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I was supposed to meet Abhishek in "Miss Saigon" yesterday, but he didn't show up. I'd already ordered two coffees and, by golly, I drank them both. I strolled through the Chinatown on my way to AGO, a couple of hours early for "The Battle of Algiers" and so went into the museum and absorbed the shimmer and the glimmer, as well as an inordinate amount of violet and blue pastels, of the Turner-Whistler-Monet exhibition. Please god, let me NEVER grow to like impressionism. I love Turner, of course, because of the change he underwent, because a tradition broke through him like white light through a prism. (And because of the porn Ruskin destroyed, and I've been imagining in vain, lo these twenty years.) I sat outside and began leafing through the books I picked up in the library (finished the first volume of "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen"--LOVED the references to "The Pearl": Miss Coote's Confession, Lady Pokingham Or They All Do It etc.) when Abhishek appeared. Chatted a while, then my movie started. Tremendously interesting. Poor Algeria, poor all the poor of this bitter earth, ever poor and doomed to ever more poverty. Trudged home with 20 pounds of books hanging from my shoulder. Scarfed a salad, mussels, rye with wasabi mayo--che delizie. And so to bed. |