Occupational hazard of the professional academic. There's a false memory echoing back from the future:
"Mama, why does Daddy drink so much?"But why must it be Alistair? Maybe that'll be a question posed by Damien. (My children will have anti-saint names. Yes. Quite.)
"Alistair, he's a historian."
Drunk, having laughed until we couldn't breathe, having stolen books, we set off for the metro and talked about...something.
Something I wish I could remember, because now all I can recall is that when we were standing on the platform, I turned to him and said, "You're a genius. That was really smart, what you just said."
And he replied, "We're both geniuses. We came up with it, together, just now."
And yesterday we tried to remember but couldn't, not by any stretch of our memory or imagination. Briullov said, "Let's not try to remember. It's better not knowing."
I don't know how I feel about the utopianism that like as not will arise - the concept of a svetloe proshloe, a moment in time so sublime that we'd succeeded in piercing some small part of the maya curtain and stared into the void and for that couldn't remember -
Not like there's anything I can do to remember what has been forgotten.
Also: went to Dunkin Donuts. I am sad because they only have one flavor of iced coffee. It is ok, though - gives me something to look forward to when I return home to an empty house (apparently, speaking of Satanic Children™, three grandchildren are more important than one child. Particularly when two of them are acting all precognitive genius fortitude and such.)
Now I just have to find a place for Visa and me to live this summer in P'mouth and I shall be happy.