![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Sugar inthe Gourd is a site where there is a constant real-time streaming of old-timey music -- like a radio station -- and a bunch of old-timey music links I haven't explored. Frank just forwarded the link to me from his friend Miguel a couple of hours ago. For the first time in a long time, we're actually listening to the same music at the same time. It won't last. I'll get back into lisdtening to Hungarian bagpipes and he'll get back into listening to metal and punk and techno.
I wrote a little while waiting for Gloria to wake up from her nap. She's been having a power struggle with her son over what to do with her checkbook. He wants to keep it in a certain drawer unless it's being used and she wants to keep it in her purse. Both of them tell me the story of their discussions. We went to a fabric store but I failed to inspire her to do a sewing project. She has several very nice dresses she made in the past -- simple, clean lines, because she did it entirely with hand sewing tiny stitches, no machine work at all. I thought I might be able to lure her into some small project, but not today.
WHat I wrote was the beginning of the piece where the good bureacrat is a student intern at the bad camp, months after the massacre, and his job is reburying the dead. This part is about the resilience of children, and the fragility of existence. I've transcribed about a third of CHapter 3 of The Donor in which Terry moves into the flat below his high school crush, and is surprised by what he finds when he moives in.
We saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory yesterday. I never would have gone on my own -- I hate Roald Dahl's work and I'm not generally drawn in by Tim Burton's work. However, I have to say the movie was excellent. Danny Elfman outdid himself on the music, and the cg and live action are beautifully integrated. There was a spin to the story too, which I don't think was there in the original and which I think improves it somewhat. It was, in any case, much less meanpspirited than the old movie.
(I'm tired. I just wrote the forgoing paragrpah with my eyes closed. I had about three typoes to fix. Proving I type as well, if not better, without vision.)
On other fronts, we went to the Greenwich steps on Saturday and saw the actual wild parrots of Telegraph Hill and today, driving along Calabasas Road in Watsonville, I was overflown by a bright yellow bird -- either a canary or an atypical oriole (we get the yellow ones, not the red or orange ones, and they are not common). While in the city we also nearly bought a forty dollar bottle of olive oil but the nice guy at the Molinari deli (a block away from Caffe Trieste, where Mark Bittner, the wild parrots guy, used to get free food as a payment for being a wonderful person) warned us off and steered us to -- a bottle costing sixteen dollars.
On still other fronts, I am about halfway through LIttle Dorrit and I have to say I'd cheerfully slap Dickens around a little for this book.
The guy at the only bookstore in Watsonville says his customers don't come looking for science fiction much. He did have a good selection og local authors, though.
Still no new word about any of the stuff I have out.
I wrote a little while waiting for Gloria to wake up from her nap. She's been having a power struggle with her son over what to do with her checkbook. He wants to keep it in a certain drawer unless it's being used and she wants to keep it in her purse. Both of them tell me the story of their discussions. We went to a fabric store but I failed to inspire her to do a sewing project. She has several very nice dresses she made in the past -- simple, clean lines, because she did it entirely with hand sewing tiny stitches, no machine work at all. I thought I might be able to lure her into some small project, but not today.
WHat I wrote was the beginning of the piece where the good bureacrat is a student intern at the bad camp, months after the massacre, and his job is reburying the dead. This part is about the resilience of children, and the fragility of existence. I've transcribed about a third of CHapter 3 of The Donor in which Terry moves into the flat below his high school crush, and is surprised by what he finds when he moives in.
We saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory yesterday. I never would have gone on my own -- I hate Roald Dahl's work and I'm not generally drawn in by Tim Burton's work. However, I have to say the movie was excellent. Danny Elfman outdid himself on the music, and the cg and live action are beautifully integrated. There was a spin to the story too, which I don't think was there in the original and which I think improves it somewhat. It was, in any case, much less meanpspirited than the old movie.
(I'm tired. I just wrote the forgoing paragrpah with my eyes closed. I had about three typoes to fix. Proving I type as well, if not better, without vision.)
On other fronts, we went to the Greenwich steps on Saturday and saw the actual wild parrots of Telegraph Hill and today, driving along Calabasas Road in Watsonville, I was overflown by a bright yellow bird -- either a canary or an atypical oriole (we get the yellow ones, not the red or orange ones, and they are not common). While in the city we also nearly bought a forty dollar bottle of olive oil but the nice guy at the Molinari deli (a block away from Caffe Trieste, where Mark Bittner, the wild parrots guy, used to get free food as a payment for being a wonderful person) warned us off and steered us to -- a bottle costing sixteen dollars.
On still other fronts, I am about halfway through LIttle Dorrit and I have to say I'd cheerfully slap Dickens around a little for this book.
The guy at the only bookstore in Watsonville says his customers don't come looking for science fiction much. He did have a good selection og local authors, though.
Still no new word about any of the stuff I have out.
Tags: