muneca_brava

This has been an extremely efficient weekend, on various domestic fronts.

When Matthias's father was visiting a couple of weeks ago, he brought multiple large boxes of Matthias's old stuff — books in English and German, magazines, school exercise books, DVDs, VHS cassettes and CDs — the sort of childhood ephemera that gathers and lingers in the parental home if one is an immigrant who has lived one's entire adult life outside the country of origin. I remember boxing all this stuff up about a decade ago and storing it in the box room at Matthias's parents' place, and there it's remained, even though the house is now owned by Matthias's sister, who lives there with her husband and their three kids. The last boxes of my own equivalent stuff arrived by mail two years ago — mainly my childhood and teenage books — so it was high time to deal with Matthias's belongings.

He's already been through the English-language books, shelved the stuff he wanted to keep, and weeded out the stuff to go (including duplicates of books I already owned). We put the unwanted books out on the street, and people have already taken most of them. Every time I've put books out on the street, everything goes eventually, and I'm pretty certain that will happen in this case as well.

(On top of that, we're transitioning in Ely in June to a new rubbish/recycling regime which means we no longer need the big black bin bags for non-recyclable rubbish. We hardly ever have rubbish to collect, so we tend to accumulate far more of these bags than we could ever possibly need. We periodically put rolls of the bags out in the street for others to take, and on Friday I put out the last handful, along with some clean, unwanted sturdy paper shopping bags — and they all went as well.)

We're a bit hampered with rubbish by the fact that we don't drive or have a car, so I was slightly concerned about all the VHS cassettes (which Matthias didn't want to keep), but we figured out that the recycling centre in Witchford would take them, and that this was an easy half-hour walk through public byways in the fields, so this morning, after breakfast, we each filled a backpack with VHS cassettes, plus some batteries that we also couldn't get rid of anywhere else, and walked them over to the tip. As we were on foot, we didn't have to wait our turn in the huge, backed-up queue of cars waiting for a slot, and were in and out, and back home within a hour of leaving.

We cleared out the big living room cupboard (where I'd shoved a bunch of appliance boxes when we moved in and never looked at them again), and moved them up into the loft. And now I can see Matthias going through the boxes of old newspapers and magazines, so those will be dealt with by the end of the weekend too.

In the garden, we constructed a covered archway over one of the vegetable beds to protect the seeds and seedlings, as we have enormous problems with blackbirds — as soon as we plant anything, they come and dig it up and eat it, and hurl mulch all over the footpath, and I'm sick of it! I also planted out some cucumber, parsley, dill and chard seedlings, planted amaranth, sunflowers and radishes, and scattered a few more packets of wildflower seeds around. After I've finished this post, I'm going to tie the self-seeded sweetpea plants to stakes, and that will be the garden tasks done for now. We're doing well when it comes to herbs and salad greens — and indeed ate home-grown mixed greens and chives in a salad for lunch today.

There's also been a lot of cooking, pickling and fermenting going on: stewed apples with cinnamon, plus cooked strawberries, to go with our breakfasts next week, sauerkraut (with cabbage, cucumber and fennel, plus caraway seeds), a jar of homemade pickles, and another jar of shatta (fermented chili condiment).

That's plus two hours of classes in the gym yesterday, and 1km swimmming on Friday and again this morning, and some decent, lengthy yoga classes at home.

I'd say all that feels pretty decent, and the decluttering in particular is extremely satisfying. I'm really glad we got all that done so efficiently (although in some ways it would have been better to have discarded all the stuff we gave away/recycled/threw away ten years ago in Germany, but given I behaved in a similar way with my own belongings in Australia, I find the extended hanging on to stuff that eventually just gets binned entirely understandable).

