Looks like the Putting On a Show committee is going to go along with the assertion (that Tracy feels the same way about) that we should make our question for the audience in this show grammatically incorrect, on accounta the off-puttingery of "whom". Just now I'm thinking we could put a little disclaimer on the back in tiny print that sez yes we know it should be "whom" but we're being wrong on purpose, just in case you were wondering, you quibbler.
Speaking of the boss, she's not in today. Neither is The Boss. Not too long ago I saw The Boss.
I can tell I need a break from this synaptic sinkhole, quicksand, sandtrap, thang. Habit. Pattern. Also I'm hungry. Hey, maybe it's a blood sugar thing.
An old question of Grothendieck involved in which cases a certain \subseteq is an equality, when we're talking general ringed topos and multiplicative sheaf, you know, all bundled up with torsion parts and obstruction classes. That kinda biz. Torsors. Who the hell knows. It's (CW-)complex.
Rain, slow and dreary, off and on, all day today. sprig5 missed all-day socked-in rain when she moved out east from Cincy. She missed the chili, too, I believe, and a number of other Cincinnati things. I think of her when we have such a day, and I appreciate it more, having taken in what a thing it is to appreciate, quite apart from the agronomical, in its all-day slog gray slow wet -ness.
I'm gonna eat something now. Then Brauer and Grothendieck and Hornbostel & Schr\"oer (Jens & Stefan, resp.) (of D\"usselfdorf & Wuppertal, irresp.), as laid out by Flores, Ram\'on J. All the while half-pondering (not Mrs. Reagan & Mr. T but) Mrs. Lovett & Mr. T., and new thoughts on the stuff of people stuff S. Sondheim laid out for us there.
I just wanna eat supper and go to bed. But I suppose I'll stay up long enough to be disappointed by election returns, and then be awake half the night again, cuz I seem to have joined some sect of some bizarre cult that believes in sleeping during the day and not during the night. I mean, I guess I've done some time with that sect before, in streaks, at various times in life. But I would like to break away from it now.
Been reading a little of Epicurus. Epicureanism is pretty cool.
I'm gonna drag my draggin' butt home soon. My dragon butt will just have to stay here for the night. I'm too tired to drag a dragon butt all the way to the car and then into the house.
my Mr. Stadium shirt
in my pocket
a poem for
Poem in Yer Pocket Day
no one will ask after
in my thumb
infection pain I soak
every several hours
in hot salt H2O hoping
not to need a doc,
doc, dock, doxicology, wait what else have I
a pause to walk to the water cooler
frozen noodles nuking in the chamber
a semi-emergency appointment soon and
way too much left way too long and
a fight not to take it out on,
wail on (as they say, of beatings), me
and more muscles than not
dull warm whispering sore
having quite overdone it
and knowledge and thoughts foisted on me
and an aversion to endmarks
and somewhere way down-slash-in
such love as I cannot tell you
Worst case, they send a car to a stranded motorist, and it's maybe not 911-worthy. Still, I told Bert about it when I got back to the office, on accounta I just wanted to tell someone.
Of course now I'm telling you. But you're not here.
I was in touch with a gut instinct against suicide. Like if that's what she was up to, somebody oughta stop her. Even though it's obviously none of my business.
That bridge isn't that high. People survive higher, lots.
This after I discovered this morning the dog'd chewed up a hunk of the lining of my still-new-ish winter coat. I wasn't the most laugh-it-off dog mom about that, I admit. I didn't even let her lick the peanut butter in her morning Kong before tossing it in her general direction; nor did I say what a good doggie she was. Well, not after I found the coat thing and before I got out the door.
It's sloggy ucky rainy and socked in to-day. My wrist is sore. A few people are out at work. The atmospherics seem to call for a nap.
