Joke stolen from the Rutles film

rysmiel's recent Chenanigans reminded me that I made this a while ago & it never got an airing:

"Shea Stadium, named after the famous Cuban revolutionary Shea Stadium."

No, okay, it doesn't work written down, because you have to collapse the homonymic pun. Schroedinger's punchline. And I was much less proficient with Photoshop then, too, as you can tell. But you get the general idea.

Ho hum.

Argh!

I am dim. Being away from Wednesday to Wednesday means that I will miss not one but two orchestra rehearsals, so I should have left my music with somebody else last week. As it is now I have to send grovelling emails and try to meet up with somebody between now and Wednesday to give them my music. And I knew I had to rearrange karate lessons, and felt pleased with myself when I (finally) got round to doing that today, booking a lesson in for Tuesday October 5th, and resigning myself to missing Portfolio that night. But now I realise that Tuesday 5th is when KofC are playing the Corn Exchange. I haven't actually bought tickets yet, so theoretically that's the one that I ought to drop, but, argh. Also, if I miss two rehearsals in a row now, I really can't miss another one for Magnetic Fields, so I think that really will have to go. Damn and blast and curse the whole bloody mess. NEED MORE DAYS IN THE WEEK.

Reading in the boudoir

Tidying my room, these were the books I discovered kicking around on my floor:

( a peculiar selection of bedtime reading )

There's no place like home

Talking of Wolvercote, vinaigrettegirl reminded me of a walk I did with one of my partners when we were living in Oxford, before the -- and the -- and when we -- and then it all -- and, and.

We walked from Marston to Wolvercote, and from there down over Port Meadow, picking our way through the remainder of floods in the gathering dark, and by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Jericho and environs. A lovely walk, just at this kind of time of year, with the air bright and knife-edged and glittering with yesterday's rain. And thinking of that takes me back to a later time, crossing the river in the fog with a new partner on the way to watch a meteorite shower, and I felt that we were standing in a place out of time, on a bridge between worlds, bound up in clouds and the hopes half-glimpsed like indistinct shapes in the darkness, and he felt ... well, I never really knew what he felt at all.

The conversation that reminded me of this started with Kidlington, though, and I've never really been to Kidlington, only passed through it one time when I started cycling North because it was out of Oxford, and I had no idea where I was going except Away but I got to -- what's the one after Kidlington? -- before giving up and turning round because it was dark and cold and raining. And on the way back I passed a sign to "The Midlands" and burst into tears because The Midlands was the closest to Home at that point, where my parents were, and I wanted more than anything else in the world to go home.

I can't remember why I was feeling like that, there were so many things that hurt in those days -- was it me who broke my heart? did I have a heart to break? -- but I'm older and harder now and if I have to run away and hide I stay out in the open where nobody can tell I'm hiding. But I think it's just that sometimes you just have to go as far as you can go in one direction before you remember that you don't have anywhere else to run to because the things you are running away from are tied up in a bundle of rags on your back and the things you are looking for are right there in your own back yard. And if they weren't there in the first place, why then, you never really lost them.