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Aug. 10th, 2001 09:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
threeplusfireOne of my longest stretches in Metro, from sometime around 4pm yesterday to at least 1am this morning.
Visited Keith and borrowed Moscow Circles. He was teaching it last semester and the class just gave up on the English translation because it's so weird. I'm looking around for my Russian dictionary in case I give up too. So many dictionaries in here.
My favorite red haired coffee girl was in, playing good music. I'm fond of Kim in that slightly off-kilter way I'm fond of certain women. Where I feel like I want to make her smile and open doors for her, Old New York sort of gallantry. I'd go down to get another glass of iced coffee to just to talk to her again.
Wrote for hours upstairs, in my favorite table by the window. Went through a lot of material, but it's still incomplete. I'm trying to finish a piece for my notebook project, and twisting something else into a short story. It felt good to write, write, write, all alone with the sun going down.
Between several larges glasses of coffee and the one chocolate chip cookie I felt very jittery and queer late into the night. It was hard to fall asleep, even though I only wanted to sleep.
The mail yesterday brought me surprises. A postcard from DC from my dear Folklorist-in-training and an article on Kafka's Prague out of The New Yorker from the Man down San Antonino way. Much as I mistrust the postal service, I like getting mail.
Visited Keith and borrowed Moscow Circles. He was teaching it last semester and the class just gave up on the English translation because it's so weird. I'm looking around for my Russian dictionary in case I give up too. So many dictionaries in here.
My favorite red haired coffee girl was in, playing good music. I'm fond of Kim in that slightly off-kilter way I'm fond of certain women. Where I feel like I want to make her smile and open doors for her, Old New York sort of gallantry. I'd go down to get another glass of iced coffee to just to talk to her again.
Wrote for hours upstairs, in my favorite table by the window. Went through a lot of material, but it's still incomplete. I'm trying to finish a piece for my notebook project, and twisting something else into a short story. It felt good to write, write, write, all alone with the sun going down.
Between several larges glasses of coffee and the one chocolate chip cookie I felt very jittery and queer late into the night. It was hard to fall asleep, even though I only wanted to sleep.
The mail yesterday brought me surprises. A postcard from DC from my dear Folklorist-in-training and an article on Kafka's Prague out of The New Yorker from the Man down San Antonino way. Much as I mistrust the postal service, I like getting mail.
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sometimes snail mail tastes more like escargot
Date: 2001-08-10 09:32 am (UTC)In the same sort of vein, not long ago I read The Garden of the Finzi-Continis by Giorgio Bassani. An extremely beautiful book, a postwar account of pre-holocaust Italy as the fascist antisemitic policies were closing in on the Jewish community of Italy in general, and the Finzi-Contini family in particular. It was made into a great film, but the film did not bring home the poignancy of what was lost in the Holocaust like the book does.
Re: sometimes snail mail tastes more like escargot
Date: 2001-08-10 12:59 pm (UTC)kafka's prague
Date: 2001-08-10 11:10 am (UTC)Re: kafka's prague
Date: 2001-08-10 01:10 pm (UTC)