Don't know why you don't need an answer inside me
In our quest for somewhere with as much open air and as few people as possible wherein to eat our dinner from the Smoke Shop at Assembly Row, ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and I found ourselves sitting on a granite block beside the riverwalk on the far side of the commuter rail bridge at the end of what seems to be called Draw Seven Park, laying out our picnic to the accompaniment of seagulls and the horrible realization that the restaurant had furnished us with zero napkins for an order of three kinds of barbecue. We had fortunately packed our own utensils, but I have still now had the experience of trying to wash my hands with a can of seltzer. We reminded one another that everyone has gone a little feral in the last few years and ate the butter crack cake.
I want to return with my camera. We had never gotten such a close look at the flat concrete locks of the Amelia Earhart Dam, which some chain-link and no-argument signage prevented us from exploring further. People were fishing from a wooden pier across the path from a kind of scrub field with park benches and the frame of a soccer goal without a net. Aslant across the Mystic was the industrial collage of the brick stacks of the Mystic Generating Station foregrounded by the Alford Street Bridge and the green struts of the Tobin farther behind it. To our great delight, the drawbridge went up with a clanging of bells for a boat to come through full of people whooping to hear their voices echo under the leaves of the bascule. The tide was low and there were tiny snails clinging to the rocks of the dike. We had an errand to run on the other side of Sullivan Square, but first we were lured across the Alford Street Bridge where we found, standing out of the sunset-skimmed water, some monumental stubs of granite piers and deeply rusted iron girders all boxed in by the equally driftwood skeleton of weathered fender piers; they turn out to be the remains of the bridge that carried the Charlestown Elevated across the Mystic between 1919 and 1975, littered with dry white shells dropped by gulls. I must have seen them six years ago when I had to visit Chelsea in order to fight with our health insurance, but especially in the low-idling water and the late reflections they looked like architecture from cities I have dreamed. The bridge house is built in desert-rose brick, shingled in black slate, flashed in green copper. We got a clear miniature view of the scrapyard of Schnitzer Steel in Everett where loaders of different primary colors were working on a rust-brown sliding dune. The similarly centennial brick of Whittemore-Wright is covered with incredible ghost signs, from the company's name banded like a buoy in black and white to the end-on advertisement declaring in blue and gold more than half spidered over with ivy, "Leather Is Your Foot's Best Friend!"
I do not want to lose this city and its waters.
spatch and I found ourselves sitting on a granite block beside the riverwalk on the far side of the commuter rail bridge at the end of what seems to be called Draw Seven Park, laying out our picnic to the accompaniment of seagulls and the horrible realization that the restaurant had furnished us with zero napkins for an order of three kinds of barbecue. We had fortunately packed our own utensils, but I have still now had the experience of trying to wash my hands with a can of seltzer. We reminded one another that everyone has gone a little feral in the last few years and ate the butter crack cake.I want to return with my camera. We had never gotten such a close look at the flat concrete locks of the Amelia Earhart Dam, which some chain-link and no-argument signage prevented us from exploring further. People were fishing from a wooden pier across the path from a kind of scrub field with park benches and the frame of a soccer goal without a net. Aslant across the Mystic was the industrial collage of the brick stacks of the Mystic Generating Station foregrounded by the Alford Street Bridge and the green struts of the Tobin farther behind it. To our great delight, the drawbridge went up with a clanging of bells for a boat to come through full of people whooping to hear their voices echo under the leaves of the bascule. The tide was low and there were tiny snails clinging to the rocks of the dike. We had an errand to run on the other side of Sullivan Square, but first we were lured across the Alford Street Bridge where we found, standing out of the sunset-skimmed water, some monumental stubs of granite piers and deeply rusted iron girders all boxed in by the equally driftwood skeleton of weathered fender piers; they turn out to be the remains of the bridge that carried the Charlestown Elevated across the Mystic between 1919 and 1975, littered with dry white shells dropped by gulls. I must have seen them six years ago when I had to visit Chelsea in order to fight with our health insurance, but especially in the low-idling water and the late reflections they looked like architecture from cities I have dreamed. The bridge house is built in desert-rose brick, shingled in black slate, flashed in green copper. We got a clear miniature view of the scrapyard of Schnitzer Steel in Everett where loaders of different primary colors were working on a rust-brown sliding dune. The similarly centennial brick of Whittemore-Wright is covered with incredible ghost signs, from the company's name banded like a buoy in black and white to the end-on advertisement declaring in blue and gold more than half spidered over with ivy, "Leather Is Your Foot's Best Friend!"
I do not want to lose this city and its waters.
no subject
That is such a great picture of you and of the water.
no subject
It fizzed!
That is such a great picture of you and of the water.
Thank you. I love discovering water I don't know about.