i love my sonic screwdriver! (and other birthday things)
So, I've just had the most marvellous birthday ever.
This photograph ought to tell you several things worth knowing. (One of these things is that I have a lot of nifty hats.)
I woke up very early on Sunday morning, half out of excitement and half out of tradition (I always wake up early on important dates), and spent a glorious hour or two in complete solitude, enjoying the silence and cool of morning -- and also nipping downstairs to make some toast (cinnamon), which I snuck upstairs with a glass of cold milk and enjoyed by the window with I Capture the Castle. I also opened the wrapped package of mysteriousness and torment that came in the package
ressie_noldo directed me towards the
banui_love community, of which I am still somewhat in awe! (Also I am not quite sure what to make of the fact that my birthday practically began with crack -- Mr Saxon selling toothpaste, S. McBlack's bag wig, Time Lords running Radio Shack -- um, yes. Clearly this foretells stuff.) Seriously, you lot, you are made of awesome, with bows on.
After that, mostly we all just ran around the house getting ready for church, except that I got to open some presents first, just a few -- Timmy got me a lovely, large, leather-bound blank book (well, it's fake leather, but it looks good), and Heidi got me dangly earrings, and Dad got me a book on filmmaking and Christianity and Hollywood (which was really sort of wonderful because it felt like a real endorsement as to my wanting to be a filmmaker) and this very awesome Linford Detweiler, a.k.a. one half of the main bit of Over the Rhine, solo piano album, which is cosy and rainy-day-ish and perfect music to write to. We sort of had to rush the whole opening gifts bit because of having to be at church on time, especially as Dad was preaching and it isn't very good for the pastor to be late to his own service (which is another thing I have been meaning to write about -- Dad's got a church now, a little one he's going to try to make bigger, and it's really splendid). Mum saved her presents for later -- and another one that wasn't hers, and also the ones from my grandparents.
Another thing I did which was not entirely intelligent was go out to pick roses, because suddenly they have erupted all over the church walls and are very picturesque. There are red ones and sort of pinkish white ones, some of which are nearly white and some of which are quite noticeably pink, and the problem with roses is not only the thorns, but the fact that they have the most stubbornly resilient stems imaginable. I should have brought out a scissors or shears -- even a steak knife would have been better than trying to yank the things free. In the end I used my teeth, which was a bit awkward, and my hair got tangled, but I did manage to carry my prizes in and put them in the pretty vase I got Mum for Mother's Day. I am, you see, more stubborn than the roses. I did scrape the skin off of part of my heel, but that was because I left the back door open and Bartholomew tried to escape through it and I had to lunge at him and throw him back inside, managing to collide with the (concrete!) stairs in the process. This turned out fairly badly later.
So we drove to church, which was not a particularly interesting process so I will not write about it -- and we did get in a few minutes late, oh dear, but it didn't matter much. The best and most flustering bit of everything was that Dad talked about me for ten minutes straight before the sermon, because he was having a sort of Father's Day testimony thing and trying to get some of the other blokes to come up by him going first and showing them that it was not actually that scary. I just -- can't really get into proper words how much that meant to me, him talking about me being awesome, and how he always thought that love at first sight was a load of rubbish until he saw me just after I was born, and -- oh, well, it was lovely, and I am still a little flustered when I think of it. (He succeeded, also, because two of the other blokes did come up and talk about being fathers and their fathers and things.) After the sermon -- which was on a bit of James, and quite good too -- practically the entire congregation came over to wish me a happy birthday, which admittedly was not hard because the church is very very small, but it was still sweet.
For lunch, Dad took me to the barbecue place I described in a previous post, and the food was absolutely fantastic. I had a pulled pork sandwich practically the length of my forearm, which I couldn't even finish despite being ravenous when I started on it. We sat outside at a little wooden table, though it wasn't especially picturesque -- mostly the view involved a gas station and construction work. This was of no consequence because the food was THAT GOOD (although dangerously messy). This was followed by the long and fairly pleasant drive to Pittsburgh, during which Dad and I talked about music a lot, and concept albums, and Really Bad Lyrics, and generally had fun.
And then the art museum! Oh, it was incandescent. It was all tangled up in the city, with other museums and universities and things about it, and restaurants and little shops -- I felt so alive, driving in. And the museum itself was a work of art -- long, flat steps, carefully placed fountains outside, and inside was so clean and clear and bright, it made my head go clearer than it usually does. We walked in and got our tickets and had to wear tags on our arms that made me feel a bit like a cadaver (I saved mine as a souvenir), and then! Oh, it's such a blur of colours and spaces and light and history -- I'm not sure how I can manage to put it into words. The fascinating thing was that almost nothing was behind glass or roped off -- even though there were signs in all of the galleries imploring us not to touch things, we could have, if we'd been callous enough to. Dad was marvelling over a five-hundred-year-old ceramic sculpture, absolutely out in the open.
