December 30th, 2019

hiroshige: foxfires on musashino

Notes from the timeless time

Being on the second floor when a skunk blows in the side alley is bad, but nothing like being in the basement. I thought it might actually have got into the house. Clearly even my new windows leak air, and let air in.

Cannabis oil has worked once, done nothing the second time, and put me to sleep every time thereafter, is why I was out from 5 to 7 this evening.

Have done little these hols either because things are closed or it hurts too much to move and reading in the bedroom, though it leaves me hurtier, doesn't actually hurt while I'm doing it. Eeyore-like I think that even if my knee stops hurting, even if half the leg pain is from knee stiffness, I still have these damned elbows and shoulders (one reason I haven't been posting here.) Then I think, more cheerfully, that things will stop hurting from time to time, for no reason, and I'll at least have no-elbow no-knee-pain days in future.

I seem to have done a fantastic amount of laundry, though. Always another bag full by the time I've sorted the present one(s).

One thing I did do was sort a huge bag of papers from the basement, exposed when the guys took a pile of junk from one corner. These were mostly manila envelopes with cuttings from the mid-60s that spoke to my romantic heart. I can say now My god the hairstyles, heavens the fashions, and dear lord the interior design- broadloom does not belong in bathrooms, guys- but one thing the 60s did well was upscale advertising, and these were mostly that. I couldn't keep any of it because the mold smell was all though the stuff but it was an interesting trip to the past. There were a couple of childhood and adolescent scrapbooks, one of cringingly historical bits from the 18 months I spent in a separate (ie public but Catholic) school that encompassed things like Confirmation and Grade 8 graduation and the usual 2nd gen Irish Catholic ethos that- well, less said the better. More happily were my ballet scrapbooks from 1965, one devoted to Nureyev after he stepped in to dance for Erik Bruhn at short notice, another devoted to Kenneth MacMillan's Romeo and Juliet, which was, though I didn't know it, my first fannish Stout Cortez experience- 'can such beauty be?!' I'm going to keep that one even with the smell, because it still makes me happy.

And oddly enough, because I have no memory of keeping them at all and I can't imagine my mother did, there was an envelope of my childhood art, from the time I was still writing my E's backwards. Most of the subjects were religious because done in (convent) school and looking nothing like what I used to draw in later childhood.

ETA: oh frabjous day! No more manual crossposting. Err- for now.