On top of being flat, I appear to be actually sick with some kind of non-flu, non-COVID crud which makes my entire body feel as though it has a fever and my thermometer disagree with me. I was doing fine with just the two eye infections and the unremitting headache. My major achievement of the day besides feeding the cat and bringing a bag of groceries inside has been reading, most pleasantly Donald Swann's The Space Between the Bars: A Book of Reflections (1968).

As a reading experience, it suggests a journal that got away from its keeper. Despite several autobiographical chapters, it is not a memoir; it interrupts itself to redirect the disappointed reader toward the available oral histories of Flanders and Swann and it ends with the author in a devil's advocate argument with himself about the entire project. "Green baize flags! Good idea." The style throughout is conversational and the structure consciously disorganized on the principle that some of the most insightful traffic of ideas occurs at odd hours by chance, like the radio conversation in Chicago in 1961 which he assumed would be a ten-minute promotional spot when he agreed to it and which ran instead from eleven-thirty at night until two in the morning when the station turned out the lights. After the fashion of letters, or a column, or a blog, he will mention periodically that he is writing from a coffee shop in New York where the Muzak annoys him or that he has just taken a break from his chapter about Christmas Eve to see Mai Zetterling's Night Games (1966). I had no idea he had attended the Easter 1967 Central Park be-in, where he looked like a total square and had a wonderful time: he found the hippie ethos congenial and if he wasn't personally into the psychedelic scene, he respected its mystical side. "To the English eye, there was a resemblance to a good humoured Bank Holiday crowd, only the clothes were weirder." It would have been near the end of the tour of At the Drop of Another Hat. I had known about his Anglo-Russian, half-Muslim parentage which accounted for the Ibrahim in the middle of his otherwise amiably English-sounding name, but it was never clear to me how far he thought of himself as a mixed person and the answer seems to have been thoroughly. He is amazingly anti-nationalist, in a way that differentiates itself carefully from the love of people and places which he falls into on a regular basis, sometimes naively, always sincerely, sometimes without any roses in his glasses at all. Greece knocked him sideways during his time with the Friends' Ambulance Unit, but territorially, specifically, Epirus, Thesprotia, Igoumenitsa. A week in Tonga and he is already recording some of his favorite vocabulary and the musical notation. "If you were to draw me out on aspects of Britain that I admire I could run on for ages, from underground trains, an impartial judiciary and kippers, to its new fashion flair and its sudden ability to make coffee." His Christianity is a constant lens and it is similarly anarchic. He likes ritual, not organization. Syncretism thrills him as much as sectarianism gets him down. He has a perfectly lucid analysis of his experience of revelation climbing down the Mount of Olives at the age of twenty-one, having been relegated by dysentery from his work in a refugee camp in—call the projectionist, the millennium's stuck again—Gaza. "We are all minus each other, there is no one who cannot be my saviour." I can't tell if he knows that at one point he is quoting Hillel, but I have to hope from his paean to the cracks in things that before the end of his life he managed to discover Leonard Cohen. For that matter, I hope he remained a socialist. He was not unaware that his optimism was working uphill: "I assure you that after World War Two people talked the way I am doing now; they really thought there would be human rights, and had meetings about them . . . I am trying to reset the stage for a one world consciousness, and every morning newspaper is stopping me." I respect his intention not to have written a funny book, but Michael Flanders was not the only chronically clever case in that partnership. Also it is very difficult to tell people with a straight face that you almost fell off the Great Pyramid of Giza. Anyway, aside from making me feel justified in my longstanding affection for Swann based on little more originally than his tongue-twister modern Greek and his chaotic laugh, this unwieldily absorbing set of meditations provided a piece of invaluable intelligence:

"They are all pacifists there," said a man at a party in Boston to me. He had just been on a businessman's trip to GHQ Omaha, where they push the button that sets off the H bombs. Fortunately Tom Lehrer was also listening and he said: "Why don't they invite some Chinese and Russian generals instead of businessmen?" That stopped that.

I had never been sure if they knew one another socially outside of the shelves of record collections. Now I know. I have so many questions. Look at what can happen when you realize you have spent an entire month singing "20 Tons of TNT."

