Antics in the Forbidden Zone.
Mar. 19th, 2007 02:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sechan19I've been back home for less than a week, and I've already run one hell of gamut.
On Saturday, after breakfast and rabble rousing with my friends R. & S., I began the rigorous process of packing and moving. I loaded up my father's pickup truck with boxes of books (each weighing something in the neighborhood of Atlas' heavenly sphere) and a couple pieces of furniture, and over to the storage facility I went.
I had no trouble with the furniture, but when it came time to retrieve the books I had an accident. Climbing into the truck my bastard right foot decided - rather abruptly - to relinquish its grasp on the truck bed, and down I went with all my weight onto my right ring finger. And bickety-bam that poor little finger went, "tweak!" and promptly announced itself out of commission.
I carried the books into the storage anyway, and got back into the truck to have a better look at the damage. I could still make a fist, so I suspected it wasn't broken. There was always the possibility of a dislocation, though, and my finger was now moving in directions it hadn't previously been interested in. To make a long story short, I had it looked at by a competent party who announced it badly sprained, and I went about my business.
Business that Saturday included a house party in the area, in celebration of St. Patrick's Day. Music, drinking, dancing, and fire were all on the agenda. I gave myself a few hours beforehand to relax and prepare for the evening - which was beyond fantastic.
At first, when we arrived, I wasn't sure I wanted to stay. The events of the day had made me tired, and I was also hungry and little chilly from the night air. I was persuaded to stay and after a quick run home to secure some warm tights and cheese and an Irish Car Bomb at the scene I was fully in the mood for antics.
I don't think I could really describe everything, but in a nutshell: I had numerous enjoyable conversations, scratch-moded a few goofy guys, danced my booty off, saw some exquisite fire dancing, looked at the stars, and - in spite of my gimpified finger - climbed the perfect climbing-tree.
The tree incident was amusing. No one believed I could climb a tree, drunk or sober, and I received numerous compliments both during and after my tenure. The best came from a complete stranger. He mentioned that he'd been sure I'd fall out and kill myself. I explained to him that the tree was perfectly designed for climbing, having a number of strong, thick vines growing up the trunk that formed a veritable ladder.
"Are you a CC Girl?" he asked me.
"A what?" I asked.
"A Conservation Core Girl," he clarified.
"Oh, no!" I laughed. "I'm a Japanese Art Historian."
At which point said stranger's eyes bugged two-inches out of his face.
"Whoa," he said.
On Saturday, after breakfast and rabble rousing with my friends R. & S., I began the rigorous process of packing and moving. I loaded up my father's pickup truck with boxes of books (each weighing something in the neighborhood of Atlas' heavenly sphere) and a couple pieces of furniture, and over to the storage facility I went.
I had no trouble with the furniture, but when it came time to retrieve the books I had an accident. Climbing into the truck my bastard right foot decided - rather abruptly - to relinquish its grasp on the truck bed, and down I went with all my weight onto my right ring finger. And bickety-bam that poor little finger went, "tweak!" and promptly announced itself out of commission.
I carried the books into the storage anyway, and got back into the truck to have a better look at the damage. I could still make a fist, so I suspected it wasn't broken. There was always the possibility of a dislocation, though, and my finger was now moving in directions it hadn't previously been interested in. To make a long story short, I had it looked at by a competent party who announced it badly sprained, and I went about my business.
Business that Saturday included a house party in the area, in celebration of St. Patrick's Day. Music, drinking, dancing, and fire were all on the agenda. I gave myself a few hours beforehand to relax and prepare for the evening - which was beyond fantastic.
At first, when we arrived, I wasn't sure I wanted to stay. The events of the day had made me tired, and I was also hungry and little chilly from the night air. I was persuaded to stay and after a quick run home to secure some warm tights and cheese and an Irish Car Bomb at the scene I was fully in the mood for antics.
I don't think I could really describe everything, but in a nutshell: I had numerous enjoyable conversations, scratch-moded a few goofy guys, danced my booty off, saw some exquisite fire dancing, looked at the stars, and - in spite of my gimpified finger - climbed the perfect climbing-tree.
The tree incident was amusing. No one believed I could climb a tree, drunk or sober, and I received numerous compliments both during and after my tenure. The best came from a complete stranger. He mentioned that he'd been sure I'd fall out and kill myself. I explained to him that the tree was perfectly designed for climbing, having a number of strong, thick vines growing up the trunk that formed a veritable ladder.
"Are you a CC Girl?" he asked me.
"A what?" I asked.
"A Conservation Core Girl," he clarified.
"Oh, no!" I laughed. "I'm a Japanese Art Historian."
At which point said stranger's eyes bugged two-inches out of his face.
"Whoa," he said.
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no subject
Date: 2007-03-22 02:30 pm (UTC)I've put up two of the paintings (the Buson cityscape, and the Gyokudo portrait) on that same post. Wasn't sure if you'd see it, so I thought I'd poke you here.
PS I love that kind of reaction you can get from people. "So... what do you do?" "Well, I'm a Japanese pre-modern historian." "..." ^_^