Assortment

Fog on Boston Common.


No comment necessary.



Tough chick, near Boston College. This is March. But then, flip flops appeared all over as soon as the temps got above 40˚F, to my amazement.


The view over the Charles River, Zakim Bridge, Bunker Hill Monument, from our 20th story first apartment there. Provided by the traveling agency.



A Smoot mark on Harvard Bridge.


Really enjoying my day off this week, after last week when I didn't have one. A pause.

We still miss Boston, always will. This is home, now.

Coffee

Twelve hour long shift. Didn't even want to go in, wanted to ask to get off early. No such. Much running about, much standing and scrubbing, a stint holding a leg in a very unnatural position - for me, not the person who's leg it was. Well, not especially for them, and they got to be under anesthetic. Last case with a surgeon with less than ideal taste in music. And now I have classic hair metal in my head, where it clearly is not welcome, and does not belong.

Although, it does remind me of an evening walking home from the train in Boston, through the Common, over Beacon Hill, and down towards Charles Street. Less populated after dark, a stretch that got my street instincts tingling after dark, and a couple of guys at the corner, another joining them, the rough and homeless type. I strode with cautious bravado, false too-much-in-a-hurry-to-be-bothered, until one started singing, and the other two joined in, harmonizing, "Same old story, same old song and dance, my friend...." They sounded really good, especially so to me in my reflexive defensiveness, and I smiled in relief. I doubt they even saw me as they sauntered away.

D has since wondered if I had in fact spotted Aerosmith. I don't think they are quite that down on their luck, although Steven Tyler was spotted at the MGH coffee shop regularly. Possibly because they had really good coffee* (not that I know, but so I was told.) On the other hand, really good musicians are dime a dozen in Boston.

Reminded me also of walking around Detroit, and seeing young men on the corners. White guys in such groups were trouble, to be avoided by going the other way around the block, or across the street. But groups of young black guys were generally not a threat, although more vocal. They'd comment on me as I walked past, and I would smile, murmur a greeting, and that would be all. I'd been tipped off by an older woman who'd lived in that part of the city for many years, and her advice proved sound. I don't know if it is the same today.

D fed me, rubbed my back with Tiger Balm, and I sit in stunned stupor.




*I really can't stand coffee. Even the smell is repulsive to me. I attribute this to my father's habit of pouring hot coffee on shredded wheat, which smells like wet dog. I tried to drink it in the army, as the only available caffeine, and never could get more than a sip down.

Front

Around ten this morning, the light changed as the front moved through. "Turning the swift air luminous and strange."*

Snow. Snow and rain. Snow and rain and wind and a perfectly marvelous day. Went for a long walk, lunch, and the watery snow iced down. Still falling, though to little measurable result, pouring along streets, puddling coldly. Days like this make me miss Boston, where it rained reliably and routinely, and I was out in it every day.

We watched Happy-Go-Lucky with the audio commentary before sending it back. Nothing new, really. But I found myself not wanting to let go of the characters, have one more cup of tea with them. Get to hear more of their stories, watch them grow a little more. The story is more a study of characters, and I love knowing that they will all be fine. Well, maybe not one, but that's his own doing. All of them will stay with me for a long time.

Practicing the ukelele. Slowly, so that I don't make my fingers so sore I won't practice tomorrow.

Moby content to knead the woollyness. (The fur is not quite grown back on his front legs, which they shaved for the blood draw & IV.)








*From a poem, but this is about all I remember of it, and will gladly give credit if I figure it out.

Purty

*
Pretty is a trait I have always distrusted.

Not hated out of hand, but pretty better have a back-up, or it gains no ground with me. Several of the nurses at work betrayed to me how influenced they were by the pretty-boy scrub who left, using his sick time fraudulently. Even now that his obvious user traits are clear, they sigh over him, and think he was a good scrub 'anyway.' He wasn't, although he talked a good line, but dumped his work on others. Always the charm and smile and oil, but he struck me as shallow, vain, and a hypocrite. One of the anesthesiologists who floated through a few months ago was certain that pretty-boy was on steroids, as he himself had once used them and stopped. PB claims he never used drugs, but I know who I believe. I never bought it, felt none of the attraction, because it never seemed to go beyond his strut. I reacted to him the way I feel about gay men, an instinctive "meh" that meant they had no power over me. Fine if you are, so I'll leave you be. In this case, closeted, which screams a huge hole in his integrity, an absolute repulsion.

