Transitions

I haven't been blogging as much lately since I have been living so much more vividly, but that's a bad excuse. I aim to post once a day, with whatever momentous minutiae arises. I want to give a shout out to Mary Carey, one of my favorite writers and readers, who was laid off this week from the Gazette. Local journalism is worse off without her, and I'm sure she will land somewhere that deserves her. This is Mary's marvelous blog. Also I want to express my indignance at Joan Holliday's dismissal as the mid-day jock at WRNX. This is unjust and frustrating. Clear Channel, the corporate ownership behind the station, slashes line items from a distance that represent our friends and colleagues here. Joan, you'll be missed on the air, and I hope to hear you back at another frequency soon where you may have a chance to express your excellent taste and music smarts.

I discovered a ten year old collage at my sister's house. This was one of my first, produced under the influence of narcotics, in the previous century, which makes it sound long enough ago to admit. My sober collages are much better, I think, but this has some historical significance to me. It was a gift to my sister Amy and her family in December 1999.
My nephews Noah and Sam made a point of playing me the exact parts of this classic Descendents album that include "swears." Parents grow weary of censorship sometimes and just let go, though I doubt the Dead Kennedys are in the offing. Meanwhile, Noah (right) aproached my sister (his mom, Emily) and said, "Mom, I have a question and you're not going to like it." "What is it Noah?" "Can I cut my t-shirt?" "What...you mean cut the sleeves off?" "No, the bottom, to show my belly button." "Noah, NO!"
Mother's Day, playground in Cambridge MA.
The Saturday farmer's market on Hanover Street in Boston's North End.
Northampton Gothic. Llama and Jim launch their summer garden on Market Street, despite allegations of rodents and threats of lingering frost.

Boat On The Charles
Boat on the Charles
Train on a spur down by the riverside
The door's open wide
Planes in a line just seven miles away
They leave every day
And someone's always going south
A guy with a truck here about is going New Year's Eve
Why don't you leave

Why don't I leave
I can't make myself believe
No one really cares for me here
I can't make no sense of this place and I fear
I can't spend another day without hearing from you
Throw my life away and pass my body through into the Charles

Boat on the Charles
Bird on a wire outside my window pane
It's started to rain
Buses in line just seven blocks away
They leave every day
And someone's always asking me why I can't seem
To make myself see
That you won't answer me
Why don't you leave

Why don't I leave
How many times can a man be told
How many times before I lose control
I don't give a damn for my immortal soul
It's just about time I let my insides show
So here I go
-Todd Rundgren (from "The Ballad of Runt" 1971)