Thomas is off in the fantastical story-worlds of Wayfinder, my Doctor without his companion. But I had my own adventure over Independence Day weekend — Kyle invited me to his grandparents’ lakeside house in Connecticut. We ran in the wooded trails behind his high school, with the sweetest air I’ve tasted. I met his myriad friends and family, lounging with them by the dock, staying up late launching Roman candles from our hands (pretend you didn’t read that, oh parents mine), and sleeping in our middle-class tent town. I ended the weekend with a bunch of new friends of my own!

One by one the girls got invited to a photo shoot by Kyle’s photo pro mom, Laurie Klein. It looked so silly as they floated in the water sticking their faces through gauzy fabric, but it felt bad to get left out — until I poked my head out of my book and promptly found out how much fun it was to be a model! Having a camera on me made me feel so glamorous, without a hint of flattery. And the photos afterwards were miraculous. Miraculously spooky! We four were transformed through the gauze and the infra-red into monsters, witches, drown victims, ghosts, and in my case, a creepy black-eyed little girl. The camera is a Transmogrifier.

Now, all you sensitive vegetarians out there were secretly cringing this summer holiday as their fellows scrape the grease of the innocent off their grills. (I get carried away with the words sometime! Woe to the folks who were eating eggs the morning I accidently put forth my chicken-menstrual-cycle comparison.) I, on the other hand, was happy to go against the grain (but really, I’m just going against the meat) and celebrate the Fourth like the Torrie I am — too much of a pacifist to think that a few political gripes were worth full-on war with all the suffering and death that entails, and thus unable to get behind the pride which winning that war is supposed to inspire. But you know what? With succulent vegetables and sweet corn on the grill, and a few vegetarians to wink at over the perfectly seasoned portobello burgers, I wasn’t all that unpatriotic. And we can all get behind big colorful explosions.

Happy summer, everyone!

It was surprising to see how different her meandering backyard garden looked both from native-minded Pacific Northwest gardens, which go in for the grasses and smaller-leafed shrubbery, and from the lawn-with-a-border types in the old colonial estates. In terms of design, I much prefer the ones with a canopy layer that blocks the view somewhat, encouraging you to go in further and explore — gardens that indeed feel “secret”, as the title of the tour suggests, and perhaps a little wild. Mount Auburn Cemetery a great example, with its hills and trees creating myriad pockets of peaceful contemplation. In fact, it was the first cemetery in the US to be designed by a landscape architect, the first to follow in the European Rural Cemetery Movement that substituted wilderness-like parks for constricted church graveyards. This tradition continued to gain popularity and became the inspiration for the National Parks. The values here were to preserve nature as a space shared by humans, other animals, and plants, and a space that benefited us as much as them.

This was the sort of thing that Tallamy discussed in his talk: the need to bring back these shared spaces, and even more importantly, our desire to have them. Currently the National Parks are just too small and disconnected to protect most species, and the vast swathes of urban and agricultural “desert” lead many to become “functionally extinct” — no longer participating in their local ecosystems. Tallamy said that a third of all bird species are “imperiled”, in danger of becoming functionally extinct. Already many species are undergoing local extinctions due to habitat loss, something that is nostalgically captured in the book Ceremonial Time. Ecosystem collapse is a huge problem that directly impacts humans because we depend on many “ecosystem services” that we import into our cities and suburban sprawls, things like oxygen and the pollination of food crops. Instead of living off the interest, Tallamy says, we are dipping into the principle, which in this case is the carrying capacity of our landscapes.

He says sustainability is like pregnancy: you can’t be a little pregnant, and you can’t be more sustainable. The carrying capacity of a landscape is how many species and individuals it is able to sustain indefinitely. Biodiversity increases the carrying capacity, creating more habitat and food opportunities, and weaving a redundant food web that can better adapt to change. Front and back yards take up a tremendous amount of real estate, and so have a tremendous capacity increase a region’s biodiversity, but all too often these end up as wasted space. Empty swathes of grass. Carefully pruned rose bushes. Imported fancy-pants plants. Landscapers and horticulturalists are trained as “painters”, not as systems thinkers. They’re not trained to care.