Gotta do a few things at home before getting an estimate next week on a new roof. Plus oughta arrange for another estimate, like a savvy consumer, wisely navigating the hoo-ha of her economic milieu. Did I mention nap? Naaaaap.
nap (verb, intransitive)
Old English hnappian "to doze, sleep lightly," of unknown origin;
apparently related to Old High German hnaffezan, German dialectal nafzen, Norwegian napp.
maybe it's the time change getting to me, but i sure feel like a three-day weekend would've been nice.
opening night of the (local long-running indie) film festival is tomorrow night. if i skip it, that'll be two years in a row. the opening night screening is a hodgepodge of shorts, relatively broad-audience-friendly, in various formats/styles/etc. i like the sense of event, even if i generally skip the (extra-$) reception beforehand. here's a where's-Waldo kind of picture i think i shared here before, of me and a date in the house, as it fills in:
maybe if i take tomorrow afternoon off. i dunno.
in other news, bernie sanders is still a candidate for president. or, if we're talkin' TV news, trumptrumptrumptrumptrumpitytrumptrumptr
An interesting (but unfortunately rather self-absorbed) fella I went out with briefly not too long ago mentioned (among the many other things about his life I learned about) his massage therapist, in the familiar way one talks about someone one sees often. It's hard to imagine being able to afford to get regular massages, tho (a) it's pretty appealing to imagine and (b) I suppose it's partly about priorities. Even after house and car payments and other basic bills, I could pay to get massaged, like, not infrequently, if I (i) cut back on other expenditures and/or (ii) accept a less steep slope in the overall debt reduction curvature inclination.
Do you like massages? I know some people don't. I first got an hour-long table massage back in Baltimore at the massage school, where it was something like $25 a pop, and I thought omg this is great and went back for more. (I doubt I'll ever forget how different it felt to put my feet down and stand up, at that first table, afterwards.) But it hasn't been part of my life lately. I even stopped getting the office chair massage when they started taking the cost directly out of our paychecks (cuz I didn't like it messing with my numerical expectations in that regard) (silly, I know, but hey).
Do you like to be massaged? (check as many as you want)
Do you like to give a massage?
Here's a box for any massage-related commentary you'd like to plop in it. Or use comments. Whatev.
I almost added questions about conditions one likes a massage under and particular parts of the body one especially likes massaged, but, I dunno, maybe that's getting a bit much to inquire about of all y'all. I was just thinking of scalp, hands, feet, butt, jaw, like that, but I suppose it crosses over into sexuality pretty easily. Not that there's anything wrong with that. (haha) I'm just thinking about a sort of broader body biz, you might say, now/here.
( Here’s the now-closed poll, behind a cut, for reference.Collapse )
I saw poliphilo writing of tarot cards today, and did a little online tarot plucking. Contemplation via divination: a practice of suspended disbelief. Why the hell not.
One of today's things is deciding how much to say, and how to say it.
I celebrate finding the heart to try to engage.
Generally, engaging is a big thing.
These days it is especially so, for me.
I just remembered that one of the things I'm going to tell Michael Moore is about Katie K***ss and After Hours.
Chorus tonight. Gotta rally for it. Oy.
I just send Kerri a picture of my dog. I'd sent it to myself to send it to Laura. Laura still lives where she did last time I was back east. I wonder how she's doing. I miss being in touch with her.
I will owe the state $24 in taxes, when I pay them in April, after begrudging them my money any sooner than necessary.
I told Kerri how earlier today I heard a bit of "The Way We Were" and was thinking how funny it is that it was so long ago that Barbra, who's still alive, was casting her mind waaaayy back---looking back on how the memories, like the corners of her mind, were misty and watercolored, and wondering if it could have all been so simple then, vs. time having rewritten every line--- and doing this looking way back, at her long-ago life, when she was, what, maybe 30? There's something funny about that. Now she's, I dunno, not that far from 80, I bet. Here, let's have a pool.
Without looking it up or otherwise researching, I bet Barbra Streisand is this many years old:
The correct answer IS among the choices there. Have at it.