![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I am now writing from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
coffee_and_ink (M's) enviably book-filled apartment. She could rent it to bibliophiles by the hour.
Yesterday I spent most of the day at the Metropolitan Museum of art, after walking about thirty (short) blocks after two separate New Yorkers directed me in two separate wrong directions. Synchronicitously, there was an Andy Goldsworthy installation on the roof garden and a woman giving a talk about hm which started about five minutes after I walked in the museum. I dashed upstairs and listened to her discuss him and his environmental art projects and his feeling for nature and how he'd taught her to really look and observe and appreciate nature.
After the talk while I was pacing about the roof trying to get the perfect angle to photograph his split-rail domes enclosing stone stack pillars, I almost stepped on a perfect... minuscule... mouse. Yes, an eensy-weensy mouse was darting about the roof garden of the Met, while vistors attempted to shoo it into some tunnel where it wouldn't get stepped on. Some tried to direct it into the Goldsworthy installations, but although it would have been safe there, it couldn't have found any food or water in them. There was a visible sense of relief when it finally found its hole. Except from one lady, who loudly informed the mouse's champions that we'd be sorry we hadn't stepped on the vermin when we had the chance.
Today I met up with M and we went to the Strand, an enormous bookshop, where I tempted her to break her vow not to buy any more books till June, and walked away with a great many myself. I did not, however, purchase Crank, a YA problem novel about-- you guessed it-- crank. Written in blank verse. Three hundred pages of poems about crank.
Then we had pirogis and returned home in a taxi driven by a speed freak named Khan Mohammed, who almost crashed us on a bridge.Perhaps he was on crank. When I had almost given up hope of survival, his radio suddenly began loudly broadcasting a Bible-thumping preacher who was going on about SATAN. He sounded much like Ian McKellen's crazed preacher in Cold Comfort Farm who proclaims "there'll be no butter in Hell!"
Tomorrow: the Cloisters.
coffee_and_ink (M's) enviably book-filled apartment. She could rent it to bibliophiles by the hour.Yesterday I spent most of the day at the Metropolitan Museum of art, after walking about thirty (short) blocks after two separate New Yorkers directed me in two separate wrong directions. Synchronicitously, there was an Andy Goldsworthy installation on the roof garden and a woman giving a talk about hm which started about five minutes after I walked in the museum. I dashed upstairs and listened to her discuss him and his environmental art projects and his feeling for nature and how he'd taught her to really look and observe and appreciate nature.
After the talk while I was pacing about the roof trying to get the perfect angle to photograph his split-rail domes enclosing stone stack pillars, I almost stepped on a perfect... minuscule... mouse. Yes, an eensy-weensy mouse was darting about the roof garden of the Met, while vistors attempted to shoo it into some tunnel where it wouldn't get stepped on. Some tried to direct it into the Goldsworthy installations, but although it would have been safe there, it couldn't have found any food or water in them. There was a visible sense of relief when it finally found its hole. Except from one lady, who loudly informed the mouse's champions that we'd be sorry we hadn't stepped on the vermin when we had the chance.
Today I met up with M and we went to the Strand, an enormous bookshop, where I tempted her to break her vow not to buy any more books till June, and walked away with a great many myself. I did not, however, purchase Crank, a YA problem novel about-- you guessed it-- crank. Written in blank verse. Three hundred pages of poems about crank.
Then we had pirogis and returned home in a taxi driven by a speed freak named Khan Mohammed, who almost crashed us on a bridge.Perhaps he was on crank. When I had almost given up hope of survival, his radio suddenly began loudly broadcasting a Bible-thumping preacher who was going on about SATAN. He sounded much like Ian McKellen's crazed preacher in Cold Comfort Farm who proclaims "there'll be no butter in Hell!"
Tomorrow: the Cloisters.