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Look, look, an obelisk
The major event of the afternoon was a doctor's appointment for Autolycus, but before sunset we finally got out of the house for our first real walk of the spring.
We knew the nest wasn't just an emblem of the season because there was a mama bird perched in the higher branches yelling at us about it.
Tiny elm leaves unfurling, as if fringed in frost. [edit] Elm fruits!
Hello, magnolia!
We had lost too much of the light for a good shot of the cherry blossoms, but they are blossoming and I will return for them.
I'm just very fond of these fire escapes, all right?
I liked the look of this manhole cover, like a penny dropped onto the gravel of the right of way beside the School Street Bridge, which is now utterly impassable on foot. We detoured in a rectangle through Richdale Avenue and Sycamore and Madison Streets instead.
Before we left, a commuter train came by.
The tag on this newly planted tree informed us that it was an autumn-blooming maple. It seemed confused.
Pansies!
None of the colors in this photo came out correctly because my camera has trouble with contrasts, but I wound up liking it anyway.
Utility Relocation Tracking System!
Remember that building that was scheduled not to survive the high school renovations? Spoiler.
A roof ladder sheared off to nowhere.
Beyond where the sidewalk ends.
Shadow tree growing in a strip of light.
"River Styx is high and wide, cinder bricks and razor wire . . ."
Like a secret installation on the barred side of the bridge, like panels of a cartoon. I wish I knew which kind of American flag it was.
Briefly, the street was deserted enough for faces.
Bright behind wrought iron on our street.
We had just enough time during the cat's scan to run to Porter Square Books, where I collected my preorder of Alex Wellerstein's Restricted Data: Nuclear Secrecy in the United States (2021) and discovered almost as soon as I opened it at random that the epigraph I used for "The Trinite Golem" (2016) is out of date, because I wrote the story in March of 2014 and the full declassified transcripts of Oppenheimer's security hearing were not released until October of that year. I didn't read them through at the time—not surprising, given the unbearable stress of that fall, but in hindsight it feels like unforgivable intellectual sloppiness—and however the news propagated to me, it was not through anyone like Wellerstein who flagged the redacted phrase "and we have a whole series of Super bombs," i.e., hydrogen bombs. I don't know what to do about changing it. No one's called me on it. It feels like perpetuating the censorship not to. Aggravatingly, the redacted version is punchier.
We knew the nest wasn't just an emblem of the season because there was a mama bird perched in the higher branches yelling at us about it.
Tiny elm leaves unfurling, as if fringed in frost. [edit] Elm fruits!
Hello, magnolia!
We had lost too much of the light for a good shot of the cherry blossoms, but they are blossoming and I will return for them.
I'm just very fond of these fire escapes, all right?
I liked the look of this manhole cover, like a penny dropped onto the gravel of the right of way beside the School Street Bridge, which is now utterly impassable on foot. We detoured in a rectangle through Richdale Avenue and Sycamore and Madison Streets instead.
Before we left, a commuter train came by.
The tag on this newly planted tree informed us that it was an autumn-blooming maple. It seemed confused.
Pansies!
None of the colors in this photo came out correctly because my camera has trouble with contrasts, but I wound up liking it anyway.
Utility Relocation Tracking System!
Remember that building that was scheduled not to survive the high school renovations? Spoiler.
A roof ladder sheared off to nowhere.
Beyond where the sidewalk ends.
Shadow tree growing in a strip of light.
"River Styx is high and wide, cinder bricks and razor wire . . ."
Like a secret installation on the barred side of the bridge, like panels of a cartoon. I wish I knew which kind of American flag it was.
Briefly, the street was deserted enough for faces.
Bright behind wrought iron on our street.
We had just enough time during the cat's scan to run to Porter Square Books, where I collected my preorder of Alex Wellerstein's Restricted Data: Nuclear Secrecy in the United States (2021) and discovered almost as soon as I opened it at random that the epigraph I used for "The Trinite Golem" (2016) is out of date, because I wrote the story in March of 2014 and the full declassified transcripts of Oppenheimer's security hearing were not released until October of that year. I didn't read them through at the time—not surprising, given the unbearable stress of that fall, but in hindsight it feels like unforgivable intellectual sloppiness—and however the news propagated to me, it was not through anyone like Wellerstein who flagged the redacted phrase "and we have a whole series of Super bombs," i.e., hydrogen bombs. I don't know what to do about changing it. No one's called me on it. It feels like perpetuating the censorship not to. Aggravatingly, the redacted version is punchier.
no subject
It's one of the lyrics of the post's current music. I almost always title posts from the music I am listening to, unless they are reviews, in which case they are titled from the script of whatever it is.
Re: epigraphs expiring: Nothing is perfect, but if you don't occasionally declare something finished -- and refrain from going back to it -- nothing would ever get done.
If I had written the story itself based on incomplete information, that would be one thing. This is a direct quotation from the historical record and it is now wrong. And it's not like I wrote the story seven years ago and the quotation was only discovered to be wrong last week; it's been wrong every time someone read it since it was published. It feels like disseminating misinformation, even accidentally, and I don't like to do that.