As a consequence, I have not had much time for reading or other media, although I did watch Send Help (a comedic thriller in which an overworked and underappreciated corporate office worker ends up stranded on a tropical island with her childish and unappreciative boss, where her hitherto unrecognised side hobby of outdoor survival in extreme landscapes of course comes in incredibly handy, with predictable results) last night. Hopefully next weekend will have a bit more time for proper relaxing, but I'm happy to have been able to devote so much of this weekend to getting all this stuff done so efficiently.

After a challenging and tiring few weeks, the Friday open thread returns, with a prompt inspired by all the love and activity I've seen around 3weeks4dreamwidth. I haven't been able to be very engaged with this at all, as it coincided with a professionally and personally very busy time, but I was reminded again of what a singularly wonderful little corner of the internet we have here, and how happy I am that this is my primary social internet home.

Therefore, this Friday's prompt is: what is special for you about Dreamwidth, and why do you like it?

I could answer with all the usual things, like the fact that makes money solely from user subscriptions, rather than algorithmic feeds, ads, or selling user data, that it has an ethos built on privacy and persistent pseudonymy, that it's text-based and slower-moving, the icon culture inherited from LJ in which icon use becomes a whole visual language, that there are filtered levels of privacy controlled by the user on a post-by-post basis, and so on, but all that's been said by many people, many times.

As well as all of the above, the things that I find particularly special about Dreamwidth (and which solidified its place as my primary internet home many years ago) are:

The perfect balance that we, as a user community, seem to have built up over the years organically, between the personal and the communal — in the sense that posts and comments are built for conversation and discussion by default, and shared into all subscribers' (chronological) feeds by default, but we all have a very clear sense that a person's posts and journal are that person's individual space, where they have freedom in both form and content. While I'm not going to say this kind of thing doesn't exist here on Dreamwidth, I personally never see the kind of outraged 'why is nobody talking about this?' (or 'why is everybody talking about [this frivolous thing] instead of [this outrage]?'), or people berating one another over choices of style or topic (or trying to drive mobs of followers to descend in outrage on other people's posts). Not every post I encounter on Dreamwidth is of interest to me (and I'm sure that's the same for everyone reading this when they think about my own journal) — although I've discovered so many new interests, and read posts by people on topics that I would never have even thought about, but which are made interesting through the way the person writes about them — and that's totally okay, as the assumption is that people will just scroll on by when required. There's no expectation of constant engagement and paranoia around metrics and short attention spans.

This sounds counterintuitive, but I actually like that Dreamwidth is a bit user-unfriendly to people whose primary engagement with the internet is via very user friendly social media platforms with a low barrier to entry. Obviously I want Dreamwidth to continue to exist, so it needs a critical mass of people to use and fund it to remain financially sustainable, but I appreciate that it requires a little bit of effort (type at least a few words into a post, or into a comment), and that passive usage (scrolling, liking, or the equivalent of sharing/reblogging/retweeting with a single click of a button) is basically impossible. In my opinion, this slight barrier to entry (probably combined with the fact that image hosting is complicated) helps keep it a generally pleasant community space, because the kind of rage-baiting virality that targets people's psychological vulnerabilities would be such hard work here.

What about you? What do you appreciate about Dreamwidth? What keeps you here?

I've been extremely busy, and consequently extremely tired, and haven't been around on Dreamwidth all that much in the past couple of weeks. Rather than one of my standard weekend wrap-up posts, I'm going to attempt to go through the various things that have been happening, in brief, in list form.

Two weeks ago, catpuccino came up to Ely to visit. She lives in London, we've known each other since the first day of high school, but what with one thing and another, I hadn't seen her in person since 2024. She's going through some tough stuff at the moment, so it was nice to be able to help her get away from all that for twenty-four hours, at least (and talk foodie things with someone who's even more plugged into that scene than I am).

