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.
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Some great photos, especially that one of the contrail and the tree tops!
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Those are cool photos!
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(Both of you are very good at photographing the liminal and the vanishing world. Thank you for sharing with those of us whose idea of a two-hour walk is about a level mile. Mile and a half if I'm frisky and the temperature is between 55 and 68 degrees.)
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Thank you!
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Thank you! It grows just over the bridge of the previous photo and had a sort of cactus-look without its leaves.
*hugs*
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Thank you!
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delights in this
May today stay on the rails like a sleek bullet train.
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*hugs*
(Both of you are very good at photographing the liminal and the vanishing world. Thank you for sharing with those of us whose idea of a two-hour walk is about a level mile. Mile and a half if I'm frisky and the temperature is between 55 and 68 degrees.)
Thank you! It was actually rather balmy until dusk.
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Thank you!
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From a certain angle, it could just be a modern evolution of fairy fruit.
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Also you write the best photo captions.
I wish you far smoother days.
P.
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That's wonderful. I hope to meet your questing mock orange even photographically one of these days.
Also you write the best photo captions.
Thank you!
I wish you far smoother days.
This week is remaining unnecessarily rocky, but I am doing my best.
*hugs*
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Same! It was what I believed to be true.
I have a Brookline birth certificate because my parents were living just over the line in Brookline, but if you look closely, it says I was born in Boston. Whoops!
I am honestly delighted to know it's a phenomenon.
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Thank you!
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Thank you, mow. I reflect happily near railways.
I am sorry to report that the rest of that tree has been removed and mulched and taken away from here. Still don't know what was wrong with it.
I hope they plant a new one. We need all the oxygen we can get.