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Jan. 27th, 2007
I cannot believe I used to do shit like this all the time -- of course, that was going out dancing, not working through the night. But seriously, I just got up, I'm discombobulated, I have a bazillion things to do and tonight I have to do it all again. That said, I just reserved my room for ISMAC, so it's all good and worth it one supposes. Last night, in the office, waiting for articles to print out, I practiced footwork in the office. Mostly though, I was just cold -- the window was open, and stuck that way.
In other news, I have amazing amounts of dance stuff coming up in February, with EAS Regency and Rennaisance classes, the barn dance, and the two dances I am going to in Boston.
I have to write two Gather articles this weekend, and do laundry and get groceries, which is not, like it is for other people, a local errand. Then I also have to get the first piece finished for my new column (and send them the last of some contract stuff), which really is very exciting to me. I should probably buy my Lunacon registration too, since I've told all sorts of disparate people that I am, in fact, going as an intermittant daytripper.
I did not start novel in 90 when I said I would, but will in this coming, quieter week.
Do you know what I miss? Brunch. I've not gone to brunch with someone in ages.
Have to go into the Grant Wilfley reregistration thing this week, which is a moderate hassle, but they are the people who give me the most work, so definitely worth my time. Must update the resume (and website) first with, among other things, the fencing.
In other news, I have amazing amounts of dance stuff coming up in February, with EAS Regency and Rennaisance classes, the barn dance, and the two dances I am going to in Boston.
I have to write two Gather articles this weekend, and do laundry and get groceries, which is not, like it is for other people, a local errand. Then I also have to get the first piece finished for my new column (and send them the last of some contract stuff), which really is very exciting to me. I should probably buy my Lunacon registration too, since I've told all sorts of disparate people that I am, in fact, going as an intermittant daytripper.
I did not start novel in 90 when I said I would, but will in this coming, quieter week.
Do you know what I miss? Brunch. I've not gone to brunch with someone in ages.
Have to go into the Grant Wilfley reregistration thing this week, which is a moderate hassle, but they are the people who give me the most work, so definitely worth my time. Must update the resume (and website) first with, among other things, the fencing.
night shift thoughts
Jan. 27th, 2007 10:34 pmIf you ever want to feel outside the world and see how you feel about that, work overnight on a Saturday. And not in a job that in some way is about the life of Saturday night -- i.e., at a bar or in a show or in sex work, but in something mundane and unknown. I just ran to Whole Foods before it closed so I would only have to do laundry tomorrow and brought my groceries to the office.
I also stopped in Max Brenner. Max Brenner is a mass of contradictions to me. Their chcolate beverages are as fine as you'll find; they taste the way you expect hot chocolate to in books where it is named slightly differently -- that is, the chocolat of Swordspoint or His Dark Materials. It's that good; that alchemical, and if you prefer the dark, that utterly unsweet, which is really the key.
On the other hand, the place's atmosphere is eh, meant to evoke some vague Parisian fantasy to the laziest and least curious among us. And then there's the conceit of their ceramics that come with directions about how you have to hug the cup and feel nuturing.
That said, Max Brenner is an Australia thing, so I feel warmly towards it even when I want to kill everyone in my way in there (it's always crowded with people who, despite being justled by other people in said crowd, are in fact incapable of actually realizing other beings exist in this world. I am certain they are wondering why they are being jostled by invisible forces). Also, the music selection is lame and cheesy. I expect better from Australia. Cheesetastic at a minimum!
Anyway, I indulged an old habit of providing a different name every time I order someplace where one needs to do that and then wait for the product at another counter. It was fun.
Walking up to work, I saw a fellow I often see in Union Square, a black man with long greying dreads and fabulous clothes. Often he wears a tattered tailcoat and bowtie; We often smile at each other, evidences perhaps that we each believe in a certain inevitable return to formality after whatever fictional apocalypses we've been busily reading about of late. He was less dressed up today, and with a gorgeous woman I've seen him with before, although she looked a bit annoyed with him.
And he made me think of D. It's that time of year I suppose. D's suicide was, if I remember right, centered around Valentine's Day. We weren't close, but I still miss him. And I'm still pissed at him. He's one of a very few handful of people I've ever known who decided his fictional world was truth and lived accordingly and beautifully. I guess it didn't really work out for him. And that makes me sad, not just for him, or for me, but for everyone. D. knew, as I said to someone in email earlier about something/someone else entirely, that something could be both a pose and utterly sincere. Fucker. Sometimes I wonder if he's at peace. And sometimes, I wonder if he's bored.
I also stopped in Max Brenner. Max Brenner is a mass of contradictions to me. Their chcolate beverages are as fine as you'll find; they taste the way you expect hot chocolate to in books where it is named slightly differently -- that is, the chocolat of Swordspoint or His Dark Materials. It's that good; that alchemical, and if you prefer the dark, that utterly unsweet, which is really the key.
On the other hand, the place's atmosphere is eh, meant to evoke some vague Parisian fantasy to the laziest and least curious among us. And then there's the conceit of their ceramics that come with directions about how you have to hug the cup and feel nuturing.
Dear Max Brenner,
I am drinking your chocolate expressly to fuel my world domination fantasies. I nuture elsewhere. And I'm not here because it's almost February.
That said, Max Brenner is an Australia thing, so I feel warmly towards it even when I want to kill everyone in my way in there (it's always crowded with people who, despite being justled by other people in said crowd, are in fact incapable of actually realizing other beings exist in this world. I am certain they are wondering why they are being jostled by invisible forces). Also, the music selection is lame and cheesy. I expect better from Australia. Cheesetastic at a minimum!
Anyway, I indulged an old habit of providing a different name every time I order someplace where one needs to do that and then wait for the product at another counter. It was fun.
Walking up to work, I saw a fellow I often see in Union Square, a black man with long greying dreads and fabulous clothes. Often he wears a tattered tailcoat and bowtie; We often smile at each other, evidences perhaps that we each believe in a certain inevitable return to formality after whatever fictional apocalypses we've been busily reading about of late. He was less dressed up today, and with a gorgeous woman I've seen him with before, although she looked a bit annoyed with him.
And he made me think of D. It's that time of year I suppose. D's suicide was, if I remember right, centered around Valentine's Day. We weren't close, but I still miss him. And I'm still pissed at him. He's one of a very few handful of people I've ever known who decided his fictional world was truth and lived accordingly and beautifully. I guess it didn't really work out for him. And that makes me sad, not just for him, or for me, but for everyone. D. knew, as I said to someone in email earlier about something/someone else entirely, that something could be both a pose and utterly sincere. Fucker. Sometimes I wonder if he's at peace. And sometimes, I wonder if he's bored.