Half of what I say is meaningless

I can't get excited about fandom right now, or at least can't find a fandom to get excited about right now, but I can always get excited about the history of the decorative arts.

I've been reading vintage magazines to try to immerse myself more in the worldview, the history, and the language of the period I love most (centered on 1920s, but including the whole between-wars period, the Golden Age of detective fiction, etc), and the last few weeks of browsing and reading Vogue and Harper's Bazar; Ladies' Home Journal, Woman's Home Companion, Pictorial Review, and McCall's; and House Beautiful, Better Homes & Gardens and House & Garden from the 1890s-1930s (on HathiTrust and Internet Archive mostly; there are various websites that collect links to vintage magazines online) have deepend my understanding of the period so much. A lot of that is general information about the period, turns of phrase, discourse style, beauty and graphic design styles, and bits of trivia. But it's also filled in a huge gap that I didn't even really understand was there in my knowledge of the history of decorative arts and design.

I'm super excited about my new understanding of early 20th century romanticism right now. Which is highly related to and mostly the same thing as national romanticism, a trend stretching back to the 19th century; but also an aesthetic and stylistic background that was actually more commonplace, more widespread, than the influence of art deco and art nouveau and midcentury modernism in their respective periods, but is often overlooked when culture looks back. I knew the term "romanticism" in visual arts and design before, of course. In the 19th century it links up with the arts & crafts movement; in the 20s and 30s, my understanding was vaguer: cutesy florals and... folk art? I now know that yes, it was that, but it was so much more than that: it was historical nostalgia expressed in historical eclecticism, the dominant aesthetic being an expression of a cultural obsession with creating and glorifying a personalized, domesticated patriotic past.

It was still very much tied to the project of creating the nation-state, in this case mainly through oodles of mass-produced imitation antique furniture marketed as "early American" or "Tudor" or "Gothic" or "French provincial" or "Empire". (Genuine antiques and reproduction antiques were also popular or at least popularly admired, don't get me wrong; but a great deal of the mass-produced furniture in this period was more about an antique vibe than about any sort of realism - something that was also very much true of the earlier explosion of Victorian-era "revival" styles caused by the initial spread of industrialization and an earlier ballooning of the middle classes. Victorian-produced furniture and design styles are also very much historical eclecticism.) This continued into the midcentury, when the pastiche styles previously called "early American" and "Tudor" had evolved into what was then generally referred to as "Colonial" (they meant American colonial specifically), exemplified by the mid-century modest ranch house's frequent pine kitchen and fake wrought iron and hammered brass hardware. Midcentury American ranches are iconic today, but the national imagination is inclined to populate them with mid-mod and streamline modern in blocks of color and metal-trimmed laminates; but in the period, the pine kitchen and the gingham ruffle were actually far more popular, even at modernism's height.

I'm focusing on American history in this narrative because I'm reading American magazines, but this was happening all over Europe. National romanticism in the 19th century produced a flourishing interest in cultural history and folk art in Europe too, and the same historical-vibe furniture recalling pre-Industrial styles was mass-produced for a growing middle class across Europe in the early 20th century. In Finland and Sweden the style was dominated by Gustavian (early 19th century, neoclassical) and rococo and baroque styles, often simplified, but the Nordic countries were leaders in modernism from the 1930s onwards, which changed the picture somewhat. Dipping into museums and auction sites from Finland and the Scandis brings a strong wind of light woods and simplified forms, painted instead of dark-stained wood, and a healthy admixture of functionalist/Bauhaus styles. And also way more actual crystal and imitation crystal chandeliers. Finns and Swedes fucking love their crystal chandeliers. I can understand their cultural history and dark winters and all that before the invention of electric lighting, but they still need to pump the brakes a bit. Chandeliers do not belong in your kitchen or bathroom, guys.

Last night I was joylessly reading until way too late in bed, and then after I put my phone down, I suddenly started to notice my throat hurt a bit.