There’s no better example of this than the fact that most people want insect-free gardens. Now this is crazy, as Tallamy explains, because insects are the basis for most food webs, since they make up a large portion of the diets of everything from birds to bears. So we spray everything and pull out the natives that serve as bug habitat, and then bemoan the loss of birds and butterflies. Yet even the bugs themselves aren’t necessarily ugly — Tallamy put up some slides of caterpillars crawling around in his backyard that looked like exotic sea slugs! The trick is to attract enough insects to attract their predators. He showed data showing that native plant gardens had the same or less aesthetic damage than those with conventional non-natives. And they certainly attracted way more birds — Tallamy said that while some people go on bird walks to spot the great plumage on display, he just has to go look out his bathroom window.

Tallamy’s audience already cared about plants and animals. After all, they were garden enthusiasts. But the problem is that most people nowadays don’t experience the outdoors — and so they don’t develop an emotional relationship with it. One of the things I see a lot, whether in discussing veganism or politics or philosophy, is a lack of empathy. Empathy is a muscle that gets bigger with exercise, but I suspect many people neglect to do so because it hurts. Extending empathy means feeling more of other people’s pain, other animals’ pain, and the pain of entire ecosystems collapsing around us. Yet it’s worth practicing empathy because otherwise we harden ourselves to the things we really ought to care about — and as it becomes a large-scale phenomenon, we find that we ourselves join the suffering because no one cares about us anymore, either. And although ecosystems don’t form emotional attachments to us, they do care for us in some pretty fundamental ways.

While I dream about tearing up roads and putting in a network of high-speed railways and replacing agricultural pastureland and monocultures with food forests, building thriving habitats in our yards is a much more realistic goal — and judging by the beauty of the native-focused gardens I saw around Cambridge yesterday and the abundance of wildlife I saw in Tallamy’s photographs, I predict no one will want to be left out of (what he calls) the new Suburban National Park. He ended with an anonymous quote that I immediately took to heart: “Gardening is a way of showing that you believe in tomorrow.”

Winter is dithering into summer over here, with the early spring being punctuated by horrendous rains and bustling thunder storms. The past week has been all blue skies and humidity, and a cool breeze promising change yet again. I’ve been alternating busy days, going to goings-on with Rachael — who can now hobble with the best of them, after the set-back of her second surgery — and setting up my imaginary apartment in Providence. Imaginary until yesterday, that is, when it magically appeared on my first scouting mission. It’s got hardwood floors, thick walls, a view on the lovely little neighborhood on a big, steep hill. It’s walking distance from RISD and Whole Foods and a Portland-style shopping street replete with cafes and consignment shops. Thomas and I are jumping with joy from coast to coast!

Since I last wrote, after getting back to Cambridge, I’ve gone to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts with Amy, seen mechanical wonders at the MIT Museum, willingly suffered through an art history lecture at the Harvard Art Museum, failed to get hired for several jobs, had a picnic tea party with Judith, attended a home harpsichord concert for Reed alumni, met a bunch of Amy and Thomas’s friends at a graduation party, taken the kitties to their cat-doctor appointments, gotten creamed in Scrabble by Rachael’s friend Hank, and watched a batch of baby spiders launch themselves one by one into what for them is a much wider world.

It’s true, I’ve been shy. Much too shy. It’s difficult to make friends and easy to wander around by myself in my own head, or get overtaken by errands and cooking and the miscellany of everyday life. I forget after a while that I need to socialize, for I am easily overwhelmed by too much of it, and then I am too cocooned to want to see people. Rachael is a great help, now that she’s up to going places, but I’ve also taken the initiative by signing up for a one-shot at the local game place, Pandemonium, and organizing get-togethers with Kyle and other of the Gordaniers’ friends and Rachael’s adopted children. This is something that Thomas is much better at, that and going with the flow — it’s one of the many reasons I miss having him around. But not for much longer! Summer approacheth.

