goodnightmoon

History, what do you mean that Folkways Records was founded by the son of Sholem Asch who, as one last trick after the scandals of Jewish lesbians and Christian novels, wrote a version of the Nativity recorded for his son's record label by Pete Seeger? What kind of concatenation is that to drop on an unsuspecting person? And is there a reason no artist is credited with the pen-and-ink illustrations depicting the story in 1963 even as the prose sticks to its historical setting, which are maddening me with their sketch-expressive familiarity, although perhaps only because my grandmother had that kind of loose, scribbly, ink-washed line? Ben Shahn at least had the decency to sign his album art. The Claibornes' "Listen, Mr. Bilbo" could have had the luck to lose its relevance since 1946. History, the other kind of convergence was more fun. Listen while I tell you that the foreigners you hate are the very same people made America great.

In the midst of this week, we are in a block of doctor's appointments, but following this afternoon's I climbed up to the railings behind the Salem Street Burying Ground and hung over them with my camera, an operation which still put me in snow to mid-calf. Its winter-drifted gravestones date from the late seventeenth through the late nineteenth centuries, with one modern interpolation for the unmarked, enslaved dead. I should go back for their slate-carved winged skulls in spring.



The current sunset is one of those violet riots, but at the time of this photo, the clouds above the fan of trees were just starting to flush gilt-grey. That attenuated stretch of the Mystic that always looks more like an industrial canal than a river was a glaucous freeze at its margins and flat-skimmed snow down its center. I cannot believe I never encountered Socalled's Ghettoblaster (2006) until its twentieth anniversary. Then again, only forty years after the fact did it occur to me that I would have accepted The Last Battle (1956) much more readily if Lewis had made it Ragnarök instead of Revelations.

Mailing our census form back to the city turned out to be slightly more of a Shackletonian trek than I had prepared for, not because I had failed to notice the maze of sidewalks and driveways tunneled out of the snow-walls on our street or the thick-flocked snowfall that had restarted around sunset, but because I had expected some neighbor to have snowblown or at least shoveled the block with the post box on it. It stood amid magnificent, inviolate drifts. I waded. At 18 °F and wind chill, my hands effectively quit on me within five minutes, but even between their numbness and my camera's increasing preference not to, I did manage to take a couple of pictures I liked.

( Laughter doesn't always mean. )

JSTOR showcased Laura Secord with the result that I had to listen, thanks these aeons ago to ladymondegreen, to Tanglefoot.

It is a sign of how badly the last three years in particular have accordioned into one another that my reaction to discovering last year's new album from Brivele was the pleased surprise that it followed so soon on their latest EP. I am intrigued that they cover the Young'uns' "Cable Street" (2017), which has for obvious reasons been on my mind.

I can find no further details on the secretary from the North Midlands who appears in the second half of this clip from This Week: Lesbians (1965), but if there was any justice in the universe the studio should have been besieged with letters from interested women, because in explaining the problems of dating, she's a complete delight. "Well, that's the difficulty. In a way, it means that I have to keep making friends with people because I can't find out unless I make friends with them and then if they are lesbian, there's hope for me, but even then there isn't hope unless they happen to take to me!"

The snow has built a slice of six or eight inches against the glass of my office window, like the honeycomb of an observation hive. Out in the street it looks twice that height not counting the drifts which have crusted where the sidewalks used to be and swamped at least one car and its forlorn antennae of windshield wipers. I would have enjoyed more of the snowglobe of the day without the return of the phantom detergent which spatch could smell even through the storm as soon as he turned up North Street, but I took a picture early on in the snowfall. None of the needles are visible any more.



I can't believe no one has ever written a crossover between Mavis Doriel Hay's Death on the Cherwell (1935) and Dorothy L. Sayers' Gaudy Night (1935). It must have been unspeakably awkward for Oxford to suffer two unrelated criminal investigations in separate women's colleges in the same year. Just as Sayers modeled her Shrewsbury College on Somerville, Hay fashioned her Persephone College after her own alma mater of St Hilda's and then inflicts on it the discovery of the body of the college bursar by the same quartet of students who were meeting that afternoon to hex the victim with no expectation of such immediate or spectacular results. They plunge into the business of detecting with the same gestalt enthusiasm, a fast-paced, fair-play, often very funny blend of detective and campus novel as their amateur sleuthing attracts the competitive interest of an equivalent circle of male students as well as the police and the resigned relatives who starred in the author's previous Murder Underground (1934). Every now and then an appropriately chthonic allusion surfaces from the winter damp hanging over the river which loops around Perse Island and its contested territory to which an Elizabethan curse may be attached, but it's not, thank God, dark academia; the ordinary kind can be lethal enough. With its female-forward cast and its touches of social issues in the humor, it would have made a terrific quota quickie. "Undergraduates, especially those in their first year, are not, of course, quite sane or quite adult. It is sometimes considered that they are not quite human."

It delights me deeply that my mother regards the young Mel Brooks, as pictured c. 1949 in a recent edition of the Globe, as a snack.