Sing the praise of Alexander, he's no use to me
Our sidewalk is sunnier than it was. Our Bradford pear has been cut down. The city never called me back about whether a new tree would be planted in the square of mulch currently hosting a knee-high stump: a cherry picker and a woodchipper hauled up to our curb in the early afternoon and the air turned to sawmill. The noise was jaggedly inescapable even with earplugs. I still don't know what was wrong with the tree. Its lopped, leafy branches were not conspicuously rotted. ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and I ran through the cloud of splinters and fled.
The Used Book Superstore in Burlington was in fact gigantic. I didn't make it through all the partly alphabetized sections. Every time I felt jaded by half a shelf of the same remaindered best-seller, I was pulled up by a Depression-era Samuel French edition of a romantic comedy I had never heard of. I reluctantly left the uncut pages of Bliss Carman's Ballad of Lost Haven (1897) in favor of a library-jacketed hardcover of J. R. Humphreys' The Lost Towns and Roads of America (1961) for Rob, who unbeknownst to me had located me a near-fine of Alex Hirsch's Gravity Falls: Journal 3 (2016), fortunately without any O. Henry-ish shenanigans when we met and exchanged gifts. He left with two further playscripts and Earl Mac Rauch's The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension (1984) and I have Seamus Heaney's aptly posthumous Aeneid Book VI (2016) and an anthology of poems from The Atlantic which I bought predominantly for the one about lichen. We were the next mall strip over from Schoolhouse Ice Cream, so I ate my cherry-dipped soft serve in the rapid self-defense of 92 °F.
Yesterday for Peter Cushing's birthday, I did see the news about the restored re-release of Dracula (1958).
spatch and I ran through the cloud of splinters and fled.The Used Book Superstore in Burlington was in fact gigantic. I didn't make it through all the partly alphabetized sections. Every time I felt jaded by half a shelf of the same remaindered best-seller, I was pulled up by a Depression-era Samuel French edition of a romantic comedy I had never heard of. I reluctantly left the uncut pages of Bliss Carman's Ballad of Lost Haven (1897) in favor of a library-jacketed hardcover of J. R. Humphreys' The Lost Towns and Roads of America (1961) for Rob, who unbeknownst to me had located me a near-fine of Alex Hirsch's Gravity Falls: Journal 3 (2016), fortunately without any O. Henry-ish shenanigans when we met and exchanged gifts. He left with two further playscripts and Earl Mac Rauch's The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension (1984) and I have Seamus Heaney's aptly posthumous Aeneid Book VI (2016) and an anthology of poems from The Atlantic which I bought predominantly for the one about lichen. We were the next mall strip over from Schoolhouse Ice Cream, so I ate my cherry-dipped soft serve in the rapid self-defense of 92 °F.
Yesterday for Peter Cushing's birthday, I did see the news about the restored re-release of Dracula (1958).