I'm not sure what fascinated me most: the art of the art itself, the varied sorts of art, the antiquity of many of the pieces, the immense feeling of knowledge and wisdom and history and scholarship many of them gave off. I remember peering into a small, slightly moulded mirror on a dressing table, wondering how many people had peered into the mirror before me, and who they must have been, and if the mirror remembered them, if, perhaps, some night, with the right sort of moon or the right sort of wind or the right alignment of stars, ghosts of reflections might peer back out of it again. I saw a pair of Van Goghs and marvelled at his brush-strokes -- up close, his paintings look like nothing, and then you pull back and the whole thing comes into view. You can see his brush-strokes; the paint is so thick. That was a sort of wonder moment for me, too: it was almost like seeing fingerprints. I had an odd sense of -- nearness, like the past was close enough for me to reach out and grasp, if I knew the right direction to thrust my hand.
Another thing I found fascinating was that paintings are often really made of optical illusions -- things that look like splashes and strokes of paint close up are really glimmers of light when you step back.
There was also a lot of modern art in some of the later galleries, which Dad and I were fairly snarky about. I like some abstract art, mostly the sort that isn't meant to mean anything, particular mixtures of colour and pattern and texture that give pleasure to the senses. I still remember a painting in the hotel we stayed at in Virginia Beach last year; it was mostly a lot of squares and strokes, all in purples and blues and greens, with a splashy, sort of crayony texture -- I loved that painting. It was like a really good piece of instrumental music. But such a lot of modern art feels like innovation for the sake of -- well, something not entirely related to art. I don't know, a lot of abstract art, the sort of funny lines and bits that are supposed to have a Deep Profound Meaning, smack of hubris to me. I like some of the patterny ones, or I can appreciate them without being fond of them because sometimes the colours are ghastly, and I've seen a few pieces that really did represent an idea -- a nightmare, for example, could be quite potently represented by a lot of black and red slashy bits, and shapes and things -- so could war, or daydreaming, or flight, or things like that. It's when someone draws a couple of lines on a grid and says it's an elephant and people flock around it and call it great art that I get a bit miffed.
Funny, the whole trip seemed like a bit of forever and also much too short; we did only have about two and a half hours before the museum closed (it closes early on Sundays, and we couldn't get there before two), and we only just skimmed the surface, really. We managed to get all the way through the paintings galleries, but there were galleries for sculpture and architecture and special galleries, which we never got to see. We have resolved to come back on a weekday, probably with the rest of the family.
At which point I must interrupt the flow of things to state that my dad is much with the awesome, because not only did he not think a trip to an art museum a rather sissy way to spend Father's Day, he also loved it, and was as moved and fascinated by the artwork as I was. (I remember him standing in front of a painting of a ship coming into harbour, coming in close to look at the paint strokes, and then drawing back again to see it resolve into light, over and over again.)
And he took me to Starbucks, where I carried on the tradition I accidentally started last year by ordering a vanilla bean crème frappechino, and tasting it delightedly as we walked back to the van. We'd decided to walk a bit and see a little of Pittsburgh before heading home, peering at shops and restaurants and residential buildings -- I pressed my nose to the window of a vintage clothing shop that was, alas, closed (and also pricey, I'm sure!) and examined some very nice hats and sleeves that looked like they went to lovely blouses. I felt so -- oh, right, you know, walking about in the city with a delicious cold drink (it felt wonderful, because the heat had got around to being sticky by then), and I wanted terribly to get back to Boston and keep on walking in the city and peering into funny little shops and going to museums and being surrounded by culture and teeming, vivid life. Also I was wearing very fetching shoes.
(Which were actually the one rather nasty bit of the day -- remember how I scraped my foot, chasing the cat? Well, my shoes, which were not at all sensible but very attractive -- green and blue and white tweed, with low heels -- were such that they insisted on chafing against the exact spot that I had tried to bandage, and the bandage came off, and the rest of the skin came off, and I was bleeding rather more than I was comfortable with. By the end of the trip I was limping. But I had to wear those shoes, you see -- they matched my blue and white patchworky blouse and blue and green brocade-ish vest and my Renaissancey gold skirt! I had to dress artistically -- including beret -- because I couldn't look shabby at an art museum, nor on my birthday neither, not when I find the designing and arranging of clothing an art in itself. Shut up, I am not shallow.)
When we got home, there were the rest of the presents to open, including some Father's Day ones -- chocolate and a new barbecue set and wallet-sized photographs of us from me. I had the ones from my grandparents as well as another one from
lady_moriel which seems to have come covertly, probably when I was sleeping in absurdly late. My mother's dad and his wife sent two lovely pairs of earrings (Nana Barb can pick out earrings I like; not the sort of ones you would expect a grandmother to buy), my mother's mum sent a handbag. My dad's parents had already sent money in their birthday card, which I used to buy something exceedingly wonderful, but that comes later. Mum's present was a gorgeous quilt, something I have been wanting for yonks, since my old bedspread has got a bit tatty (and stained, with ink and also blood due to feminine issues), and I love quilts. It's blue and green with bits of pink and white and all different patterns and there is a matching pillow sham and I love it. It is also the exact right size, so that making my bed is very easy.
See? Isn't it lovely?
