Dust. Dust everywhere. Dust up the river. Dust in the counting houses. Dust atop the rooftops and down the chimneys. Dust creeping into the collier-brigs, dust settling between the toes of the subway captain, and above in the yards of a great (and dusty) city. The fortune cookie that accompanied the newsboy’s take-out Beef Chow Fun last night read, EXPECT VACUUMING. The photographer dreads dust the way vampires (old school) fear garlic. He glides in across his dusty parquet like a thief and is put in mind of astronauts doing their bouncy-bouncy across the Mare Tranquillitatis, clouds of lunar poussière rising to envelope them to their shins.
Due to an unforeseen and unfortunate series of events we’ve discovered that safety bids us rewire our home. Gaaaaaaccckkk! Aside from the inconvenience of having wires dangling everywhere, there is also the attendant problem of dust, bane of cameras and food.
Everyone needs to pause now and then, if only to taste the strawberries. Jody and Roxanne are in Arizona, attending a colloquy of culinary muses, amid a tight schedule of avocado body wraps and açai-quinoa facial exfoliations. With luck they’ll manage to squeeze in a field trip to Saguaro National Park or the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. …
Today is Friday. I got up at 6 this morning to cycle down to Boylston Street to photograph the improvised memorial for Marathon victims, a trip I’d managed to postpone for three days, afraid of what I’d feel once I got there. Flowers and poems and marathon medals. A visual to accompany an explanation about why The Garum Factory isn’t running our usual format.
Instead, I learn that a young MIT policeman is dead, as is one of the bombing suspects, and the city is in lockdown while scores of police attempt to locate the second bomber.
By the time you read this, it may be all over. But regardless of where we are in this narrative, I’d like to devote a moment to its beginning, last Monday.