gullyfoyle

The promised nor'easter has not yet materialized out of the escalating rain, but I have had in the main a really nice birthday observed with my parents, my brother, and my niece, including a hand-drawn card from the latter—a dragon in a party hat—and an almond cake with rosehip jam. I am in possession of an astonishing book-stack, featuring Tobias Wray's No Doubt I Will Return a Different Man (2021), Carys Davies' Clear (2024), and by some incredible sleight of used book stores, On Actors and Acting: Essays by Alexander Knox (ed. Anthony Slide, 1998). The latter looks like a windfall of material I would not have been able to locate for myself through the Internet Archive or JSTOR since much of it was published posthumously with the assistance of Doris Nolan, but at the moment I am deeply charmed that the introduction takes such pains to impress on the reader that on no account should be the quirky and sharply intelligent actor be confused with the blandly authoritative image of President Wilson, since coming from the exact opposite direction of his filmography I had already concluded that in the most complimentary sense, Alex Knox was something of a weirdo. Major points, however, for once while perusing tide pools with friends' children committing the extreme dad joke of suddenly shouting, "Kelp, kelp, I see anemone!" My niece and the twins are currently engaged in a late-over watch of The Black Stallion (1979), which they keep comparing to How to Train Your Dragon. thisbluespirit made me Elemental art of Clive Francis as Tungsten. I have a CD of the Dropkick Murphys' For the People (2025).

After a run of welcomely lovely days, it was perhaps inevitable but deeply resented that I should hit a couple that sucked on toast, logistically, emotionally, resource-wise. I lost one completely to driving to a doctor's appointment that could have been virtual and too much of this afternoon and evening was spent in the kind of frustrated flat uselessness that I hope counts as convalescence because otherwise it's even more of a waste than it feels to me. Without spending that much time in the car, I have been listening to a lot of college radio. Girl in Red's "I'll Call You Mine" (2021) turns out to be a queer outlaw ballad while Jay Som's "Float (feat. Jim Adkins)" (2025) is a sweetly affirming house party. I was doing all right with the Divine Comedy's "Achilles" (2025) until it pulled out Housman and Patrick Shaw-Stewart and then the video was directly in the line of Jarman. I am unduly entertained by the reference to methylene blue in Jealous of the Birds' "Tonight I Feel Like Kafka" (2016).

It is my birthday. I am forty-four years old, the age some fictional character must be. I woke to a pair of packages, one from nineweaving that proved to be Vaughn Scribner's Merpeople: A Human History (2020) and from my parents which was a DVD of The Sea Wolf (1941). Hestia was a small black round of purr like an extra present at the foot of the bed. It is bright and brisk and cloudless as all the classical autumns outside.

Most of the Draconids we saw tonight were short flashes like Morse in the mind of the dragon, but even through the faint haze and the half-sky shine of the harvest moon just past, we saw two true long-tailed fireballs like dragon-stars, streaking through Lyra and Boötes. Their radiant stands in Eltanin and Rastaban, the dragon's eyes. Meteors, too, feel like a gift for an erev birthday. I still dream one will earth itself in a field while I am watching.