But I think that ruins have beauty
Yesterday while a family member was in the hospital for a scheduled surgery and I could do nothing except wait to hear the results (it went well), I went for a walk and photographed flowering things.
In fact, the tree directly in front of our house is a Bradford pear. It looks majestic so long as you don't inhale.
The twigs grow their own corsages.
I still miss the cherry trees on our old street, but at least I do not have to walk far from our new one.
I have no idea what these flowers belonged to, but they seemed adventurous in their extension over stone.
The clouds were coming up fast, but the magnolia tree was stupendous.
I thought first of Ozymandias, then of de Chirico.
The pussy willow glowed against the dimming sky.
The redbud, even more so.
The budding ornamental cherry was the last thing of which I could get a decent picture before the squall, which continued for the rest of my walk home. I texted![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch triumphantly, "Petrichor!"
In the evenings I have been staring at movies with hot compresses over each eye in turn. I had never seen Dennis O'Keefe pre-noir and would not recommend Burn 'Em Up O'Connor (1939) as an introduction despite its macabrely unraveling murder plot, but The Chaser (1938) is a delightful exposition of rules-lawyering in an pre-Code atmosphere of everyone working an angle and chief among them O'Keefe as the kind of fast-talk charmer whose ambulance-chasing comes with fifty-year-old statutes up its sleeves in the event of needing to fight an unjust transit authority, which is a very relatable fantasy if you have tried to catch a bus lately. Plotwise I have almost nothing to say about The Omaha Trail (1942) except that its conceit of a literal wagon train—the transportation of a locomotive by ox train—is cute and its villain's reasons for sabotaging it are especially capitalist, but it starred Pamela Blake and Howard da Silva was in the supporting cast and Harry Morgan in his first year on film was already doing one of his quiet little enforcers and I just felt attacked. I tried to watch Love Letters (1945) for Joseph Cotten and Jennifer Jones and tapped out because while it may have been inevitable that someone would write Cyrano de Bergerac darkfic, why did it have to be Ayn Rand?
Tonight I found out that I am part of a display of Lethe Books at the Imaginary Bookshop in Greenfield and I'm pretty happy about it.
In fact, the tree directly in front of our house is a Bradford pear. It looks majestic so long as you don't inhale.
The twigs grow their own corsages.
I still miss the cherry trees on our old street, but at least I do not have to walk far from our new one.
I have no idea what these flowers belonged to, but they seemed adventurous in their extension over stone.
The clouds were coming up fast, but the magnolia tree was stupendous.
I thought first of Ozymandias, then of de Chirico.
The pussy willow glowed against the dimming sky.
The redbud, even more so.
The budding ornamental cherry was the last thing of which I could get a decent picture before the squall, which continued for the rest of my walk home. I texted
spatch triumphantly, "Petrichor!"In the evenings I have been staring at movies with hot compresses over each eye in turn. I had never seen Dennis O'Keefe pre-noir and would not recommend Burn 'Em Up O'Connor (1939) as an introduction despite its macabrely unraveling murder plot, but The Chaser (1938) is a delightful exposition of rules-lawyering in an pre-Code atmosphere of everyone working an angle and chief among them O'Keefe as the kind of fast-talk charmer whose ambulance-chasing comes with fifty-year-old statutes up its sleeves in the event of needing to fight an unjust transit authority, which is a very relatable fantasy if you have tried to catch a bus lately. Plotwise I have almost nothing to say about The Omaha Trail (1942) except that its conceit of a literal wagon train—the transportation of a locomotive by ox train—is cute and its villain's reasons for sabotaging it are especially capitalist, but it starred Pamela Blake and Howard da Silva was in the supporting cast and Harry Morgan in his first year on film was already doing one of his quiet little enforcers and I just felt attacked. I tried to watch Love Letters (1945) for Joseph Cotten and Jennifer Jones and tapped out because while it may have been inevitable that someone would write Cyrano de Bergerac darkfic, why did it have to be Ayn Rand?
Tonight I found out that I am part of a display of Lethe Books at the Imaginary Bookshop in Greenfield and I'm pretty happy about it.
no subject
Thank you! The flowers went straight to the patient, in lieu of the real thing.
That's the sort of sentence I love to stumble into.
*hugs*