What else would I spend $300 on besides… Renn Fayre: The Final Frontier? It was calling to me. Amy would be in Cambridge to take care of her mom, JetBlue was having a sale, and the theme was Star Trek. The hullabaloo about the Portland police going undercover in the hopes of busting open the drug scene ended up reddening their cheeks when Reedies were found not to be tripping so much as geeking the heck out. When Fox News ‘coptered themselves over campus Saturday morning, the Picters flipped them the bird and arranged their naked, blue butts to spell out messages. Meanwhile the local public television folks were having a blast, tagging along for an impromptu fake campus tour (“And then the Kerr Marmot pushed the Doyle Owl off the roof and fed him his children on a platter. And if you come to Reed, you’ll get the reference!”) and filming our cut-throat game of Swedish lawn bowling (in which I mercilessly threw my baton as Thomas, on the opposing team, taunted me with dove eyes, and it hit him instead of the kube I was trying to knock over).

Thesis Parade was a parade of science fiction. A sea of sparkly aliens, Red Shirts, a complete cast of Star Wars characters (including an AT-AT!), Star Fleet officers from every star date, and a handful of Doctor Who’s. Thomas and I didn’t get into full costumes until Saturday, when we went as Simon and Kaylee from Firefly — sadly, we had no Mal, only a chamagne-disheveled Wash, someone who accidently looked like River, and half of a Two-by-Two-Hands-of-Blue. But my, did my handsome-one look super-dashing in his vest and nose-perched shades!

When Thesis Parade lost its momentum and flooded the front lawn, and the Chunk Tower fell — my first time observing its fall! –, and it was getting chilly for the masses who were soaked with alcohol inside and out, my friends gathered in the hallowed halls of Tir na nOg to watch the new Star Trek movie. What could be more festive?

Unfortunately, being on East Coast time, I woke up bright and early the next morning and dragged Thomas out of bed with me. There had been hearty approval of my plan to meet at the food carts for brunch when I proposed it the night before! But no one was up — no even the food cart folks. Instead we wandered around a quiet campus, and settled in White Lodge for a nap in its twinkle-light-lit, pillow-filled womb.

And then we met everyone for brunch. And then, because the Tesla Coil was broken, we got in line for lunch. The Feast is always a stupendous event, and even the line is exciting as you talk with gathering friends and munch on the strawberries and ganache they bring by. My only objection is that a huge feature is Meat Smoke, a group of well-meaing folks who set up (what would otherwise be awesome) Pirate Camp on the far side of campus, and cook god-knows how many animals for the ravenous hordes. They bring out a whole pig, its body tied to its spit, and then cut it and serve slabs of flesh on a platter adorned with the poor thing’s head. It’s gross to see people slobbering over the stuff and shoving platefuls in their faces. (Very Lord of the Flies.) Yet I was not the only one veering away from the tables of carnage, and the vegetarian line got ahold of such delicacies as homemade bagels and hummus, roasted pear salad, too much berry cobbler, and those viral kale chips.

The event of the evening was quite possibly the best fireworks show yet. They did a whole scene of my favorite purple fireworks with white sparklers, and a whole act was performed to Carl Sagan remix music. Afterwards we hung out in Black Lodge for their Classical Hour, featuring such wonders as The Planets and Night on Bald Mountain. Unfortunately I didn’t get myself dancing until Sunday, but I then filled my quota to overflowing by moving continuously to March Fourth’s entire set. Their trumpets don’t let up, their clowns-on-stilts don’t let up, their energy just keeps electrifying the air and compelling me to dance!

Actually, that wasn’t the first time I danced on Sunday. My friends surprised me by meeting me for my 5 AM shift at the Peanut Butter and Sorry-We’re-Out-Of-Jelly Station, and the next four hours sailed by along a happy breeze, including such highlights as chatting with one senior about his studies in Egypt, and swing-dancing with Kellyn. I was so happy to smile as “customers” filed in, mostly people who stayed up all night and were ready for freshly brewed coffee, warm popcorn, oreos, and the eponymous peanut butter. Maybe I would enjoy running a cafe someday!

