Don't want to be just pretty, don't want to be just neat
In an encouraging sign for modern medicine, toward evening I was able to unstick myself from my cold pack and wander around the Mystic for a couple of hours with ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch. We visited the silflay field, climbed the observation tower, and had an inadvertent bonanza of birding in the form of multiple herons, cormorants, gulls, egrets, red-winged blackbirds, ducklings, goslings, and cygnets all accompanied by appropriate parents, plus an entire flotilla of swans. I captured almost none of this catalogue on film, but I did bring my camera.
For months, there are roses blooming everywhere we walk.
I was impressed by the photogenicity of lilacs even when dead.
I don't think there's a name for the footpath underneath the Medford Veterans Memorial Bridge, but it has wonderful shadows and rippling light and—not depicted—a wall of large-scale, colorfully palimpsesting graffiti.
The boardwalk does not lead directly to the silflay field; we had to double back across the bridge. When there was no one else on it, I unmasked and Rob took pictures of me and the wind.
I simply like this one very much.
We had some difficulty descending the observation tower when a party of four with their dog decided to come up the timbered stairs just as we were heading down, but before then I got a picture of the geometries and we admired the assorted antifa graffiti, the legacy of someone who had done a Kilroy at every level and been rewarded with annotations like "BIG NOOB," and the ever-appreciated "NOT ART" stencil.
Except as background detail, the flotilla of swans on the Mystic eluded all my photographic efforts, but I did catch their videographer. All the way from the Blessing of the Bay Boathouse, the sky was filled with grey and white gulls, swinging across the blue with their feet tucked up like carvings. Someday I will get my copy of Holling Clancy Holling's Seabird (1948) out of storage.
The Fellsway as it crosses the Mystic must have its own name, but I don't know it. We waited out the other pedestrians. I miss the harborwalk so much.
A stunner of a rose as we returned from the Northern Expressway.
The gates of the underworld are closing.
Tonight I was sent a picture of my godchild doing their best Tilda Swinton, which wasn't bad at all. I have no real idea of their tolerance for movies, but one of these days I should like to show them Sally Potter's Orlando (1992).
spatch. We visited the silflay field, climbed the observation tower, and had an inadvertent bonanza of birding in the form of multiple herons, cormorants, gulls, egrets, red-winged blackbirds, ducklings, goslings, and cygnets all accompanied by appropriate parents, plus an entire flotilla of swans. I captured almost none of this catalogue on film, but I did bring my camera.
For months, there are roses blooming everywhere we walk.
I was impressed by the photogenicity of lilacs even when dead.
I don't think there's a name for the footpath underneath the Medford Veterans Memorial Bridge, but it has wonderful shadows and rippling light and—not depicted—a wall of large-scale, colorfully palimpsesting graffiti.
The boardwalk does not lead directly to the silflay field; we had to double back across the bridge. When there was no one else on it, I unmasked and Rob took pictures of me and the wind.
I simply like this one very much.
We had some difficulty descending the observation tower when a party of four with their dog decided to come up the timbered stairs just as we were heading down, but before then I got a picture of the geometries and we admired the assorted antifa graffiti, the legacy of someone who had done a Kilroy at every level and been rewarded with annotations like "BIG NOOB," and the ever-appreciated "NOT ART" stencil.
Except as background detail, the flotilla of swans on the Mystic eluded all my photographic efforts, but I did catch their videographer. All the way from the Blessing of the Bay Boathouse, the sky was filled with grey and white gulls, swinging across the blue with their feet tucked up like carvings. Someday I will get my copy of Holling Clancy Holling's Seabird (1948) out of storage.
The Fellsway as it crosses the Mystic must have its own name, but I don't know it. We waited out the other pedestrians. I miss the harborwalk so much.
A stunner of a rose as we returned from the Northern Expressway.
The gates of the underworld are closing.
Tonight I was sent a picture of my godchild doing their best Tilda Swinton, which wasn't bad at all. I have no real idea of their tolerance for movies, but one of these days I should like to show them Sally Potter's Orlando (1992).