My dearest friend from Detroit was, and is, a gorgeous woman. She also has brains and a strong sense of self and humor. Initially intimidated by her looks, that vanished as I got to know who she really was. My beloved Moira is also a classically beautiful, tall, cool, blonde, who also has a wicked sense of humor and boundless capacity for insight and compassion. I dated one very good looking man, who treated me very decently under difficult circumstances. I will always remember him with fondness, although we had no chance to stay together. He was a good guy, though.

Pretty isn't a bad trait, unless it's all there on its own, trying to cover a deficient personality. But beauty is when it goes all the way to the basement, whole and sound.

D is not a typically attractive male, good thing or he wouldn't have been available when we met. He's always attracted me. I'm no one's idea of pretty. But I've been attractive to enough guys that I don't much care. We saw the thorough beauty in each other, the sparkling wit and thoughtful desire. We grow lovely together.

We hate the whole artificiality of Valentine's Day, preferring to simply love each other all days. So we ignore the flowers and balloons, cards and chocolate boxes. (Chocolate on every other day is fine, of course.)

I do miss the reasonably priced flowers available every day at Trader Joe's. Sometimes, we miss Boston so much, wanting to walk through the North End, or Faneuil Hall, take the ferry over to the USS Constitution, or along the Esplanade, or just to Downtown Crossing to be hectored by the Spare Change Guy and poke around Filene's Basement, and take the T back home. Not the work, not the whole situation, not the expensive tiny apartments, but the places to walk. We've always loved walking together. From when we walked around Colorado Springs, and Eskan Village, talking together.


*The sidewalk outside the Boston Latin School.

Scrubbed

The Old State House in Boston on the 4th of July, readied for the reading of the Declaration of Independence. We made it every year we were there.

From being the star-body. sneetch, resource person, lunch body, general helper, I had to relieve a scrub tech who became suddenly very ill. She went home, I got to scrub in all day. This is the real perk of this job for me, I get to keep up my scrubbing in skills, not just circulate around the room.

A Good Day.

Lion

For all that the Boston Public Library, or at least the old part, is lovely and inviting, I never used it as a place to borrow books. We met there, used the restrooms, used the wifi, enjoyed the art, but the stacks and catalogue were impenetrable. I bought more books in that town than ever before in my life. Good bookstores, give 'em that.

Unwieldy

I started blooging over on a mac site back in 2004 that proved unwieldy. Moira got me onto Blooger, which for all it's many drawbacks, worked most of the time pretty well. But those early posts, intended as once a month essays to learn mysef to write gooder, turned into weekly struggles to master my own language in clearly written form. Working through my own strong preferences and difficult journeys. It's been a long ride through a dark tunnel.

The photos from those early years, the beginning of our time in Boston, went to a Mac photo page for our friends. A way to stay connected, to entertain, to share such an interesting place. The page is gone, but the photos are still here, still wanting to be gazed upon, still wanting to tell their stories.

This is the turn into Park Street from the Green Line of the MBTA in Boston. I can still hear the shrieks and screetches of the wheels against the rails, the rinky-dink quality of the lurching car, announcing that I was nearly home.

Rent

Every once in a while, when I talk about my sojourn in Boston, it seems like I should have loved it there so much I could never leave. Today, provoked to poke around in iPhoto, I remember a huge part of the reason that living there long term felt so burdensome. These are photos of apartments I saw, D couldn't be there, so I recorded the more likely possibilities. These are not the worst, mind you. Not the ones with the ceiling missing, or the floor half torn up. Not the ones with the view of the dumpsters from the first floor. No, these were the cramped, worn, creaky options available to us to live in the city at a rent we could about manage.


The Pepto Bismol bathroom, could we live with that?


Or the laundry and garbage down that stairway, could we cope?





All for only $13-1500 a month.

Territories

Last, before the...


Fenway basement, preceded by the...


Brookline studio, which followed the...


First Boston high rise.

(No photo of Boston Animal Rescue League.)

Sympathy (Photo)

For the Umbrella. (Apologies to Rolling Stones.)

Another Boston photo.

Planted (Photo)

Outside the offices of Deathwish. Click for detail.

Deathwish (Photo)

Piano Movers.

Boston.

Discard (Photo)

Found on Boston Common, Gay Pride Day, 2004.

Journey

Written, then forgotten, from the day after arrival.

