My place is a disaster, as I rearrange things and put other things in their place and throw out or give away what I don’t use. When I’m done with this project (probably sometime in October), I’ll have less Stuff and it will be glorious. Meanwhile, hopefully the apt. will at least look respectable by the end of today.
Here’s an odd etymological moment. Walking away from my office the other day, shaking my head at the thought – I’m ABD; actually within reach of finishing. This doesn’t happen to people like me. – I wondered, to whom does it happen? The word that came to mind, the adjective to describe a kind of person who is not me, who belongs in my place, is solidnyi. In Russian, this denotes a person grounded, weighted down with a respectable baggage of knowledge like with sandbags, someone not bloody likely to be blown away by the slightest wind, someone… solid.
Oh. There’s a linguistic connection out of nowhere. Thank you, brain.
Yesterday was full of green and yellow and blue, all the calmer primary colors.1 Perhaps it’s my insides’ continued refusal to concern my self with the war not mine that kept red at bay. Perhaps it’s the leisurely morning, waking up for half an hour, finally stretching into the quiet at 7; long drive to Somerville’s reward of linguiça for breakfast in a place with green and turquoise walls, in the company of two kind sporty spice, whose faces sparkle and glow even when they’re slow and sleepy. Or, then, sitting outside at JB’s, talking family trees and Ukrainian ancestry, wondering if our great-greats might have met. Or Davis Square’s warm metal benches, Russell Hoban causing heat around the eyes as novemberish London sweeps and twists me in, down to the Thames where Orpheus’ floating head sings soundlessly, signs half-undeciphered, echoed decidedly in Herman Orff’s [post]modern life, myth creeping in and out of familiar geography with words so different from Gaiman’s, floating in a – sea? no, a stream, a chattering brook of human hands and smiles and ice cream cones carrying me as white noise does, taking care not to disturb, and I share the sunny day with them but remain entranced by Hoban’s words in a way I haven’t been since Harry Mathews…
Having walked and walked and walked with John, who seems to enjoy Boston as much as his New York, having chimed the chimes in the MIT subway station, gone down to the river to see the sailboats, walked through MIT through Indian grocery with samosa snack and too-sweet lassi to Harvard Square, having chattered and laughed and taken photographs, I reluctantly take my leave of him and other MUDfriends, heading towards Davis and my car uncharacteristically early, in an attempt to feed recent homebody tendencies and the desire to have a consistent sleep schedule, because something, dollop of conversation perhaps, reminds me of early to bed, early to rise and I want my four walls, I want to avoid driving sleepy, I want to be leisurely and not tortured about the over-hour-long drive back. On the way back, remembering the three new used CDs I’ve scored for free by bringing in a large stack of mine, in goes DJ Spooky’s Optometry, and how did this escape me before? – it’s jazz! wasn’t the sticker enough of a clue, the cornered announcement of a special guest appearance by Billy Martin? I’m stuck in traffic going through Boston, but nothing matters, it’s jazzy and trancy and smoothly then hip-hoppy, and the sunset’s subtly purple – ah, there’s that red, but smoothed out, calmed, lulled by the blue in it; sky turns darker darker dark, and headlights flash back to the trance of driving cross-country, except now it’s only for an hour then I’m
home
and Afrocelts break my heart.
1 Green’s a primary color too: in theatrical lighting, it’s green, blue and red.
