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Date: 2013-01-18 01:36
Subject: The windows reverberate, the walls have ears
Security: Public
Music:June Tabor, "Where Are You Tonight, I Wonder?"
I was woken this morning by a realtor who had mistaken me for someone with whom he had an appointment later that afternoon to show a one-bedroom apartment over a bakery in Sullivan Square. I had to remind him gently that no, I was the person who'd walked in off the street last night and been told all their properties were out of my price range. To his credit, he did not actually make the noises of someone trying to stick their entire fist in their mouth à la Rimmer in Red Dwarf, but the rest of the conversation was very brief. He said he'd keep my contact information just in case anything turned up. I just hope whoever really had that appointment took the place.

On the deaths of people you hadn't realized were still alive, derspatchel said, "There is sometimes this feeling, when you hear of a death like that (and I'm sure the Germans have a compound word for it) of 'My god, I could have still written him! I could have communicated with him!'" The conversation had started with Conrad Bain, but I had just been mentioning Christopher Fry, who I consider my worst case of that particular shock. I was in New York City to hear Waterson:Carthy with nineweaving in the summer of 2005. We had just bought some books at the Strand. I thought he'd been dead since the '70's. I might have written to him if I'd known there was anyone still in East Dean to receive the letter; he gave me a touchstone play, a textblock in my LJ profile that after eight years still doesn't embarrass me, and an array of evocative verse shorthand for emotional situations (I love you, but the world's not changed/I was only suggesting fifty years of me/THIS WILL ALL BE GONE INTO AT THE PROPER TIME). I did write to Diana Wynne Jones in late 2010, when it was clear she would not recover from her cancer; I do not know if she received my letter, but it mattered to me to send one. I still wish I'd thought of writing to Lloyd Alexander, whose death felt like a piece of the landscape dropping out from underneath me as I sat checking my e-mail on a mattress on schreibergasse's floor in New Haven. And then we started wondering who we should write to now, in case an inopportune bus comes out of the scenery tomorrow. The problem with the still alive?! list, though, as Rob pointed out, is you never know who's on it until suddenly they're not.

Most of tonight was spent at Papagãyo on Summer Street with several people I hope to see this weekend at Arisia. Crazily loud, but I may have found a tequila I will voluntarily drink. I think that's a good thing.
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