In the end, even my early-bird bones can’t deal with this mad schedule without faltering. I ended my shift and went for a nap in the MLLL, comic book by my side. It was enough sleep to get me jumping up and down for the end of the Math vs. Chem softball game, though! Poor Math kept winning, despite my enjoyment of it, causing them to miss the Feast and then to wake up early. Their streak ran out when Max tore his tendon in the next game, sliding into home base and immediately requesting a beer. Suffice to say they didn’t play well after that.

The day ended with a massive number of people eating dinner at the Delta, and a small number proceeding on to Gavin’s for a showing of The Last Star Fighter. I vaguely remember it from my childhood, yet its campiness charmed us all — and nothing quite as much as dear Beta. As with Renn Fayre, as Thomas said, any of its shortcomings can be forgiven in light of its geekiness. I tried to figure out if it was going to be worth the money to fly across the country for a long weekend, but they say money makes us happiest when it’s spent on experiences. And no purchased object would be as precious as the time I just spent with friends and family. And no means but flying can take me where NO ONE HAS GONE BEFORE!

Before Rachael got home, we celebrated Joan’s birthday with sesame snap cookies — perfect for the woman who sees the ravaging effects of bad lifestyle choices every day as a nurse, and chooses to avoid processed and refined foods like the plague they are — and a rather Italian-seasoned tempeh stir-fry that I didn’t know I was making until I showed up. Joan reminds me of a hummingbird, beautiful and poised and high-energy. Her sister-in-law, Carol, is equally a ball of happy energy, but with a silly ease that cares not what others think. Their husbands, Rachael’s brothers Allyn and Gib, are mellow counterpoints to their partners, grounded and chill. Though, as I’m fast learning, all the Dorr siblings will talk your ears off if you give them half a chance, long and strolling ballads of life.

I woke up Wednesday morning, the day of Rachael’s homecoming, ready to organize the moving of her bed downstairs, and the resulting cascade of furniture finagling. I thought there would be brothers, band members, someone with half an iota of upper-body strength. Shows what I know: Scott woke up and admitted it was just us two. Could we do it…? After an hour of pondering, scootching, pushing, and wishing Rachael didn’t have a mechanical frickin’ bed, the answer was: Heck YES!

Now I have a captive audience for my delicious concoctions: fluffy warm slices of whole-wheat no-knead bread topped with scallion-sunflower pesto or lentil-walnut pate, rosemary beet and red lentil soup, lemon-tahini kale chips, and a fantastic seat-of-my-pants salad with massaged kale, apple, celery, scallions, almonds, dried cranberries, and umi plum vinaigrette. Not only that, but Rachael has coached me to making a top-notch espresso. My culinary skills know no bounds! (Except, of course, for animal products — Gavin and his girlfriend Amy are staying the week, and the meat they left marinating in the fridge this morning caught me off-guard and left me nauseated. I could barely bring myself to pick up eggs for Rachael last week. Oy, I’m getting worse, aren’t I?)

The glass is half full. Or perhaps the espresso mug. Because otherwise it would be too strong, right?

I am practicing at being a crazy cat lady. Except that in my case, the cats are driving me crazy: Molly, the old matriarch, yowls loudly outside my door at all hours of the night and wee morning — and when I let her in, she yowls loudly into my face. Anyone know Feline for “I’m now have perpetual circles under my eyes and I don’t want to pet you right now?” Then there are the carpenter ants that are doing a survey of the kitchen and making forays up my legs. I suppose the good thing is that I’m not alone, even though Rachael is skiing in Montana and Scott, a member of Morgan’s band, is away at work all day.

So I spend my time reading, walking to the library, running down the red brick sidewalks of Harvard Street, checking off recipes from my ever-lengthening list, eating the delicious products of that task, practicing the ocarina like a mad songbird, and constructing polyhedrons out of origami. Also writing limericks for job applications. Seriously! Not only was my mind blown by finding actual “Help Wanted” signs posted here and there around town, there was one posted outside of Berry Line — god of the frozen yogurt and, since I’m vegan, the “can I just have the toppings?” cups. They wanted me to email them a resume and an autobiographical paragraph, and knowing them to be a hip bunch, I figured they’d appreciate a little something to set myself apart from the crowd. Clearly cleverness and originality are key skills in the food service industry!