~What sleep that fought through our whirling brains was contaminated with dreams of juggling bowling balls and flaming torches. We managed a scant four hours, only to relent, in frustrated exhaustion, and pack our bags, and throw out obscene amounts of useable, not worth packing, food/cleaners/stuff. The lime curd spread about broke my heart. We couldn't eat it with our anxious guts, nor justify the room for it in our already overloaded bags. Normally, we pack light. Not this time.

We shoved unhappy cat into bag, and dragged ourselves up to wait for cab. He came, loaded his trunk with our baggage, when another cabbie from the same company showed, and stopped all of us. HE had been called for this job, and insisted we call the dispatcher to see which of them was given the fare. Undisuadable, aggressive, unwilling to concede that we should not be put in between them in this dispute, he insisted we call. D, in frustration, just wanting to get to the airport, called, confirmed that the first was indeed the cab number sent to us, and we got in. At that point, I would not have gotten in the second taxi, no matter what. I rather hoped that if the other cab number had been right, D would have simply lied, but it wasn't necessary.

Long check-in because we needed to get Moby's ticket, and check four bags between us. Then through security, who made me take Moby out of the bag, but made sure I had someone to get my bags through (D, of course, they get credit for asking.) As I wrangled my unwilling, trembling feline back into the carrier, the woman grinned at the outstretched paws, and helped me get him zipped up.

The wait, the recommended near two hours, drags on our grated minds. A crossword puzzle defeats us handily.

We splurged, (I cannot complain of my wages as an RN in Boston) on "Business Class" tickets. I expect those extra inches, and the included meal were far and away the most expensive of my life, but I cried with joyous, grateful, relief as a tray with omelette, potatoes, sausages, fruit and crossaint, and decent hot tea, were placed before me. They gave me breakfast! Oh! Moby only mewed on take-off, and landing, seemed to simply shut down the rest of the time.

My brain is mush. But we are connected again.
~

Jaywalking (Photo)

Jaywalking here is not a misdemeanor, it's a civil right, and a survival skill. I have seen groups of people spontaneously vote that it was the pedestrians turn, by moving en mass across a street, stopping cars as necessary. Most, though certainly not all, are alert and nimble - probably thanks to natural selection. I will miss that when I go to SLC, and will have to remind myself not to cross safely at my own discretion.

I will also, occasionally miss the rainfogmist.

S-day

At six in the morning yesterday, the NOAA had, for the current weather in Boston "N/A VOID." So when I walked out the door, I had to return for an umbrella. Turns out it was about 60F, with 25mph winds, gusting to 40, and 0.7" of rain in that hour. I ran, and was shoved and dampened the whole way to the train. As it was pulling away, me on the wrong side of the platform, a Miracle, the driver stopped, opened his window, and gestured me around the track. Clambered on, damp and grateful and out of breath.

At the notorious Park station, the Red Line was delayed for a disabled train, I stood awhile looking at the uncharacteristically shiny rails, and decided that wet was better than late, so I ran up and grabbed a Green line to the nearer station, and walked the rest of the way. My legs were soaked to the thigh, and I was never so glad that I had dry scrubs awaiting me. I like rain, but when it drives sidewards, less so.

Had a room that was fast and full, but predictable and doable. As long as I get there early enough to be ready, so, right choice.

Quitting time, my jeans were still soaked and clammy, so I snag clean scrub pants for the trip home (I never do this), planning to catch a cab. No cabs. The T, again, but a seat, which is almost as good.

Nothing funny at work but for Hari and Shahzad making fun of me for not understanding a word of what they were saying about cricket. I simply replied that I know nothing of football or basketball, either.

38,217
40,318 ending.

Weensday

Ok, last week, no woe. This week, I was handed a post on a platter.

I am going down to the Park Street Red Line station, and as I start down the stairs, I hear loud, lounge music. Now remember, this is 0620. I'm thinking, I can't take this, not this early in the morning. And it gets worse, because atop the obnoxious synth pseudo jazz volume, there is a man in full Sammy Davis Jr. get-up, singing a mangeled, not entirely on key version of "Mr. Bojangles." I fished out my shuffle, stuffed the pods in my ears, and cranked whatever song was there as loud as I could stand, until the roaring train washed it all out anyway.

I always tip the T musicians, I didn't think he qualified.

33,001
It's herein one huge, horrible post.

Sail (Photo)

What is a two hour sailing cruise with no wind? Actually, contemplative, and a restful, beautiful evening.

Doze (Photo)

A Perma Puddle with an illegally (read stupidly) parked car in the pedestrian walkway.

Sleeping along the trail, and on the street.

Under (Photos)

Under Construction
Under Water
Under Trees amidst the geese.