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).
