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Got me sifting through the breeze
It was so beautifully sunny this afternoon, I was going to take a walk after rehearsal, but our street had turned into a maelstrom of equally sun-loving, not so much distance-remembering humans, so instead I took a kitchen chair out onto the back deck and read half of Dennis Lehane's Gone, Baby, Gone (1998). Neighbors of various levels were also on their back decks, including one third-floor neighbor setting up a grill with his dog. I waved and made eye contact and reminded myself we were all more than six feet apart by virtue of building specifications. It was actually quite nice.
Nothing about the weather is normal anymore, but I thought it was a nice callback to the meteorological traditions of New England that yesterday morning, for no reason that anyone requested in mid-April, it snowed. By the time I got out of the house in the late afternoon, it was mostly just damp and overcast. I could have done without the close encounter with the Trump-stickered pickup truck that gunned its engine repeatedly behind me, but I enjoyed the rest of my hour's walk through streets that were not a human maelstrom. I hope to be able to maintain these forays as the weather improves and communal prudence worsens.
One of the routes I walk—since the closure of the Medford Street Bridge, my shortest route to the library, although that's a moot point at the moment—involves cutting through the parking lot behind Pearl Street Studios, a local artists' collective located in another of the early twentieth century industrial buildings that still stud this neighborhood. It gives onto a magnificent corner of train tracks and the underside of the bridge and, these days, stacks and stacks of the new high school construction. There is also a small, low, concrete-blocked shed whose origins I have never been able to discern, although I assume it belonged at one time to either Kemp Nuts or the Boston & Lowell Railroad. I don't remember when I first noticed that the artists had populated the boarded-over windows and doors of both their studio building and the shed. For obvious reasons, I started thinking of them as ghost doors.
This one is both a ghost door and a ghost sign.
One of the denizens of the shed. I have not been able to decide if I should recognize him. He looks to me like a sort of chill version of Johnny the Homicidal Maniac.
Another of the denizens. One might pair her with the previous, but I'm not at all sure they come from the same time.
The other notable thing about today was the very successful making of spur-of-the-moment drop biscuits. Hestia, despite her great biscuit-making skills where blankets are concerned, did not assist. Autolycus just tried to eat them off our plates.
Nothing about the weather is normal anymore, but I thought it was a nice callback to the meteorological traditions of New England that yesterday morning, for no reason that anyone requested in mid-April, it snowed. By the time I got out of the house in the late afternoon, it was mostly just damp and overcast. I could have done without the close encounter with the Trump-stickered pickup truck that gunned its engine repeatedly behind me, but I enjoyed the rest of my hour's walk through streets that were not a human maelstrom. I hope to be able to maintain these forays as the weather improves and communal prudence worsens.
One of the routes I walk—since the closure of the Medford Street Bridge, my shortest route to the library, although that's a moot point at the moment—involves cutting through the parking lot behind Pearl Street Studios, a local artists' collective located in another of the early twentieth century industrial buildings that still stud this neighborhood. It gives onto a magnificent corner of train tracks and the underside of the bridge and, these days, stacks and stacks of the new high school construction. There is also a small, low, concrete-blocked shed whose origins I have never been able to discern, although I assume it belonged at one time to either Kemp Nuts or the Boston & Lowell Railroad. I don't remember when I first noticed that the artists had populated the boarded-over windows and doors of both their studio building and the shed. For obvious reasons, I started thinking of them as ghost doors.
This one is both a ghost door and a ghost sign.
One of the denizens of the shed. I have not been able to decide if I should recognize him. He looks to me like a sort of chill version of Johnny the Homicidal Maniac.
Another of the denizens. One might pair her with the previous, but I'm not at all sure they come from the same time.
The other notable thing about today was the very successful making of spur-of-the-moment drop biscuits. Hestia, despite her great biscuit-making skills where blankets are concerned, did not assist. Autolycus just tried to eat them off our plates.
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I vote yes on the chairs.
(I wish we had a yard. I would feel significantly less caged if we had a yard. At least we have the deck. We have never done much with it, but again, I suspect that is about to change.)
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They are! I am glad they are protective of their people.
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I do note, however, that were I Canadian I could get green or yellow chairs as well. Here my choices are white, brown, gray, red, or blue (I am thinking red).
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I can't imagine what about a green chair isn't internationally shelf-stable. (Red sounds cheerful.)
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Your biscuit making sound *excellent*
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I love that idea of time.
Your biscuit making sound *excellent*
There are no survivors!
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Thank you! Did I get the band from you?
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THE HALPFULEST.
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Thank you.
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Those biscuits look fabulous. Drop ones have so many crunchy bits. I am unsurprised that Autolycus wanted them. And I guess you should feel flattered that Hestia thought her people were up to the task.
P.
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Thank you!
Those biscuits look fabulous. Drop ones have so many crunchy bits.
They were hot and crunchy on the outside and buttery and soft on the inside. We put butter and honey and mango-peach jam on them. A few survived till dessert time, but are now no more. I have no regrets.
And I guess you should feel flattered that Hestia thought her people were up to the task.
We have the best and most nurturing cats.
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A kettle is the only thing the metal sign looks like to me, which means I have no idea what it signifies.
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I'm glad you have a deck.
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Thank you! I feel it helps that I have such interesting things to photograph.
I'm glad you have a deck.
Me, too. I foresee a closer acquaintance with it.
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Nice.
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Thank you! I love having art around the neighborhood. There's some graffiti in the same area I'll try to photograph next time.
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Thank you! I really like seeing them whenever I walk by.
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Thank you!