Solitary pleasure

Today I went for a long drift, and though I meandered a mile or three, the only place where I wanted to take the camera out of the bag was Tanner Springs Park, just a few blocks from home. This fence made of railroad tracks knocks me out. I can look at it, feel it, peer through it and around it, all day long. It looks different colors at different times of day.

You can read about Herbert Dreiseitl's fence here, if you're curious. A person could make a whole project of taking pictures of this fence. There are words in it, there are little bits of blue glass embedded between some of the tracks, with images on them. One of the tracks has a date of 1908 on it. Near the northeastern corner there's a bit of glass with these words inscribed in it: "IN REMEMBERANCE (sic) OF THE LOST WETLAND."

Three of my blip-friends suggested I read Stuart: A Life Backwards, by Alexander Masters. It's tragic and hilarious, furious and kind, and I love every word and every epigram. Like this one: "Homelessness--it's not about not having a home. It's about something being seriously fucking wrong." I'm reading it now for the second time; it's so well-written and gripping that when I finished it, I turned back to page 1 and started over.