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The moon is half empty, the sun is too bright
Close to sunset, we got out of the house for a walk, which was very pleasant except I would estimate that a full three-quarters of the people we met were not wearing masks of any kind, even under the nose, and I hated them all on sight. Somerville is a nice blaring red on the daily average case rate and climbing. But the summer's over, so isn't the pandemic, too? In other news, we are finally getting our flu shots this week.
I keep being surprised by the number of flowers still blooming. I tend to associate autumn with everything turning crunchy and brown. I can't tell if the holdouts are a sign of global warming or just hardy species.
I love how morning glories spiral open and closed.
They looked like a couple to me.
I had not seen this particular campaign slogan before. I don't tend to think about the state of the nation's soul so much as its population, but it went well with the rest of the fence.
There is nothing to do with a skeletal lawn flamingo except admire it.
All close-ups attempted of these red daisies were ruined by the shiver of the wind, but they twined so bravely through the chain-link in medium shot.
By dint of trying to walk the least trafficked streets, we ended up cutting down this stairwell behind the Arthur D. Healey School into what turned out to be the apartment complex we had seen many times from Mystic Ave. It was full of dead-end loops and parking lots which I assume would have been simple to navigate had we actually lived there. We found our way out.
We did not get to walk around the Mystic because of the density of other people who had the same idea and, as previously mentioned, were feeling very opt-in about masks. We crested the hill at the top of Putnam Road and the sunset was even better than I could catch it. I have no idea where the other nine hills of the neighborhood's name come from. John Winthrop's ground.
The yard planted with nothing but cockscomb was a feast for the eyes.
A late rose hiding in the rhododendrons.
All my shots of a luminously alabaster-yellow rose also fell victim to wind-blur, but this pink one on Wheatland Street did its best to make it up to me.
I feel I should warn people that photography is likely to become scarce to nonexistent around this journal in the near future, as it appears that over the last three years I have almost entirely maxed out my image-hosting quota on DW and I really do not wish to go back through older posts and riddle the record with holes by pulling out the pictures to make room. I am extremely upset about this situation. Any part of my life I made visible here was, one way or another, important to me. I have to hope whatever I had to show was worth it while it lasted. The human refrain. SOME ANONYMOUS BENEFACTOR JUST BOUGHT ME A PREMIUM ACCOUNT WHICH HAS NOT MAXED OUT ITS IMAGE-HOSTING QUOTA AND I APPRECIATE IT VERY MUCH THANK YOU I HOPE YOU LIKE FLOWERS AND MY WEIRD FACE.
Things I did not expect to find while looking for more information about the author of The Heart in Exile (1953): RPF with the Cambridge Five. What a fantastic world we live in sometimes.
I keep being surprised by the number of flowers still blooming. I tend to associate autumn with everything turning crunchy and brown. I can't tell if the holdouts are a sign of global warming or just hardy species.
I love how morning glories spiral open and closed.
They looked like a couple to me.
I had not seen this particular campaign slogan before. I don't tend to think about the state of the nation's soul so much as its population, but it went well with the rest of the fence.
There is nothing to do with a skeletal lawn flamingo except admire it.
All close-ups attempted of these red daisies were ruined by the shiver of the wind, but they twined so bravely through the chain-link in medium shot.
By dint of trying to walk the least trafficked streets, we ended up cutting down this stairwell behind the Arthur D. Healey School into what turned out to be the apartment complex we had seen many times from Mystic Ave. It was full of dead-end loops and parking lots which I assume would have been simple to navigate had we actually lived there. We found our way out.
We did not get to walk around the Mystic because of the density of other people who had the same idea and, as previously mentioned, were feeling very opt-in about masks. We crested the hill at the top of Putnam Road and the sunset was even better than I could catch it. I have no idea where the other nine hills of the neighborhood's name come from. John Winthrop's ground.
The yard planted with nothing but cockscomb was a feast for the eyes.
A late rose hiding in the rhododendrons.
All my shots of a luminously alabaster-yellow rose also fell victim to wind-blur, but this pink one on Wheatland Street did its best to make it up to me.
Things I did not expect to find while looking for more information about the author of The Heart in Exile (1953): RPF with the Cambridge Five. What a fantastic world we live in sometimes.
no subject
I did. And I hope that's what we get.