27, 28, 29.

On Sunday night, I was much more stressed out about the whole maybe-moving-on-next-to-no-notice-maybe-not thing... I walked down to one of the tiny parks overlooking Lake Monona and stood staring moodily out at the water. I don't know why I looked up, but there was a faint rainbow arched in the clouds. The kayaker who waved at me didn't see it. The family that joined me at the park didn't see it. It was somehow unreasonably reassuring to see it there.

Twin Cities.

We raced up to the Twin Cities for Memorial Day weekend (and crawled home today past too many accidents on I-94 and too many tired families outbound from Wisconsin Dells). We spent most of the day Saturday biking through downtown Minneapolis–20 miles or more in all, which felt farther in the heat—and swimming in Lake Calhoun. In the evening, we showered and tossed on some nicer togs to go see the Minnesota Orchestra perform Dvorak’s Serenade in D minor for wind instruments (lovely but a little sedate for my tastes) and Bela Bartok’s Concerto No. 2 for Violin and Orchestra, which Bernd loathed and I absolutely loved for its chaotic energy. We didn’t stay for Stravinsky’s Petrushka on Bernd’s insistence. I like Stravinsky, myself. Oh well!

On Sunday, we lazed in the morning and then met up with friends for coffee before hitting up the Minnesota Science Museum, which was all kinds of fun.










Scary stuff.


Alligator chomp!

Bright and cold.

More than a catbird hates a cat.

To My Valentine, by Ogden Nash

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than a gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.

Paper cranes.