Now, I do have a perfume allergy that has caused my throat to swell mostly-closed in the past, but only about 5(?)x in the past 20 years, and only after a Lot (the perfume has to be concentrated close to my nose and mouth probably).

And yes, yesterday I had tried a new curl-reviving spray and I had been mildly annoyed by its perfume all day, but it hadn't irritated my nose right away the way dangerous perfumes (and also many others) do.

So when I started to worry that the product was causing an allergic reaction that might make my throat swell closed and kill me in my sleep, this was extremely unlikely for several reasons: the perfume had already proven itself not similar to ones that caused a reaction before, and also that's not really how anaphylaxis works, probably?

But my throat hurt and every perfume I could smell seemed to be aggravating it. So I decided that getting up at 3 am and showering all the perfumed products off would be a better use of my time than going downstairs to take antihistamines, painkillers, and a benzo. I shampooed my hair three times and combed conditioner through it in the shower, then put a folded towel on my pillow and slept on it after towel-drying, without applying my usual leave-in.

My throat feels a little better but still irritated today, and I took loratidine and paracetamol with breakfast. I wonder why my throat got irritated, though. I hope I'm not getting sick, but probably not; the last time I went to the store was Wednesday, so the incubation period for a respiratory infection wouldn't match up very well.

Benjamin is one of several large and venerable potted plants inherited from Wax's granny, so he's probably older than I am; he has been in front of the east window in the kitchen since we moved here. However, he's had a hard time this spring after Sipuli peed in his pot several times to protest her litter box being smelly.

Once it got warm enough to not shock him in the process, Wax discarded all his old soil, shook and jiggled and rinsed his roots, and repotted him with new soil; and in apology for the trauma of that, she felt obliged to let him stay out for a while (but not fully outside, where the temperature fluctuations and wind and rain would be too much for him).

The thing is... Benjamin hasn't been pruned in a long time, and he's probably about six feet tall and four feet wide, now.

The porch isn't large.

As Wax put it when carrying out the recycling last week, it's not very convenient having your porch half full of tree.

She says she can't bring him inside, though, because he's enjoying himself so much (making lots of new leaves) that it would be mean.

We live in a tiny town with only one commercial street, but spread out with low population density. Our island of Ålön is about 77 square kilometers (about 44 square miles), and most of it is farms and forests.

My late MIL's summer cottage was fifteen minutes by car out towards one of the corners of the island, in the village of Levo, but what a world of difference! Behind its little orchard stretched fallow and planted fields; across the winding road lay a little forest, and on the other side of that the bay of Finland. (The neighbors gave permission to park extra cars in their field and to use their little scrap of sand and dock for swimming.) The music of the evening in Levo was birdsong and the rushing of the wind.

Here one block behind city hall and the police station, in the village of Parsby, we sit in the midst of urban decay, as mentioned recently. Our little street contains three inhabited houses and two abandoned wrecks that the city owns and is allowing to fall into public health hazards, with asbestos everywhere, roofs caving in, broken windows, and fallen trees and power lines. The street leading down to the back of the police station contains two more inhabited houses and three more decaying wrecks, and the city tore all the pavement on it up last January to fix the pipes and hasn't paved it again yet. Across the other street (we live on the corner) is a big clot of densely-populated midcentury apartment buildings, whose retired inhabitants risk their lives on the above-mentioned poorly-maintained ripped-up road in winter (it's a steep hill).

Because our town is rural and the driving age for cars is 18 in Finland, the plague of Parsby (and small towns everywhere) is teenagers on mopeds. The music of the evening in Parsby starts with wood pigeons, thrushes, and the distant buzzing of cars on the highway, but is interrupted periodically by the deafening roar of mopeds speeding by under the window and teenagers practicing being cool and adult by shouting the equivalent of "FUCK" at each other. (I fantasize several times a week about an externally-mounted loudspeaker that would play a voice yelling "Shut up" towards the street.)

It would've been impossible to quickly walk to the store from Levo, though.