Fortunately I have not been devoid of human companionship, either. While Thomas was here during his spring break I got to hang out with his friends, and now I get to hang out with his family. His cousin Rebecca and her partner Larry and their new puppy Wally invited myself and Ethan, Rebecca’s brother, to their awesome artist’s loft for dinner and a movie. Rebecca is a fanatic for fresh, whole foods — a kindred spirit — and she made a fantastic tempeh and squash chili. Then Larry showed me around their apartment, complete with a staircase made of salvaged dorm furniture, and his studio down the hall — a hall lined with other artists’ sculptures and paintings and projects — where he makes films for fun and profit. He is a great lover of Lovecraft, and has plenty of eldritch props lying around. When their friends Alison and Mike showed up, we rolled down the huge projector screen and watched my first Wes Anderson film, The Fantastic Mr Fox. It was a good time all around!

On Easter, I was adopted by Joan — Rachael’s sister-in-law — and her husband Allyn and their daughter Ashley (their son Morgan was off in Maryland with the band). We walked to Harvard Square in the effusive sunshine, dined outside at Grendel’s, and then made an excursion to Mt Auburn Cemetery. Appropriate for Easter Sunday, no? Well, more appropriate than reading ST’s God’s Defenders: What They Believe and Why They Are Wrong, anyway. Being the first landscaped cemetery — a park turned to less frivolous activities, really — and populated by the most upstanding New England surnames, we spent more time reading the names attached to the trees than engraved on the stones. Ashley loved the Weeping Beech — as in, “stop crying, you weeping beech!” — and Joan was rocking the Flaximus americana. We also saw a little tortoise and a big blue heron and the fancy-pants mausoleum of the founder of the Christian Scientists. Later I tried not to lie to Angela, the angry Brazilian cleaning lady, about not having gone to church, but perhaps a graveyard counts for something.

Now excuse me while I take a cat-free nap.

Robert Service wrote a lot of war poetry, which is off-topic for me expect for the brilliant and undecipherably-Scottish “Haggis of Private McPhee,” and also cowboy poetry that my Uncle Mike tried to get me excited about way back when. But he also has Weird poetry — as in the genre somewhere between Horror, Fantasy, and Magical Realism, and mostly known only by fans of Lovecraft — set in the Alaskan wilderness. There is “The Ballad of the Black Fox Skin,” about a demonic fox who torments a hunter and then sparks a jealous rage in all who seek its glossy pelt; and the tale of the geas brought about by a friend’s dying wish in “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” These are wild adventures that are wicked fun to read aloud.

We traded poets with S T, actually, when he was looking for examples of Weird poetry. We pointed him to Robert Service, and he pointed us to Clark Ashton Smith. Smith writes like Extract of Lovecraft, combining the most fantastical imagery with the most obscure verbosity imaginable. The glossary in The Last Oblivion — yes, they had to include a glossary in a book of poetry — doesn’t even capture it all. But because this is poetry, the sounds of the words does as much justice as their meaning. The rhyming schemes are not at all cloying, and instead lull you into the imagery to build up to a cosmic awe that recalls the dizzying vastness of staring into a cloudless night sky and feeling at once infinite and infinitely insignificant.

Check this out (from “The Hashish Eater”):

[...] Things
Whose lightless length would mete the gyre of moons–
Born from the caverns of a dying sun
Uncoil to the very zenith, half-disclosed
From gulfs below the horizon; octopi
Like blazing moons with countless arms of fire,
Climb from the seas of ever-surging flame
That roll and roar through planets unconsumed,
Beating on coasts of unknown metals; beasts
That range the mighty worlds of Alioth rise,
Afforesting the heavens with mulitudinous horns
Amid whose maze the winds are lost; and borne
On cliff-like brows of plunging scolopendras,
The shell-wrought towers of ocean-witches loom [...]

