"A gray sky, a bitter sting. A rain cloud, a crane on the wing."
And here we are in Providence, not home, not ever home, but the place where I have lived for the past nine years. The drive yesterday was monstrous. We were in clouds all day, in rain more than half of the day, often torrential, and in heavy fog on and off from Pennsylvania onward. I honestly do not know how Kathryn managed it. I was sick and anxious and generally useless, and I tried to focus on reading Gordon's Angela Carter biography instead of the road and the weather and the way we were flowing backwards through the seasons. We made it home at 9:30 p.m., after almost thirteen hours on the road, after about thirteen the day before. It would, of course, have been much easier if I could have helped with the driving.
Currently, it's 59˚F and rainy in Providence, deep in the heart of Cold Spring.
It seems worth mentioning that during the two weeks in Alabama I saw exactly two Trump bumper stickers and one yard sign, far fewer than I see in a comparable period of time in Providence. Make of that what you will.
Last week, someone pointed me to this wearisome piece of twaddle on The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, and after reading the abstract*, I had two thoughts, pretty much simultaneously. The first, which I posted to Facebook on Wednesday morning, was Saints preserve me and all I have ever written from third-wave feminist literary criticism. And the second was that the author actually pays me a number of compliments, though I'm sure she certainly didn't mean to do so. It's all a matter of perspective. Please do me a favour, everyone. If you run across this sort of thing, do not bring it to my attention. I have less than zero interest in it, and I can't afford to waste energy being annoyed by it. Thank you.
Today, I'm going to do my best to get Sirenia Digest No. 135 out to subscribers. I need to make line edits to "In the Flat Field," do the layout, and send it away to be PDf'd.
Everything north of the Virginia state line, you can keep it.
Later Taters,
Aunt Beast
8:42 a.m.
* The author is, of course, cisgender and so imminently qualified to lecture transwomen on how they should write about being trans. But I'm sure she means well, the dear little thing.
Currently, it's 59˚F and rainy in Providence, deep in the heart of Cold Spring.
It seems worth mentioning that during the two weeks in Alabama I saw exactly two Trump bumper stickers and one yard sign, far fewer than I see in a comparable period of time in Providence. Make of that what you will.
Last week, someone pointed me to this wearisome piece of twaddle on The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, and after reading the abstract*, I had two thoughts, pretty much simultaneously. The first, which I posted to Facebook on Wednesday morning, was Saints preserve me and all I have ever written from third-wave feminist literary criticism. And the second was that the author actually pays me a number of compliments, though I'm sure she certainly didn't mean to do so. It's all a matter of perspective. Please do me a favour, everyone. If you run across this sort of thing, do not bring it to my attention. I have less than zero interest in it, and I can't afford to waste energy being annoyed by it. Thank you.
Today, I'm going to do my best to get Sirenia Digest No. 135 out to subscribers. I need to make line edits to "In the Flat Field," do the layout, and send it away to be PDf'd.
Everything north of the Virginia state line, you can keep it.
Later Taters,
Aunt Beast
8:42 a.m.
* The author is, of course, cisgender and so imminently qualified to lecture transwomen on how they should write about being trans. But I'm sure she means well, the dear little thing.