radfrac_archive_full: (dichotomy)
The basement suite gets a fair amount of turnover because it is a basement suite, and a particularly oddly constituted one, being composed of the leftovers of two suites combined when the landlords took over part of one of them for their own use – I think I have that right.

The current guy – my laundry buddy – was away in the summer, and a student – I think of computer science – was subletting. I’d meet the subletter out in public or on the bus and not be sure who he was, only that I recognized him. These days that usually means I’m speaking to a former student, which meant I greeted him with the wrong flavor of solicitude – how are you doing these days? Rather than how’s the basement.

I have a new fridge, because the old one died – this one was standing out in the rain for some weeks, but fridges appear to be sturdy creatures, and it works. It is two inches deeper than my last fridge, so it stands on a pair of narrow boards that jut out from the original platform. It’s not aesthetic, but it keeps my food cold. It is a very noisy fridge, but its particular note is less irritating than the previous one. This one sometimes starts up a bubbling liquid cascade that makes it sound like a giant aquarium.

This LJ is really just an archive – I don’t know why I keep topping it up.

Sometimes I check back with my local friends’ journals, but we’ve all moved on to more ephemeral (or at least harder to recover) social media. I went off to grad school, and by the time I got back the Internet had moved on.

It would be nice if we all had a talky place again, one conducive to thoughtful posts. The journal format is slow and a little bit clunky, but that seems to help with thinking things through a bit.

A big one for elegies, me. An elegy every moment and an extra one, for good measure, for the future, which will also be lost.

Mind you, I have started a possibly regular D&D game at my house, so there's that.

radfrac_archive_full: (dichotomy)
I have this thing going with the guy in the basement suite. It's entirely chaste, but I think -- I hope -- it's a mutually satisfying exchange.

I live in the magnificent shack in the back yard, but I do my laundry in the entryway to the basement suite in the main house. The suite is a strange knocked-together labyrinth with two bathrooms,s created by fusing a pair of existing suites. Tenancy changes over every six to twelve months. Right now there's a young guy -- an astronomer, I think? Physicist? He told me, but I forget. He has science books lined up on his windowsills (at ankle height from outside). I've run into him once or twice and he seems affable, funny.

Once or twice his laundry's been in the dryer when I needed to use it, as will happen. Instead of cramming all of his laundry higgledy-piggledy onto the small stand next to the dryer, which act seems a little hostile, I use a trick I learned from a tenant in my last building: I fold his clothes.

I don't fold his underwear. My feeling is that you don't want to think about your middle-aged neighbor folding your underwear (unless you do, but I feel confident he doesn't). Instead, I pile it unobtrusively on the towels and put everything else on top of it like, "Oh, was there underwear here? I didn't even notice it." I think these things through. Still, it must be disconcerting to arrive home (or wake up) and find your laundry ghost-folded.

The day after I first folded his laundry, I found taped to the dryer a Ziploc bag with "THANKS" written on it in Sharpie and a five-dollar bill inside.

It seems to me that five dollars is exactly the right amount to create symmetrical confusion between us. Well calculated, Science Guy.

I left the money in place for several days, but he didn't take it back. Finally I took it, because, well, five dollars. I went to the store, bought some stain remover, and put it in the laundry room with a sticky note that said "FOR COMMUNAL USE".

Yesterday I again had occasion to remove his laundry and fold it. I am learning some good tricks, like the way you can let the shirt drop against your knee, quickly fold the sleeves in, and then double it over, all in one movement. Very satisfying.

Later that same day: another baggie, another five dollars. This time I bought some Febreeze.

I hope he's enjoying this as much as I am.



Oct. 21st, 2007 04:00 pm
radfrac_archive_full: (Ben Butley)
What does this remind you of?

Ten minutes to midnight: a pious Friday in May and a fine river mist lying in the market square. Bonn was a Balkan city, stained and secret, drawn over with tramwire.

What if I write it like this?

Ten minutes to midnight: a pious Friday in May
and a fine river mist lying in the market square.
Bonn was a Balkan city, stained and secret,
drawn over with tramwire.

It's the first two sentences of John Le Carré's A Small Town in Germany. I picked it up in the laundry room this morning to leaf through while I was waiting for the chime of nine to begin on my bedding.

When I read it out loud, I notice not only the alliteration, but the particular double stress in each line. I think of, hmm, where's a representative bit...

One Christmas in Camelot King Arthur sat
at ease with his lords and loyal liegemen
arranged as brothers round the Round Table.
Their reckless jokes rang about that rich hall
till they turned from the table to the tournament field
and jousted like gentlemen with lances and laughs,
then trooped to court in a carolling crowd.

I like to think Le Carré was flipping through "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight" at his writing desk. Though I did not notice any bob and wheel.



radfrac_archive_full: (Default)

April 2017

2 3 4 5678
9 101112131415


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 22nd, 2017 12:52 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios