Normally I am annoyed to lose an hour in spring – and elated to gain one in the fall.
It's not just getting to sleep late (my schedule is such that usually I could do that anyway), but the larger association with how I manage my life – I'm kind of full of the White Rabbit's "I'm late, I'm late", about everything that matters to me. (Yes, I know: frantic yet slothful – what can I say, people are contradictory.)
Not so annoyed today, however: the longer days are coming at a point when there is more time for me to concentrate, and the general feeling of well-being may translate into finishing projects. Even the ones left behind by V. are not too daunting (I'm going to get other people to help, frankly).
And as I'm up so late, while my computer finishes processing a mass of video data (I could leave it alone to finish everything, but of course it's sort of an attractive nuisance), the idea that it's 4 am rather than 3 am doesn't seem such a big deal....
And the whole weekend is suffused with a solitary pleasure (no, not that one – get your mind out of the gutter): re-reading, for the umpteenth time, Avram Davidson's The Phoenix and the Mirror – what a dazzling world, what a pleasure. This was the first of his 'Vergil Magus' novels, which were based on the medieval legends that transformed the Virgil of the Aeneid into a magician (it occurs to me that one of my postgraduates, the one working on Renaissance hermetic magic and music, would love this – perhaps I'll find him a copy for a graduation present when he finishes). Davidson had huge and dazzling erudite fun mixing facets of Imperial Roman and Renaissance Italian cultures in the way implied by such legends, not to mention playing etymological games that are sometimes intended to seem 'real' in our own world and sometimes not. And it's such a grand adventure, with such fascinating comrades....
Incidentally, the other night I had dinner with Spurious and his frequently-mentioned friend W. A fun dinner, although I managed to wreck my digestion for several nights afterward – and only recovered today (Bad Gut Nights are such a deep part of my experience, like dry skin, and dreaming, that they dictate my entire relationship to time and life). But what was really remarkable was finally getting to meet the infamous W.: Spurious is right, he does indeed say those smart but scathing, dark things, all the time. But what Spurious never mentioned – that I recall – is that W. has a charming, pleasant face and voice, plump cheeks and glasses: he is not the gauntly supercilious aristocrat that I had imagined... and that changes absolutely everything, the way an actor can change the meaning of a play just by looking a certain way. Here is this pleasant, amusing person, saying these dreadful things, but in a way that transforms their nature such that –
well, I finally understand the drama of their scenes together: it is not any kind of nihilistic black comedy; it's an affectionate, even familial, rather light comedy. You know: the way people say that Chekhov writes comedies.
So you see, Spring changes everything....
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