Almost immediately after that, my father-in-law came over from Germany to visit for a week. He drove, and took the ferry, which meant he was a free agent, and could go out and do things while Matthias and I were at work, and he did catch up with some local friends a couple of times, but for the most part he seemed to just want to chill out in our garden, under the cherry trees. His regular daily life involves a lot of energetic grandchildren (my sister-in-law has three kids), and I think he viewed our place as something of an oasis of calm. My mother-in-law was the real Anglophile in the family — she came over to England on exchange as a teenager, fell in love with the place, and the two of them basically visited the UK almost once a year for their entire adult lives, barring the Covid years and my mother-in-law's increasingly fragile health. So coming back here alone after her death was a bittersweet experience for my father-in-law, stirring up a lot of complicated emotions, but I think he was pleased to have made the trip.

He left on Wednesday, and on that evening Matthias and I went to an author event with Andrey Kurkov, hosted by the local independent bookshop. (Ely is a sleepy small rural town, but it definitely punches above its weight in terms of literary events due to this fantastic bookshop.) He read from and chatted about his latest historical mystery novel (set in 1919 Kyiv), and answered audience questions with patience. (My favourite, somewhat left-field answer: '[In the final decade of the Soviet Union,] I graduated with a qualification in Japanese translation, and they wanted me to do my military service as a spy listening in to the Japanese in the Russian far east, but I didn't want to do this, since it would have prevented me from being allowed to leave the country. I asked my mother, who was a doctor, if she had any well-connected patients who could get me out of this, and one of her patients, who was a senior military figure, was able to instead transfer me to doing military service as a prison guard in Odesa. When the other guards found out I was a writer, one of them asked me to write his speeches for his meetings with the leadership, so I spent my military service reading propaganda magazines and rewriting the articles for him to reuse in his speeches.' This struck me as the absolute peak absurd Soviet experience.)

I've had a run of lots of timetabled, lecture-style teaching, which happens this time every year, but is always a bit exhausting: it's in a huge, echo-y wooden lecture theatre (when the students come through the doors, they slam loudly and make a massive amount of noise), it's to groups of 75 students, repeated three times to different groups, and it's with undergrads rather than the postgraduates and researchers I normally teach (who are a lot more work to keep focused), and I always feel completely flattened by the time the Friday class is over. The one nice thing is that these classes are in central Cambridge instead of out on the hospital site where I normally work, and I can buy decent food and coffee afterwards. I guess it's a good thing I don't normally work in that part of town, because I'd be so tempted to eat lunch out every day, and end up bleeding money.

I read Innamorata (Ava Reid), and with Reid I think at this point it counts as hate-reading, since my expectations are always so low, and they're always confirmed. This is her take on a gruesome gothic novel, complete with purple prose, and the literary equivalent of a child hopping up and down going 'look! look! did you see what I just did?' Did I see her obvious and intentional allusions to Mervyn Peake? Yes, yes I did. Am I shocked at all the gore, bodily fluids and shock value edginess? Shocked that I keep picking up Ava Reid books, maybe.

Then I read Almost Life (Kiran Millwood Hargrave) and Testament of Youth (Vera Brittain), and was a lot happier in my choice of reading material. The former is a novel about two young women who meet, hook up and fall in love in 1970s Paris, then go their separate ways, but continue to haunt and fall in and out of each other's lives, in a mess of intense emotions, difficult choices, and lost chances. The latter is both a memoir of the author as an individual (fighting the parental expectation to marry and instead attend Oxford as a young woman in the 1910s, then serving as a nurse in WWI and watching all the young men in her life be swallowed up into the maw of that terrible war), and a portrait of the absolute wrenching collective trauma experienced by her entire generation, and how impossible it was to go back to civillian life and go on living afterwards.

Then I read The Red City (Marie Lu), which had a great premise (clandestine underworld alchemist syndicates fight a global battle for dominance, operating much like real-world organised crime), and an absolutely wrenching depiction of intergenerational immigration trauma, but was written for absolutely no reason in third person present tense, which for me is the literary equivalent of someone chewing audibly near my ear. I only like present tense when it's used to evoke a sense of stream-of-consciousness-like immediacy, as if you're getting a glimpse inside a character's messy, unedited interior monologue (I prefer it much more in the first person), but when the whole story feels as if it could work perfectly fine in past tense, the use of present tense is distractingly grating.

