How many buzzwords can we fit on a pink-taxed box?
Just about everything about today went off the rails, so I took a very long walk toward evening and a bunch of pictures before the light went.
The dry vines webbed the houses.
Obsolete modernity between megalithic garages.
Their walls look like stratigraphy of lichen and moss.
I am charmed by these fossil traces of utilities past.
The occasion for this afternoon's attention-wrecking hours of woodchipping was revealed as the remains of a plane tree. A small sign posted on the sawhorse declared it to have been a threat to public safety, which made it sound like a dryadic meth dealer.
Sunset cat's-cradled in the telephone wires.
The hidden gem of a storm drain.
ʻŌhiʻa lehua for the synthetic age.
The cameo of the Mystic River under Boston Avenue.
A contrail in the crooks of the sky.
Missing the Litchfield Block in Winter Hill, I tried to console myself with the red brick and black iron of the former Masonic Apartments in West Medford.
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spatch captured both me and the commuter blur of the Lowell Line.
I was trying to photograph the night-lit trees from the Norma E. Jeffers Memorial Bridge, but the camera went straight for the moon. I did not get a picture of the so-called Slave Wall. It is good that the name of the man who built it is known, not merely the name of the man who ordered it. I am learning there is more ghost-ground here than Ten Hills Farm.
I thought for decades I had been born in Brookline, but it turns out I had mistaken on which side of the Emerald Necklace the town line falls: as my birth certificate affirms, I was born in Boston. I am working on not letting it interfere with my hard-won affection for the city. I called both of my senators to encourage them further to demand the release of Mahmoud Khalil and my representative to thank her for speaking out. I wrote a letter to the Boston City Council and Mayor Wu in support of the resolution to expand Boston's status as a sanctuary city to include the trans community. Five years of pandemic. A total lunar eclipse for Purim feels about right.
The dry vines webbed the houses.
Obsolete modernity between megalithic garages.
Their walls look like stratigraphy of lichen and moss.
I am charmed by these fossil traces of utilities past.
The occasion for this afternoon's attention-wrecking hours of woodchipping was revealed as the remains of a plane tree. A small sign posted on the sawhorse declared it to have been a threat to public safety, which made it sound like a dryadic meth dealer.
Sunset cat's-cradled in the telephone wires.
The hidden gem of a storm drain.
ʻŌhiʻa lehua for the synthetic age.
The cameo of the Mystic River under Boston Avenue.
A contrail in the crooks of the sky.
Missing the Litchfield Block in Winter Hill, I tried to console myself with the red brick and black iron of the former Masonic Apartments in West Medford.
spatch captured both me and the commuter blur of the Lowell Line.
I was trying to photograph the night-lit trees from the Norma E. Jeffers Memorial Bridge, but the camera went straight for the moon. I did not get a picture of the so-called Slave Wall. It is good that the name of the man who built it is known, not merely the name of the man who ordered it. I am learning there is more ghost-ground here than Ten Hills Farm.
I thought for decades I had been born in Brookline, but it turns out I had mistaken on which side of the Emerald Necklace the town line falls: as my birth certificate affirms, I was born in Boston. I am working on not letting it interfere with my hard-won affection for the city. I called both of my senators to encourage them further to demand the release of Mahmoud Khalil and my representative to thank her for speaking out. I wrote a letter to the Boston City Council and Mayor Wu in support of the resolution to expand Boston's status as a sanctuary city to include the trans community. Five years of pandemic. A total lunar eclipse for Purim feels about right.