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It's been a few years.  There were some scuttlebutt things, like that the old director spoke to him and told him he shouldn't take the job cuz we would nitpick him, and some b.s. thing from a pot-stirrer about how she's heard (and she knows so much, trust her) that we've been blackballed (in the organized world of potential queer chorus conductors) and now no one will want to conduct us, with our new reputation as "difficult".  But all that drama sloughed off easily when Dan got up there and led us through a solid, fun, happy-feeling, productive rehearsal.  SUCH a relief.

Then at some point in the middle, just like he used to, he uttered something pithily quotable, and I was right back there, years ago, new to chorus, when we would write down those nuggets for sharing later, and I nearabout busted out crying.

Speaking of Prisma, which is better?

Click for bigger:

(A) Prismaed me A.JPG (B) Prismaed me B.JPG

Poll #2062963 Which pic?

Which Prismaed 'Ff'lo is better?

It's a tie.
Eh, don't much like either.
(A) is prettier.
(B) is deeper.
other comment (see comments)
ha ha ha
It's blustery and mostly overcast, with rain dripping or threatening, today.  The sun's peeked out a little here and there, but the air's crisp, and some bundling up is called for.  I liked the thin, cool air in my lungs.

The paths through the woods are muddy.  It was really slow going in places, and I just don't have it in me to go back and retrace the last half of the travels, after I'd unknotted the scarf, to see where it fell off.  Alas, and woe.  Perhaps I'll find a similar white scarf with fringe to replace it with.  Then Lorrel and I will both be wearing replacements.

It was good to get outside, despite how it seems to've taken it outta me.  First day in a few that I've carried my phone more than 3000 steps, it tells me.  And the dog is happily snoring away, still, over an hour after we got home.

We visited a gnarled tree I like.  Here's me in a kishenehn-like moment, showing you a Prisma-fied version of it:


I didn't like losing that day, in my head, and how it played out in my head.

I do like my kitty purring on my lap/belly, rubbing his face on the edge of the laptop.  He's warm.  Warm is nice.

I lost a day.

I thought this was Friday.  After thinking yesterday that is was Thursday and thinking the day before that that it was Wednesday.  But today is Saturday.

It's thrown me off rather a lot, oddly.  I told the boss (when I wrote her back after she replied to my "I'm gonna aim to come in later" email by asking whether I knew it's Saturday) that it's a luxury of vacations to lose track of what day it is, so I must be on a luxury vacation.  But I have a headache, as the cold stuff seems to be congealing in my noggin, and maybe that's making me think more gloomily, but also I didn't get that spate of human contact at the office I thought was at least optionally ahead, to be followed by more human contact the next morning, and now have a whole weekend I'm suddenly in, continuing the solitude streak on top of the discombobulation. The dog needs to run, so I'm gonna take her somewhere to run, but I don't want to, and I don't think I can sleep any more, and, I dunno.  Finding out it's not a workday after all is supposed to be a good thing, but it all depends.

I probably oughta stare at my phone a good bit less, too.  I have the brightness turned down, but all that close focus--- seems not good for the brain pain.  It's squint-pain-fully bright outside, but perhaps I can manage some distant-focus eyeball time.  I don't want to, though.  My head hurts.  I can't even think right, except to call up the rock-solid certainty that my life doesn't amount to a thing, is meaningless, etc.  And when the dog barks it pierces my skull.

Maybe we can do some long-leash while I'm blindfolded.  I have a nice long soft white scarf Lorrel gave me after I'd admired hers.  She said mine wasn't quite the same as hers and then she lost hers and then she told her sister about it and then her sister got her a new one and now it's exactly like mine.

Oh, my eyeballs.

another sick day

Today's a gross one as well as unpleasant.  Phlegm.  Pressure in the noggin.  Throat still raw.  And little human contact, none in person, unless you count the woman out on the corner with her dog as we stepped out onto the stoop.  (Dogs exchanged barks, people exchanged mini-nodwaves.)  After an email request I went to look up for my once-upon-a-time lover how long it'd been since somebody'd been logged in to a dating site, which was sorta depressing, just cuz the world of online dating is depressing.  But a funny thing happened that TCM thought it needed to apologize for on its twitter feed (and many seemed to think ruined the movie, but they're nuts):  they accidentally ran the action-described-in-audible-narration version of 42d Street (1933) instead of the "regular" one.

That's one of those old Busby Berkeley movies, see.  With the elaborate production numbers he supposedly thought up in his bathtub (nudge-nudge), and their absurd geometrical proto-acid-trip choreographical insanity.  And no compunction about why those shots designed to be seen from overhead would be in musicals on stage, which they are in the story of the movie.  Anyway, point is, if you have the job of writing the brief-as-possible simple relating of what's happening visually on screen, or if you have the job of reading that description in a calm but quick voice as if it's at all a matter-of-fact and casual thing to do, the A-1 hardest/worst movie thing to have to do that for has got to be a Busby Berkeley production number.  And I thought I was just gonna be okay with the mistake cuz I could play games on my phone while "watching" the movie and still know what was going on.  When it got to those dance numbers, it was downright hilarious.  Poor calm narrating woman.  Poor person who had to write it.  And they did a good job!  All in that calm matter-of-fact voice, when you know it was all like "jesus fuck" trying to put it together.

There were other ways it enhanced the understanding of this viewer, having the audio description, like how characters would get called by name when I didn't know their character names, and then I'd know if I had the right person on IMDb when I was wondering where else I'd seen that guy.  But the main thing was the delightful absurdity of the descriptions of the already absurd vaguely pervy Busby bizarreness.  Those pissed off people on twitter are nuts.

Of course what do I know from twitter.  I'm still bugged, over a week later, by that guy, a-hole though he had been, losing his job and being shamed off the internet (and having his phone # and address gleefully published, too, in case anyone hadn't had enough) when Patton Oswalt and his thousands of followers targeted him.  Clearly the vast majority delight in his getting "what he deserved" (they're so sure).

I'll post a postcard tomorrow, I hope.  Goodnight, people.
Could just be that I'm fighting a bug.  Or maybe it's a real easy-come-easy-go.
And I'm caught up.  I used up the backlog, slowly, treating myself, and now I'm in real time.  Maybe I'll even watch this one live.  It's 2 hours long.  [ETA:  Sadly, that part was wrong.  Wherever I saw that:  boo!]

Still working on the Jeep's fuel-nozzle-wouldn't-go-in problem.

Really just want to curl up and nap all weekend.

Will fit in some laundry.

Did go to the store.

So will cook.

bobby hill


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"What was once thought cannot be unthought."

-- Möbius, The Physicists


"The moment of change is the only poem."

-- Adrienne R.


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