There was also a ten-dollar gift certificate to the music shop where I take my guitar lessons, and I am already happily mind-shopping -- maybe a new set of strings, or a music stand.
The last gift was Kyra's sneaky covert one, which has already been spoilt by the picture I put up at the beginning of the entry, so I will just say it right out: my very own sonic screwdriver!! BEST GIFT EVER. I am still wildly excited over it, especially as I still have the light and sound bit to look forward to -- I haven't been able to find a not-sonic screwdriver to unscrew the bit that holds the battery chamber on.
And as I have been rattling on too long already, I will try to condense everything else. Mum made beef stroganoff, which was very tasty, and Heidi made me a cake! -- vanilla with chocolate icing, and Dad bought Italian bread, so all in all it was a wonderful supper, and I wish I could have eaten more of it, but I was still half-full from lunch, and the weather was still rather sticky and that always takes a great toll on my appetite.
Like I said, it was the best birthday ever. Really absolutely.
Especially because the next morning, when I slept nearly till noon by accident, Mum woke me with an armful of parcels which had arrived for me in the post! One was from
midenianscholar , one from
mermaidrain , and one from A Mysterious Ebay Seller Bloke (curiously and perhaps appropriately named David something). There were also cards from relatives. Because I have no patience, I opened the Mysterious Ebay One first, and nearly fell over -- because it was none other than my very own minature Doctor!!! (Yes that merited lots of exclaiming!) Minature Ten! With miniature pinstripes and miniature trenchcoat and miniature Converses and miniature swoopy hair! And a miniature sonic screwdriver which behaves entirely unlike the screwdriver usually does by being very very bendy. Me being American and all, this is even more awesome than an action figure from my favourite television show would ordinarily be. OMG THE DOCTOR IS MINE YAY. He has a place of honour on the bookshelf, next to Moony. (
wanderlight , do you know where we might find a Dean Priest action figure? Then I think I shall be set!)
Alyssa's package contained Lost sand (from the beach, yes?), and two gorgeous framed photographs which are in the picture below, and Jena sent me a pair of fantasy short stories from anthologies, which are regularly splendid and which I've already read twice. What a nice way to start out a morning!
And here is my Stuff. IS IT NOT AWESOME?
The morning turned out to be an omen of things to come, because after my guitar lesson, which was nice, but the whole riding bicycle in humidity of doom is not a recommended process, I went to the mall, and looked at a picture I wanted to buy (it's of old maps!! very old ones! with Latiny bits!), and decided not to buy it, and checked the used bargain bins at FYE instead, looking for Pride & Prejudice, as I always do. Except this time I happened to bump into Mrs. Casagrande, the manager, who was also looking through the bargain bins. We chatted for a bit, and after some time I mentioned that I kept looking for Pride & Prejudice every time I came by but it was never there, she said, "Oh, I think we've got a used copy -- let me look for you!" And she did, and they had, except it was on a proper shelf and not in a outside the shop doors. So I used the ten dollars my grandparents sent me and bought it, and now I am very very happy. I watched it almost immediately on coming home -- well, forty-five minutes later, anyway, because I was nearly sick from heat and changed back into my pyjamas because they were much cooler than everything else in my closet (only I put a skirt over them so they looked somewhat proper) and lay on the bed and drank a lot of water.
And I would love to talk about the film because I made several new observations that ought to be recorded but by this time NO-ONE IS READING THIS ANYMORE, so, yeah. I will add, however, that I have discovered that our own Sally Sparrow plays Kitty Bennett! Yes, Carey Mulligan, who is fantastic and should get her own spin-off, maybe where she fights crime with Sarah-Jane and sometimes Martha and they all wear awesome bohemian clothing and really nice shoes and go about with sentient tea and things.
And today I got my hair lopped off! There will be better pictures later, but I can say that it used to be to my waist and now it is practically bobbed and I like it very much. (Although I realised to my shock that I seem to have accidentally copied Rose's hair in S2 a bit. ACK.)
ALSO! VERY IMPORTANT NOTICE THINGUMMY. I AM GOING ON HOLIDAY TOMORROW AND WON'T BE BACK UNTIL MONDAY. (AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM TRYING TO USE MY WEEK'S QUOTA OF CAPSLOCK LEST I GET CHARGED FOR WHAT I DIDN'T USE.) I WILL BE GOING TO A WEDDING OF A CHILDHOOD FRIEND, WHICH WILL BE VERY WEIRD BUT ALSO NICE, BUT -- okay, really, I can't do this capslock thing anymore, ugh. But my parents also have a meeting with Dad's church denomination, so we are going to Ohio, and staying in a condo for three days -- a condo which has a spiral staircase, DVD player, cable television (PLS TO BE DOCTOR WHO ON PLS PLS PLS!), and a hot tub. Somehow all of this is ridiculously cheap. I'm not sure how. I get my own bedroom and will hopefully be doing a lot of writing, or at least daydreaming, and if nothing else, reading. (Because also Dad says that there are two books he ordered for me that haven't come yet and should hopefully come tomorrow morning before we leave.)
So, in case I can't post before I leave -- fare thee well, lovelies! ♥