Tomorrow some new building will scrape the sky
From my office window, I just watched a visitor deliberately smell a Bradford pear and regret it. The trees have really broken into bloom, so I took my camera out into the blotter-paper overcast that kept thinking about raining and then not quite.
A leftover shot on the digital roll captured a mourning dove, an all-weather staple of Hestia's bird theater.
The neighborhood cherries are having their moment.
The shadowed translucence of this set made them look carved.
I could not resist the juxtaposition of the fallow house and the flowering tree. The little tag on its trunk from the City of Somerville identified it as an okame cherry.
Further adventures in local lichen.
The hyacinth looked more photorealistic than real.
I learned to recognize almond blossom five years ago with the help of![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thisbluespirit and Cicely Mary Barker.
I do not feel in bloom. I feel like something dead since the winter before last. I would enjoy feeling alive at some point. In the meantime I photograph flowers.
spatch has been showing me Hill Street Blues (1981–87), which after a season and a handful I can see resembled nothing else in the Nielsen ratings of its time, structurally, tonally, perhaps even politically, since what I would not have expected from a cop show of the early Reagan administration is so much emphasis on what we would now call non-toxic masculinity as an ideal if not always achieved. Its attitudinal snapshots are fascinating. It is working seriously for diversity. Its interlocking narratives and human messiness make sense of it as the yardstick for J. Michael Straczynski in creating Babylon 5 (1993–98), which is how I heard of the show originally and what it is currently doing in my eyes. I am also enjoying the worldbuilding of its fictional city, whose geographical location is deliberately obscure but whose individual neighborhoods and businesses and sports teams are throwing out runners all over the plot. Actually, to my surprised pleasure, it reminds me distinctly of Frederick Nebel's Kennedy and MacBride.
A leftover shot on the digital roll captured a mourning dove, an all-weather staple of Hestia's bird theater.
The neighborhood cherries are having their moment.
The shadowed translucence of this set made them look carved.
I could not resist the juxtaposition of the fallow house and the flowering tree. The little tag on its trunk from the City of Somerville identified it as an okame cherry.
Further adventures in local lichen.
The hyacinth looked more photorealistic than real.
I learned to recognize almond blossom five years ago with the help of
thisbluespirit and Cicely Mary Barker.
I do not feel in bloom. I feel like something dead since the winter before last. I would enjoy feeling alive at some point. In the meantime I photograph flowers.
spatch has been showing me Hill Street Blues (1981–87), which after a season and a handful I can see resembled nothing else in the Nielsen ratings of its time, structurally, tonally, perhaps even politically, since what I would not have expected from a cop show of the early Reagan administration is so much emphasis on what we would now call non-toxic masculinity as an ideal if not always achieved. Its attitudinal snapshots are fascinating. It is working seriously for diversity. Its interlocking narratives and human messiness make sense of it as the yardstick for J. Michael Straczynski in creating Babylon 5 (1993–98), which is how I heard of the show originally and what it is currently doing in my eyes. I am also enjoying the worldbuilding of its fictional city, whose geographical location is deliberately obscure but whose individual neighborhoods and businesses and sports teams are throwing out runners all over the plot. Actually, to my surprised pleasure, it reminds me distinctly of Frederick Nebel's Kennedy and MacBride.