Some of his work reminds me of the Lotus Sutra, being a less horrific and more resplendent view of the universe. For example, “The Motes:”

I saw a universe today:
Through a disclosing bar of light
The motes were whirled in gleaming flight
That briefly dawned and sank away.

Each had its swift and tiny noon;
In orbit-streams I marked them flit,
Successively revealed and flit.
The sunlight paled and shifted soon.

It’s the swirling dust in the shafts of afternoon sunlight, the million specks each home to a billion Who’s. This is good stuff, I’m telling you! Best of all, his work is available online, so there’s no excuse not to start liking poetry and embracing the ancient art of the oral epic. These are stories with metre, not just paintings with words.

We slept in a little too late the next day, and so rushed around the kitchen making tea sandwiches in fellowship with Tom, in preparation for our High Tea and Scrumpets party. But we made it just in time for the Promenade! Showing off our fancy duds to everyone in the neighborhood worked up quite an appetite for chai, scones, and other delectables, all served on the finest china, and we chatted about Star Trek and Batman and other such incongruous topics until well into the evening. If only we had ended there… but somehow we ended up watching a terrible not-enough-kung-fu movie called Kiss the Dragon.

The only solution to a bad movie is a good one, and fortunately enough, Cindy Joe came over the next morning for Deep Space Nine with myself and Thomas. I think we’ve finally made a Trekkie out of him! Only yesterday, while my parents picked up Max from Reed, I regaled Thomas with the history of Data and Lore over sandwiches. He may never love The Next Generation as much as I do — he enjoys hearing the story arcs over slogging through them himself, much like me and comic books — but DS9 may be more his cup of tea.

Cindy and I managed a second get-together a few days later, pursuing the most enjoyable activity of thrift-shopping. We walked to Goodwill and spent a good few hours debating over one item or another, in between catching up and swapping gossip and science news. She might be heading to Chicago soon if she gets a job at Fermilab, so I feel a little less bad leaving Portland — I’ll just have to visit her and her particle-collider instead!

Backing up to Sunday, Thomas ran the stunning conclusion to his Ein Arris game. Max, Melissa, Josh, and I love griping about GURPS, but we also love Thomas’s over-the-top characters and silly voices. We got attacked by magicked lions, petty thieves, and the angry wife of a desert warlord whose daughter ran off with a band of raiders instead of marrying the chief of a rival tribe like she was supposed to. She stormed a church with her hired troops while we fought them off, protecting the warlord’s other (illegitimate) daughter, who had until recently been hidden in a convent and was now ready to take over the marriage duties. Needless to say, our little band of mercenaries got paid handsomely for the success!

Monday I spent painting cherry tree branches and blossoms for Kellyn, in gold outline on the back of glass shower doors. She plans on finishing it with color and hanging them on her wall as beautiful works of art — and as staging while she sells the house. We proceeded to take advantage of the sudden outbreak of sunlight to peruse the Rhody Gardens, where hundreds of colorful flowers were greeting the Spring. Spring! The only fitting end to such a joyful and pleasant day was a viewing of Emperor’s New Groove with Tom and Amy, Jose, a friend of Jose’s, and a brief sighting of Alex.

After another Zeno-like meeting with Joy-Marie, in which we got even closer to getting her website up and running without actually getting there; and after realizing that Gavin’s several-day guest was John Buck the American Sociocracy expert and getting him to sign my copy of his book; I said my goodbyes and hopped on a train to Gig Harbor. Except for an entire Saturday on Bainbridge that went by too quickly talking with Anna, I’m just hanging out with my folks, sorting through my things, and getting ready to travel Back East with Thomas. This liminal state is also filled with fresh-baked bread, relatively successful attempts to get along with my brother, and the final season of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Hey, it’ll be a while before I’m back here again, I should spend my time wisely!

