By Yu Xuanji
Translated by C. L. Jiang & Emily Jiang
Spring flowers, autumn moon,
can be written into poems.
During the day, during the night,
I become immortal.
Empty wrapper ensures my beaded curtain
will never come down.
I move my bed–I sleep
facing the mountain.
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On Tuesday the inspector from the restoration company came to inspect the upstairs closet and we were this close to scheduling repairs, but the insurance company had said they'd pay to paint the whole room (which was last painted over 20 years ago) while his work order said only the back wall and ceiling, so now we have to get in touch with the insurance adjuster again and...arrrgh. Well, it will get done when it gets done. Paul worked from home in the afternoon to meet with them, so we had lunch together.
It was otherwise an uneventful day of busy work with a brief walk in the park and a less exciting evening (The Flash, which is dragging out the family dramas, then Gentleman Jack, which is empowering and engrossing despite the class issues, then Fosse/Verdon, which is deeply depressing. From the Sackler Gallery's Empresses of China's Forbidden City, some of the fabulous clothes -- I have already told Adam that he should show respect to me like emperors dressing their mothers like this:
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