In the classic way of aggressive returns to normal, today began with our property manager calling to tell us that our water would be shut off for half an hour while the heater was repaired (spoiler: it was more than half an hour) and ended with a trek to the Valley of the Things in Everett, where lay our one hope of purchasing the prescription cat food of which our regular vet was unexpectedly out. ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch originally characterized it as the Journey to Mount Doom, but it improved as soon as we got across the Fellsway and discovered a hitherto unknown greenway running along the bank of the Mystic in parallel with the Orange Line. There were swans on the water. There were Canada geese with their sharply surveyed schools of young that we dubbed goslingartens. Our side of the river was walled with enormous rust-weathered blocks of stone that made it look like a canal; it looped the tip of a promontory that gave a beautiful view of the locks of the Amelia Earhart Dam, which I believe we have sadly determined offers no access to the public. The trains rattled beside us and we eventually came out through the overflow parking of Wellington Station and thence to Revere Beach Parkway, whose crossing of the Malden River is no longer a mid-'50's drawbridge but a six-lane steel-plate girder bridge on whose rail we leaned to admire a profusion of water lilies and also keep out of range of a jogger trailing an unbelievable cloud of dank. The PetSmart itself was as nerve-racking as buildings containing strangers are these days, but we divided our spoils into the bags we had brought for the purpose, along with bottled water and earthy-crunchy lollipops, and returned home by way of Station Landing where Rob got himself dinner from Five Guys and a malted milkshake for me. We parked on a wooden bench by the marina and watched the goslingartens come ashore all in a Robert McCloskey row. The boardwalk under Route 28 was lined with fishers, from older couples with buckets to kids whose earnest casts we carefully waited out of parabola of. The sun was doing the late gold-melt on the water, flashing off the stone piers of the Wellington Bridge; presently there was a daymoon as huge and crisp as intaglio in the lavender-swimming sky. Someone on the far side of the Mystic was playing the saxophone from the dock of Torbert Macdonald State Park. The swans seemed to like it. I am afraid that once more almost none of the photos are mine, but we have agreed to walk the route again. I want to return for the factory sign of Teddie Peanut Butter, which I glimpsed from the rotary; we owe them years of sandwiches.
( And driven away the longe nightes black. )
It is not a round number for Turing's birthday this year, but it is his birthday still, in which spirit I offer these queer creatures. I think my favorite is the asexualotl.
spatch originally characterized it as the Journey to Mount Doom, but it improved as soon as we got across the Fellsway and discovered a hitherto unknown greenway running along the bank of the Mystic in parallel with the Orange Line. There were swans on the water. There were Canada geese with their sharply surveyed schools of young that we dubbed goslingartens. Our side of the river was walled with enormous rust-weathered blocks of stone that made it look like a canal; it looped the tip of a promontory that gave a beautiful view of the locks of the Amelia Earhart Dam, which I believe we have sadly determined offers no access to the public. The trains rattled beside us and we eventually came out through the overflow parking of Wellington Station and thence to Revere Beach Parkway, whose crossing of the Malden River is no longer a mid-'50's drawbridge but a six-lane steel-plate girder bridge on whose rail we leaned to admire a profusion of water lilies and also keep out of range of a jogger trailing an unbelievable cloud of dank. The PetSmart itself was as nerve-racking as buildings containing strangers are these days, but we divided our spoils into the bags we had brought for the purpose, along with bottled water and earthy-crunchy lollipops, and returned home by way of Station Landing where Rob got himself dinner from Five Guys and a malted milkshake for me. We parked on a wooden bench by the marina and watched the goslingartens come ashore all in a Robert McCloskey row. The boardwalk under Route 28 was lined with fishers, from older couples with buckets to kids whose earnest casts we carefully waited out of parabola of. The sun was doing the late gold-melt on the water, flashing off the stone piers of the Wellington Bridge; presently there was a daymoon as huge and crisp as intaglio in the lavender-swimming sky. Someone on the far side of the Mystic was playing the saxophone from the dock of Torbert Macdonald State Park. The swans seemed to like it. I am afraid that once more almost none of the photos are mine, but we have agreed to walk the route again. I want to return for the factory sign of Teddie Peanut Butter, which I glimpsed from the rotary; we owe them years of sandwiches.( And driven away the longe nightes black. )
It is not a round number for Turing's birthday this year, but it is his birthday still, in which spirit I offer these queer creatures. I think my favorite is the asexualotl.
