One day I jumped and I stayed up late
For reasons primarily relating to a decision on the part of the City of Somerville to begin concrete-cutting construction directly in front of our building at eight o'clock sharp this morning, we ended up taking a rain check on the sea this afternoon and went to a river instead. Specifically, with the connivance of some masks and my mother's car, we went to the Old North Bridge across the Concord River and wandered around the grounds of the early twentieth-century mansion that now serves as the park's visitor center, autumn-wild gardens and all. It was cold and sun-setting and wonderful. All photographs taken by ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch unless I don't appear in them.
I had expressed some uncertainty as to whether this hat really went with this coat. We were getting out of the car when a kid in a tricorne went past us with his dads and I immediately stopped feeling self-conscious. The burning mirror on my lapel is the mimic octopus pin that was my last year's birthday present from Rob.
It's all reflection from this angle, but around the pilings of the bridge, the water had that ink-opacity that meant you could see how it flowed only by the movement of leaves and pine needles. Had there been fewer people taking selfies, we would have taken the time to play Poohsticks.
I do feel better around water.
I have no idea what I was thinking, but I like the gesture.
Looking at the radius of the stump, Rob said suddenly, "It was a witness."
It was whorled like two trees that had become one, like a ballad.
Rob called this one "Stand and deliver!"
I wanted to catch the sunset on the bronze of the Minuteman statue—Rob spotted that it had been cast at the Ames Foundry at Chicopee—but feel I may have just paid tribute to the model's ass.
Looking back across the meadow toward the bridge was like looking through several seasons at once. Winter was there in the middle somewhere.
And then close to, it broke up into art.
The gardens were full of stairs and terraces and paths leading into autumn, so we took them. We have determined to go back. There were too many levels full of brick and ivy and wrought iron and pokeberries to leave unexplored.
The air underneath the small pines smelled cold, of resin and pine straw, and I felt wonderful. I don't write about them as often, but trees mean a lot to me.
There were just some seriously gorgeous fungi on view. Rob found a puffball the size of a soccer ball, or a skull.
I remember loving these tiny pinecones as a child. They were as precious to me as acorns or maple helicopters.
We made it out of the park just in time for sunset and met my parents for dinner from—not at; it will be some time before anyone in my family feels comfortable with restaurants in person—Highland Fried, which thankfully I thought of calling when their online ordering service claimed they were closed. They were not closed. They were irritated with their online ordering service, but cheerfully furnished us with pork ribs and fried chicken and collards and coleslaw and mashed potatoes and chicken gravy and key lime pie and peach cobbler and my father who has never lost his Southern foodways was very happy and so was everyone else, especially me who has missed this restaurant for months. Since my birthday observed is still to be celebrated on Sunday when my brother's family can make it, I was not expecting the presents of either Wade Miller's Devil May Care/Sinner Take All (1950/1960), which look fantastically pulp, or the polished weight of labradorite flashing blue-green as phytoplankton or the northern lights.spatch got me the digital single of Stopwalk's "Homosexual Art Attack," which I have played at least half a dozen times in a row. Autolycus is asleep on my lap.
I am still having a great deal of difficulty with the future, but I am definitely glad to have been here for today.
spatch unless I don't appear in them.
I had expressed some uncertainty as to whether this hat really went with this coat. We were getting out of the car when a kid in a tricorne went past us with his dads and I immediately stopped feeling self-conscious. The burning mirror on my lapel is the mimic octopus pin that was my last year's birthday present from Rob.
It's all reflection from this angle, but around the pilings of the bridge, the water had that ink-opacity that meant you could see how it flowed only by the movement of leaves and pine needles. Had there been fewer people taking selfies, we would have taken the time to play Poohsticks.
I do feel better around water.
I have no idea what I was thinking, but I like the gesture.
Looking at the radius of the stump, Rob said suddenly, "It was a witness."
It was whorled like two trees that had become one, like a ballad.
Rob called this one "Stand and deliver!"
I wanted to catch the sunset on the bronze of the Minuteman statue—Rob spotted that it had been cast at the Ames Foundry at Chicopee—but feel I may have just paid tribute to the model's ass.
Looking back across the meadow toward the bridge was like looking through several seasons at once. Winter was there in the middle somewhere.
And then close to, it broke up into art.
The gardens were full of stairs and terraces and paths leading into autumn, so we took them. We have determined to go back. There were too many levels full of brick and ivy and wrought iron and pokeberries to leave unexplored.
The air underneath the small pines smelled cold, of resin and pine straw, and I felt wonderful. I don't write about them as often, but trees mean a lot to me.
There were just some seriously gorgeous fungi on view. Rob found a puffball the size of a soccer ball, or a skull.
I remember loving these tiny pinecones as a child. They were as precious to me as acorns or maple helicopters.
We made it out of the park just in time for sunset and met my parents for dinner from—not at; it will be some time before anyone in my family feels comfortable with restaurants in person—Highland Fried, which thankfully I thought of calling when their online ordering service claimed they were closed. They were not closed. They were irritated with their online ordering service, but cheerfully furnished us with pork ribs and fried chicken and collards and coleslaw and mashed potatoes and chicken gravy and key lime pie and peach cobbler and my father who has never lost his Southern foodways was very happy and so was everyone else, especially me who has missed this restaurant for months. Since my birthday observed is still to be celebrated on Sunday when my brother's family can make it, I was not expecting the presents of either Wade Miller's Devil May Care/Sinner Take All (1950/1960), which look fantastically pulp, or the polished weight of labradorite flashing blue-green as phytoplankton or the northern lights.
spatch got me the digital single of Stopwalk's "Homosexual Art Attack," which I have played at least half a dozen times in a row. Autolycus is asleep on my lap.I am still having a great deal of difficulty with the future, but I am definitely glad to have been here for today.