Well, the snow is a lovely birthday present.
Not a bad year on the whole: I aten't dead. I wrote
(mirabile dictu) a one-act play, a preface to
Of Cats and Elfins
, and a lecture on lunacy. I spoke and read at four cons, in Boston, Quincy, Montreal, and Dublin. I saw and heard some gorgeous things, like a house concert by Eliza Carthy and Heather Wood, and an exhibition of Helene Scherfbeck's paintings at the Royal Academy.
And I got to spend a lot of time playing with Fox, making ghost meringues and uproar. He has just (to my infinite joy) begun playing with words. He invents
Finnegans-Wake-like names for imaginary creatures, and tells us that he comes from Neptune. Right now, he hypercorrects his “d”s, so that modelling clay is (deliciously) “Plato.” Having told me one of his fantastical tales, he said, "Just kitting." Beat. "Just catting."
Aw.
Nine
Published on December 02, 2019 19:42