2. Read the Parasol Protectorate manga last week, am now rereading the books. May I say that Lord Akeldama is easier to take when seen rather than heard? Also googled to find out who Akeldama was, and am disappointed in the results, because a) he must have undergone a personality transplant in his change to vampire and b) I wanted him to be Horace Walpole. Or at any rate, some legitimate, well-informed, butterfly of a dandy.
3. Sun and temps well above freezing raise my seasonally drooping spirits. This is good, because every bit of me hurts in spite of massage on Saturday and acupuncture on Sunday. Did succeed in getting almost all my laundromat laundry done (one duvet cover remaining) in spite of the unspeakable so-and-so who occupied all ten of the cheapest washers today with precisely sorted tiny washes. I know it's the same guy because all the machines stopped at the same time and none of them were emptied after ninety minutes when I came to get my bathrobe out of the dryer.
4. Must get serious about doing *all* my exercises and *all* my stretches every day, meaning two hours of same instead of one. This has to become a reflex by next May, so that I don't drag my feet post-op when I really must be ready to do all the exercises prescribed. Weight loss will have to wait for the new year, but needs to happen as well. Knees are registering every extra pound these days.
5. Paris was Yesterday draws to a close, in the year 1939 when no one is certain if there will be a war or not. Flanner mentions an exhibit of the art work surrounding the then-defunct Ballets Russes- its curtains and sets painted by Braques and de Chirico, Mirò and Rouault, Matisse and Max Ernst and Modigliani- in what the French then referred to as les beaux jours of the early 1920s, "the days of civilized, uncensored pleasures... when pliticians as well as hedonists thought a permanent, pleasant, peaceful age had been born." The 30s were indeed dirty, but if I try, I can't think of a decade in my nearly 70 years that has been at all clean. Yes, there were the beaux jours of the 60s, but they were beaux only for people like me; everywhere else was another story. Flanner's book ends a page later, with the declaration of war in September. If the present doesn't have the same sense of impending apocalypse, it's only because the apocalypse seems incontrovertibly here.