Milestone
Apart from a slight cold, I am quite well. I splurged just now by ordering spicy takeout, which makes me feel better when I'm sore and congested. I've got to go out and get it in a few minutes.
I have a temporary job painting houses with my landlady and neighbors. That'll tide me over for the moment.
Sunday is the postponed "Tempest" party, and it's going to be great. Be there, or be square. You will miss Shakespeare, my best homemade bread, and beautiful voices, if you don't come. I've been sufficiently out-of-it that I forget whether I've invited everybody within reasonable traveling distance of WMass. If you'd like to come and want more information, you're most welcome; leave me a comment.
Tomorrow I turn thirty. This is enough of a milestone that I'm hoping to mark it by planting flowers. As I remarked privately to negothick, the birthday is sufficently intimidating that the real need, I feel, would be to sacrifice thirty black goats without a single white hair on a Druidic altar under the New England standing stones in exchange for the favor of my daygod, then dance backwards round a balefire conjuring up the spirits of my ancestors to bless and advise me.
(I take that last part back. The way my ancestors have been acting lately, even the really ancient ones would probably just give me dirty looks and say, "What are you whining about? You could have gone to medical school like your parents told you, but no, you had to choose your Own Path and now look at you, up to your bum in goat blood and flies...")
And then I'll ride on a black unicorn down an erupting volcano while drinking from a chalice full of the laughter of small children. No, that's a Voltaire album. I think just some flowers, a walk, and good food, and then a visit to my parents in the evening. Oh--and some writing. Begin the year as you mean to go on.
I have a temporary job painting houses with my landlady and neighbors. That'll tide me over for the moment.
Sunday is the postponed "Tempest" party, and it's going to be great. Be there, or be square. You will miss Shakespeare, my best homemade bread, and beautiful voices, if you don't come. I've been sufficiently out-of-it that I forget whether I've invited everybody within reasonable traveling distance of WMass. If you'd like to come and want more information, you're most welcome; leave me a comment.
Tomorrow I turn thirty. This is enough of a milestone that I'm hoping to mark it by planting flowers. As I remarked privately to negothick, the birthday is sufficently intimidating that the real need, I feel, would be to sacrifice thirty black goats without a single white hair on a Druidic altar under the New England standing stones in exchange for the favor of my daygod, then dance backwards round a balefire conjuring up the spirits of my ancestors to bless and advise me.
(I take that last part back. The way my ancestors have been acting lately, even the really ancient ones would probably just give me dirty looks and say, "What are you whining about? You could have gone to medical school like your parents told you, but no, you had to choose your Own Path and now look at you, up to your bum in goat blood and flies...")
And then I'll ride on a black unicorn down an erupting volcano while drinking from a chalice full of the laughter of small children. No, that's a Voltaire album. I think just some flowers, a walk, and good food, and then a visit to my parents in the evening. Oh--and some writing. Begin the year as you mean to go on.