Yesterday was Eel Day in Ely, which involves, among other things, a giant cloth eel on a frame being paraded through the town, trailed by an incongruous juxtaposition of local groups (think Morris dancers followed by a girls' rugby club, followed by musicians playing steel drums, followed by a Scout group, etc). We were in the market buying vegetables, so missed the actual parade, but did witness all these various participants marshalling in front of the cathedral beforehand. We did a quick swing around the stalls afterwards, but it was pretty hot, and we'd already eaten lunch, so we didn't stay long.

We watched the recent Wuthering Heights adaptation yesterday, and I regret to report that it was 90 per cent vibes and dramatic scenery, and I was not particularly impressed.

As it's a long weekend, there was a food and craft fair outside the cathedral today, and Matthias and I wandered around, eating lunch from one of the stalls, people- and dog-watching, before meandering on home, having picked up a box of macarons to eat over the course of the week with our tea and coffee.

We've made a start at booking tickets, etc for our summer holiday, which makes it start to feel a bit more real. I love the planning stage — investigating food, activities, transport, and so on, with the days of the holiday unfolding, and given greater shape.

It's been a busy month (about which more later in a further post), and that's meant I've only managed to complete three TV shows, all of which were fairly short in length. These shows were:

The latest season of The Capture, a BBC crime/spy/political thriller whose premise is that the British police and security services have been engaged in a clandestine programme of 'correction' — planting nonexistent deepfake evidence in order to convict people of crimes for which there is no real evidence, supposedly justified as serving some greater security or political good. At the end of the last season, this was all exposed and out in the open, and the latest season deals with the ongoing messy fallout (surprise surprise, simply revealing the shadowy iniquities perpetuated by the British political and security elite does not result in an immediate transformation of the country for the better). In this season, along with the deepfakes, there's generative AI to contend with, and everything proceeds at breakneck pace with terrifying consequences. The sense of not having a solid grip on observable reality, and the sickening ease with which the characters justify the unbelievably unethical things they do is terrifying. The acting and writing are as sharp as ever, and the show is the televisual equivalent of a page-turner, but I couldn't help but find the plot completely ludicrous: not because the UK police, military, or security services wouldn't be attracted to doing all the dodgy technological things they're portrayed as doing, but because their competence at doing so and seemingly bottomless funds to support these actions strained the bounds of credulity.

Kleo, a surreal, darkly comedic spy thriller set in the dying days of partitioned Germany, in which the titular Stasi assassin gets framed and thrown into prison by those above her in the chain of command, released several years later after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and immediately sets about trying to hunt down those responsible for the stitch-up and attempting to uncover the larger political reasons why it happened. The story barrels along on an international chase, zipping from a Berlin left reeling at the overwhelming political and social changes bursting forth, to Spain and Chile, filled with a fabulous cast of characters (the side characters are particularly fun), against a backdrop of crumbling modernist architecture and an absolutely glorious soundtrack. I enjoyed this immensely.

Midnight at the Pera Palace, a Turkish historical drama in which Esra, a struggling journalist, gets assigned to write a puff piece about the history of a (real) luxury Istanbul hotel, and gets sucked back in time to 1919, where she has to foil a nefarious British plot to assassinate Mustafa Kemal. I wanted to like this more than I did: it has all the seeds of a silly piece of popcorn TV (ludicrous premise, the potential for lots of humorous time-travel shenanigans — to be fair there were some of those, like the point at which Esra needs to read a plot-relevant diary, but can't, as it is in Arabic script, which got replaced by Latin script as part of the reforms introduced in the wake of the founding of the modern Turkish state — a gorgeous setting, and a glimpse back into the cosmopolitan world of this hotel in its heyday), but it was just a bit too melodramatic and overacted for my taste.