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You're a fiction prize that left me in the dust for dead
I spent most of the weekend in a protracted state of not sleeping of which the best I can say is that I managed to enjoy some books and movies in the process, but this afternoon Autolycus had a successful visit to the vet and the light was very good for windows, railyards, and skies. I took a couple of pictures on my phone; I will get used to carrying my camera again.
I do not tire of windows full of sky. I think it is because they look as much like mirrors as doors and therefore, as any self-respecting chauffeur of the underworld could tell you, essentially uncanny, even when filled with mid-afternoon light.
I have been trying to get an identification on this stretch of railyard since discovering it last year and I still don't know what it's called. It is clearly a staging area of some sort, since the track components stored there have changed with some regularity over the months; it partly incorporates some of the disused siding of the industries on either side, but at least one set of tracks seems to run under the concrete stalks of the Northern Expressway and on to Sullivan Station, whether they are still used for that purpose or not. There are sheds and trucks and signs from the MBTA. Several of them impress that it is a hard hat area and not to be trespassed on, which is one of the reasons I don't have as much information on the space as I would like, the other being that it's much harder to wander down to now that I live at literally the other end of the city.
Actually the sunset is doing its late orange ember-subsidence at the end of our street as we speak, shading up through a kind of celadon rust into dusk-blue like a map of oceanic zones. Because I am still on the mailing list for Yale alumni, I just received a congratulatory e-mail about this weekend's winning of the annual game of college football with Harvard, which frankly I find hilarious because I attended exactly one of these games when I was in grad school and it was on both sides one of the most inept exhibitions of athletics I have ever been privileged to endure for three hours of overtime and more fumbles than I stopped caring to count. I believe Harvard finally won and I cheered and so did the friend who had brought me because it had been brightly, bitterly cold for the kickoff and had since become darkly, bitterly cold and at last we could go home. It was my first game of American football and kind of my last. I regret nothing except that I can't tell if this e-mail expected me to more than ironically care.
I do not tire of windows full of sky. I think it is because they look as much like mirrors as doors and therefore, as any self-respecting chauffeur of the underworld could tell you, essentially uncanny, even when filled with mid-afternoon light.
I have been trying to get an identification on this stretch of railyard since discovering it last year and I still don't know what it's called. It is clearly a staging area of some sort, since the track components stored there have changed with some regularity over the months; it partly incorporates some of the disused siding of the industries on either side, but at least one set of tracks seems to run under the concrete stalks of the Northern Expressway and on to Sullivan Station, whether they are still used for that purpose or not. There are sheds and trucks and signs from the MBTA. Several of them impress that it is a hard hat area and not to be trespassed on, which is one of the reasons I don't have as much information on the space as I would like, the other being that it's much harder to wander down to now that I live at literally the other end of the city.
Actually the sunset is doing its late orange ember-subsidence at the end of our street as we speak, shading up through a kind of celadon rust into dusk-blue like a map of oceanic zones. Because I am still on the mailing list for Yale alumni, I just received a congratulatory e-mail about this weekend's winning of the annual game of college football with Harvard, which frankly I find hilarious because I attended exactly one of these games when I was in grad school and it was on both sides one of the most inept exhibitions of athletics I have ever been privileged to endure for three hours of overtime and more fumbles than I stopped caring to count. I believe Harvard finally won and I cheered and so did the friend who had brought me because it had been brightly, bitterly cold for the kickoff and had since become darkly, bitterly cold and at last we could go home. It was my first game of American football and kind of my last. I regret nothing except that I can't tell if this e-mail expected me to more than ironically care.
no subject
I was in the high school marching band, so I was at least present at many football games. This is an example I give of the supportiveness of my parents. My sister is three years younger than I am, and was also in the marching band. My parents bought season tickets to the home games so that they could sit in the stands and watch the half-time shows for six consecutive years.
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I am very glad they are doing that.
My parents bought season tickets to the home games so that they could sit in the stands and watch the half-time shows for six consecutive years.
That's wonderful. And extremely supportive. And a lot of football.