Cloaked in feathers to fall through the earth
On concluding this afternoon's unavoidable phone calls, we fled into the last of the daylight.
We walked our traditional route to check out the high school construction as the sky faded from gold to peach to a kind of sinking mauve. The plant I am petting is not technically a smoke bush, but it had a similar appearance and was soft to the touch. The photo came out curiously blurred, we decided to match the smoke.
Instead of returning via the traditional park, just after crossing the train tracks on Walnut Street we made an exploratory right onto Gilman Street and kept on it until it turned into Oliver Street and delivered us to the community gardens of the Capuano Childhood Center, which were lit with small artificially fluttering lanterns and showed where someone had been raking and bagging leaves, leaning a wheelbarrow beside a garden bed with a pair of wrought iron pinwheels. There was a labyrinth painted inside the gates of the playground. It was not off-limits at that hour of the evening: we walked it. I couldn't remember the last time I had walked a labyrinth.![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch counted three hundred and eighty-five steps.
We had actually managed to wander as far as Washington Street, so as far as we can reconstruct, we returned via Franklin Avenue, got slightly distracted by the architecture of St. Benedict Parish, and finally cut back to Broadway where we made another couple of squares around streets named after assorted states of the U.S. until Fasika opened for dinner and we could take home a kitfo- and lentil-heavy combo for two, which we ate while watching Ernst Lubitsch's Cluny Brown (1946). It would have been an even nicer night if we had not encountered two separate instances of men screaming racist abuse on the street, in both cases not at anyone who was actually there, but still not cool.
Wes has been eulogized by Jon Stewart. I can read his obituary. I do not expect it to stop feeling wrong.
We walked our traditional route to check out the high school construction as the sky faded from gold to peach to a kind of sinking mauve. The plant I am petting is not technically a smoke bush, but it had a similar appearance and was soft to the touch. The photo came out curiously blurred, we decided to match the smoke.
Instead of returning via the traditional park, just after crossing the train tracks on Walnut Street we made an exploratory right onto Gilman Street and kept on it until it turned into Oliver Street and delivered us to the community gardens of the Capuano Childhood Center, which were lit with small artificially fluttering lanterns and showed where someone had been raking and bagging leaves, leaning a wheelbarrow beside a garden bed with a pair of wrought iron pinwheels. There was a labyrinth painted inside the gates of the playground. It was not off-limits at that hour of the evening: we walked it. I couldn't remember the last time I had walked a labyrinth.
spatch counted three hundred and eighty-five steps.We had actually managed to wander as far as Washington Street, so as far as we can reconstruct, we returned via Franklin Avenue, got slightly distracted by the architecture of St. Benedict Parish, and finally cut back to Broadway where we made another couple of squares around streets named after assorted states of the U.S. until Fasika opened for dinner and we could take home a kitfo- and lentil-heavy combo for two, which we ate while watching Ernst Lubitsch's Cluny Brown (1946). It would have been an even nicer night if we had not encountered two separate instances of men screaming racist abuse on the street, in both cases not at anyone who was actually there, but still not cool.
Wes has been eulogized by Jon Stewart. I can read his obituary. I do not expect it to stop feeling wrong.
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D) I am sorry. Proportional personal biteyness about this tragedy is probably not a comfort, but it is *very high.*
Post-coffee edit: they made a film of Cluny Brown ??
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It ha become my default going-places mask. I appreciate how much it doesn't try to cut into my nose.
D) I am sorry. Proportional personal biteyness about this tragedy is probably not a comfort, but it is *very high.*
*hugs*
Post-coffee edit: they made a film of Cluny Brown ??
Yes, and it's delightful. It's full of plumbing.
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I am so glad! "The Nightingale Strikes Again!"