] concrete.” Damn.
ETA: BBC has a 30-minute radio piece on him here. The first minute or so is about something else, but don’t despair.
Friday afternoon I left town just a bit too late, too close to Friday traffic going out of the city along the Pike. That and the slush coming down from the sky made the trip to Inspirit Common in Hadley a two-and-a-half-hour one; good thing that just before leaving I had downloaded some talks by Ajahn Brahm (thanks for the suggestion, Rob, what I’ve heard so far is good).
Together with Emily and Bucky (the friends who own and run the above-linked mind-body-spirit center) and their six-month-old son Kadin, I went to a drum-and-dance event. And for the first time ever I played a djembe in a drum circle, for half an hour or so. It’s a rush! I came in with this tightness in the middle of my chest, which almost worked itself out in the course of trancy dancing to the drums, but it was still there afterwards. Sat down to make rhythms, next thing I know there’s a lightness where the bad used to be. Later on in the evening Bucky said, “It opens up the heart, doesn’t it?” That’s exactly what drumming did for me. I will buy a djembe before I buy an iPhone, and that’s saying a lot.
Driving home late at night, I took the long way along Route 9. On and on and on through endless trees and industrial towns and mist. The road looked like it belonged in Neil Gaiman’s stories.
Went to the Peabody Essex Museum today. If you are in the Boston area and have a chance to visit Salem, I highly recommend the Yin Yu Tang exhibit, centered around a 200-year-old Chinese house taken apart brick by brick, transported over to the States and meticulously put back together. Watch the movies, too; just be prepared for the extreme misogyny of two centuries’ worth of a rural Chinese family. It was fascinating and alien, and somehow strangely familiar in some of its Communist elements.
Then we sat and read in a coffee shop, not far from a man with not one but two four-squares-to-a-row Rubik’s cubes and diagrammatic notes in a notebook. And then we came outside, and it’s dark and it’s snowing and everything’s white. The same streetlight-lit white of the evening sled rides of my childhood’s winters, with mom or dad or brother pulling the aluminum sled and laughing, and laughing.
I’d like to purchase a few dozen blank wooden pieces. Ideally, they’d be rectangular pieces with rounded edges, maybe an inch on the long side and .5-.75 inch on the short side.
There are plenty of places to get wooden nickels, but I don’t want them round. A local crafts-supplies store has sticks that can be cut into pieces, but I’d rather not to that myself.
Anyone reading this have any idea where I might find what I’m looking for?
MIT student arrested for wearing art that lights up from a 9-volt battery.
Truly appalling is this, by Major Scott Pare of the Massachusetts State Police:
“Thankfully because she followed our instructions, she ended up in our cell instead of a morgue.”
Beg pardon? Because she followed your instructions she didn’t end up dead for wearing a shirt with lights on it? Thank you, officer. That’s awful kind of you.
[Edit: Oh, it's worse than that apparently. Nick points to the AP release, which has Pare saying this:
Simpson was "extremely lucky she followed the instructions or deadly force would have been used," Pare said. "She's lucky to be in a cell as opposed to the morgue."
Lucky! She should thank her lucky stars.]
Boston has learned nothing from the LED-art scare of a few months past – that one, by the way, ended anti-climactically, with the press forgetting all about it, and the two young men in question doing community service in return for having bogus charges against them dropped.
I hate scare-mongering. And I’m inexplicably terrified of what happens if my husband ever wears a particular present I gave him in the wrong place. (Going back to the Star Simpson incident, the argument that she should’ve known better, wearing something like this to an airport, holds no water. She should not be held responsible for the overreaction of others: first let’s talk about how much damage any device powered by nine volts is capable of making.)
Hat-tip to Dr. Memory.
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