(no subject)
Thin snow falling all day but not sticking to the ground. Yesterday looked out the back window at the snow covered roofs, smelled the sweet tang of wood smoke, thought how very December this March scene looked. But because the snow, whenever it fell- Friday, I guess, two weeks in a row- had disappeared from the sidewalks, out I went with my walker both days, shopping. Necessities, or what the mind conceives of as such: duck paté, pickled onions, rye bread, and then up to the wine store for a bottle of Chardonnay. Today over to the Palmerston greengrocers for raspberries, and a fried chicken sandwich at Mary Brown's (home grown Canuck Maritimes, infinitely preferable to KFC or Popeye's.) Moving does, yes, keep things limber(er) so must go on doing it. The left knee is beyond hope now, and odd things will tighten up elsewhere, but never the same things two days running, which I suppose is progress.
Beaver on through Palimpsest, getting the same odd oogies as I got from Edmund White's autobiography. You can't call it name dropping when the Names are actually people Vidal knew, and at least I can keep them straight because (unlike White) they're people I know of too. But the whole thing has a distinctly lowering effect. I'd prefer to keep on with When the Angels Left the Old Country, but that's tablet reading and my tablets keep running out of charge. Yes, it would help if I read my ebooks on them instead of scrolling through Bored Panda for hours, which is what I do after I've been walking.
Yesterday was Pratchett's eight year yahrzeit and today is the third anniversary of our entry into the new world order. At least it's become familiar now, and has lost the bright strangeness of those first months. But with me the straitened Covid world is also inseparable from my straitened crippled world, even if three years ago I was much more able-bodied than I am now. I have to remind myself that I had the same lower back issues for years before anything blew up: always had to stretch out before getting on my bike, always had the same tightness in the hips. I just wonder if that's ever going away.
Sotheby's, or is it Christie's, is having a sale of woodblock prints. English prices are double what's being asked over here. The same Hasui I own is valued at £1000-2000 and might bid higher. This is nice should I ever want to sell through an English auction house, supposing I knew how, but disastrous for estate valuation purposes. Better gift them in good time.
Beaver on through Palimpsest, getting the same odd oogies as I got from Edmund White's autobiography. You can't call it name dropping when the Names are actually people Vidal knew, and at least I can keep them straight because (unlike White) they're people I know of too. But the whole thing has a distinctly lowering effect. I'd prefer to keep on with When the Angels Left the Old Country, but that's tablet reading and my tablets keep running out of charge. Yes, it would help if I read my ebooks on them instead of scrolling through Bored Panda for hours, which is what I do after I've been walking.
Yesterday was Pratchett's eight year yahrzeit and today is the third anniversary of our entry into the new world order. At least it's become familiar now, and has lost the bright strangeness of those first months. But with me the straitened Covid world is also inseparable from my straitened crippled world, even if three years ago I was much more able-bodied than I am now. I have to remind myself that I had the same lower back issues for years before anything blew up: always had to stretch out before getting on my bike, always had the same tightness in the hips. I just wonder if that's ever going away.
Sotheby's, or is it Christie's, is having a sale of woodblock prints. English prices are double what's being asked over here. The same Hasui I own is valued at £1000-2000 and might bid higher. This is nice should I ever want to sell through an English auction house, supposing I knew how, but disastrous for estate valuation purposes. Better gift them in good time.