My life of late has consisted in lounging about at my parents’ home in Gig Harbor, Washington, spending the holidays with family, watching Star Trek, and occasionally seeing Anna to exchange stories of fiction and non-fiction. But now, I embark on my grand adventure: The Search for the Half-Acre Wood!

This adventure is essentially a trip to California to size it up for future habitation by myself, Thomas, and as many friends and family members as I can drag with me. I want something warmer, sunnier, not-quite-a-city, but still liberal and artsy, with a little bit of land for me to build my house upon. Everyone has something against California, so perhaps it’s no wonder it took me so long to think about the Bay Area. But even if I do not find my Holy Grail, I get to couch-surf and visit friends and have fun.

In the liminal state between isolated Gig Harbor and my hopefully-bright future down south is Portland. Portland, doomed always to be liminal in my mind. But oh! I’ve been having such a wonderful time in Portland! Thomas and I got dolled up and had a delicious dinner at Portobello, a vegan Italian joint on Friday, followed up by tea and toddies at Imbibe. Sound like Valentine’s Day got misplaced, to you? You would be correct: we celebrated Not Valentine’s Day instead! Anna loaned me the cutest cherry-covered dress, which reminded me so much of Pac-Man fruit that I had to make a pin for Thomas to accompany the theme.

On Saturday Cindy came over to keep me apprised of cuteness and her attempts to get a job at a particle collider, and Jay helped us devour a pair of good DS9 episodes. The night being young, Thomas and I then went to our friends’ Pimps & Harlots Ball, for which my costume was a 50′s housewife with another of Anna’s dresses and some Good Will pearls. There was dancing — Kellyn taught me a bit of swing! — and there were party games — at which, surprisingly, I excelled! Sunday, the Oft-Hated Day proper, Thomas and I walked around the local park and graveyard (paparazzi-ing ducks and squirrels along the way), made a delicious pasta dinner and chocolate truffles, and watched Casa Blanca in all its historical and romantic glory. Tonight we made portobello and red pepper quesadillas — I’m the proud parent of the tortillas — to accompany Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes and the company of Tom and Amy.

I’ve been so happy, in fact, I’m almost convinced I should stay or return soon, but at the beginning of the week I was homesick for my folks. Why do I foolishly leave those I love behind me, even if only temporarily? In the end I will convince everyone instead to follow me to the land of sun!

Last weekend Thomas and I went to the HP Lovecraft Film Festival, which began with meeting ST for brunch and ended with me staring at ST in utter terror. To be fair, it wasn’t ST’s fault that my legs were giving out under me — after all, we had a very pleasant conversation about cats. He just happened to be there, in the back of the theater, thoroughly enjoying himself while Thomas and I were hugging each other for DEAR GOD — did she really just stab that guy in the eye with a cross? Most of the other folks we went with, Brian, Jose, Kara, etc., were less impressed with The Color from the Dark, which takes a close look at the troubled family of whom we only get a third-hand perspective in Lovecraft’s The Colour Out of Space. Apparently we were just more open to the experience. We left wishing the hilarious parody, The Relic of Cthulhu, had been in a later block. Even the weird romance of Noirville, or even the just-right dose of horror in the Australian-made Tinglewood, would have been nice to calm our nerves. Instead, tired though we were, we watched an episode of Castle and sunk into — thankfully — dreamless sleep.

Having gotten my annual jolt of film-administered adrenaline, I wandered over to Lambda the Ultimate — inspired by Gavin’s game-and-reubens night full of linguists and computer scientists — and promptly found exactly the math crunchiness I was hungry for. Algorithmic botany anyone? Slurping up the text, reading about meandering turtles harnessed to create space-filling curves and fractal-like trees, I was barely through the first half of the first chapter before I had to grab Processing and implement these L-systems myself. While Thomas stayed up too late playing a medieval battle simulation game (Mount & Blade), I stayed up too late nudging my turtles to dance intricate steps whilst dragging along a thin trail of pixels.

Soon, the cosmic turtles will crawl under your eyelids and burst into fractals on your very corneas. Seriously, press on your closed eyes and you’ll see them — they’re there!