I aten't dead! I have been flat for the last two days and would have continued the practice except for No Kings, but since it turned out the nearest rally was a grand total of ten minutes from my house I walked them to practice my democratically rightful freedom of assembly in the brightly freezing afternoon and was rewarded with the unexpected company of a long-time and little-seen friend who is not on DW and some excellent signs and costumes, of which I confess myself the most impressed by the inflatable riding frog. It was one of a small party on the lesser island of the rotary which included an impressively starred-and-striped Uncle Sam and an otherwise normally dressed protester wearing an American flag top hat. I suspect these rallies of being the one context nowadays in which I do not side-eye the deployment of traditional patriotic imagery. The larger island hosted a solo and determined Make Orwell Fiction Again. I had a chance to compliment the sign against The Lyin King whose black-on-red silhouetting had gone particularly doom metal in the execution, like a kind of psychedelic death's-head poppy. A woman whose jacket was embroidered with dragons and her pants with forests carried signs for herself and her artistically antifascist high-schooler. We had no signs of our own—I said that I was queer and here and that was about what I was up for—but were welcomed onto the curb to wave at the traffic, standing next to No War in Iran. The drive-by honking was heartening and considerable. I felt prudent to have brought earplugs. The crowd meanwhile went wild for the SUV from Cambridge Immigration Law. Making eye contact with passengers and drivers who waved back or thumbs-upped felt as useful as the presence or the noise, especially when it was someone with a headscarf or visibly non-white. The Amazon driver absolutely leaned on the horn as they went through. We were a comparatively small group, but I was not physically capable of getting myself to Boston Common and glad to have been able to demonstrate at all. I want it to mean something beyond the carnival of free expression, although the free expression should not be taken for granted: just around this time of last year was the abduction of Rümeysa Öztürk. I am going to eat some chopped liver on a challah roll and return to irregularly scheduled flatness.

The train bears selkie southward again: we have affirmed that the important part is not the leaving, but the coming back. This visit was somewhat more flying than usual and complicated by just about everyone on both sides having run out of running on fumes some time last year if not the previous decade, but we had celebration and I was finally able to give her the shells and stones I had collected for her five months ago on Cape Cod, reminders of northern Atlantic. spatch and I have decided never again to pay attention to his phone when driving into Brookline. Making our way home from South Station, I was so pleased to see that the superstructure of the Northern Avenue Bridge has not yet been demolished and still stands as an installation of rust-flaked trusses, permanently perpendicular to its successor's flat concrete. What I would have called the new North Washington Street Bridge has been designated the Bill Russell Bridge since I first glimpsed it in miniature of the Zakim, a parabolic stickleback of white fish bones. We parked in the lot of Bill & Bob's for the first roast beef sandwiches of the season, so early the picnic tables had not been set up, and were introduced by WERS to the total delight of They Might Be Giants' "Wu-Tang" (2026) as we wound past the un-iced Mystic. Two days after a snow that stuck to all the branches, it is short-sleeved catkin spring, drive-with-the-windows-down weather. We watched the Charles and the Fort Point Channel scatter the same reflective blue as the sky.

selkie's birthday was duly observed with my parents and my husbands, a meal of much carnivory, and an apricot marmalade cake doused in whipped cream, strawberry sugar, and candles that burned like driftwood salts. Many deeply goofy photos were taken of various combinations of us. So much is wrong with the world and it is still true that my family for an evening is happy. A photogenic snow began to drift the streets as I drove everyone home.

On the way back from the MRI, in accordance with the local observance of the hundred and twelfth birthday of Wendell Corey, I found and talked to a dry stone wall.

I can't believe I dreamed an entire opera whose closing performance by a small local outfit I was all set to attend before it was canceled at the last unavoidable minute. It was a Gian Carlo Menotti from 1948 and had never before received a Boston premiere. I had read its libretto for years because it was full of sand and sea-haunting: No body that presses its mouth to the shore closer than your mouth to mine. No eye that fades into the haze of the sun more fixed than your eye to mine. No ship of a letter that crosses the seas faster than my hand to yours, unless it has foundered, unless it has torn on the black rocks of the heart. It had one of his terse, enigmatic titles, The Visitor. The company that had put it up was called Marmalade and Gold, an allusion whose meaning did not escape the event horizon of waking, and specialized in bare-bones, slightly more than concert performances of oddities or undeserved obscurities of the twentieth-century opera world: I remember perusing the catalogue of previous seasons on their website and approving of their choices, all of which I suspect of not existing outside of the hour or so I was asleep. Erich Wolfgang Korngold did write a bunch of operas, mostly before—very popular choice—leaving Germany, but I do not believe a 1932 Der lahme König was among them. I am having a terrible week for which the external world offers nothing in the way of respite and even if I didn't get to hear any of its music, I appreciate the inside of my head attempting to furnish a break of art.