greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

"A grey sky, a bitter sting. A rain cloud, a crane on the wing."

Miserably cold here in Providence today. Not bitter, just miserable. Yesterday it was merely chilly, with the temperature rising into the fifties Fahrenheit. It might have been decent, except for a brisk wind that cut straight to the bone. My thoughts are in warm places and decades that are decades past. Today's stale Hell:







One day, perhaps, the temperature will finally rise above 70˚F, and I can finally stop posting these photos. I apologize for the unsightly red house on the right. Such things ought not be.

Anyway, after we got Sirenia Digest #97 out to subscribers, Kathryn and I left the House and head east. From Providence, we took I-195 to 114, aka Wampanoag Trail, south across the narrow peninsulas that jut into Narragansett Bay. Past Hundred-Acre Cove, to the town of Barrington, and then we continued on to Warren, just past the confluence of the Barrington and Palmer rivers (rivers in a loose sense). I'd had it in mind to go as far as Bristol, then up and over the Mt. Hope Bridge to the northern end of Aquidneck Island before turning back. But the day was cold, as I've said, not as warm as the weathermen would have you believe. Clouds were moving in from the west, and I found the little towns grim. They seemed like something unwholesome pressed squirming beneath the sky's icy thumb. We passed ancient houses and houses that were merely very old, houses from the 1700s and 1800s. We stopped for a few minutes in Warren, at the waterfront across from Burrs Hill Park, Water Street. There was a tiny, squalid beach beside a children's playground, complete with a "No Lifeguard On Duty" sign. I asked Kathryn if anyone would actually dare swim in that water, which smelled of salt and dead fish and mud. Discouraged by the cold, we turned back home.

I took a few photos, behind the cut. The one of me is truly wretched:























All photographs Copyright © 2014 by Caitlín R. Kiernan



I almost love that little house with the red roof, which was just north of the tiny, squalid beach. Were it somewhere warm, I could live in a little house like that. I would see it painted and divested of its present sordid state. I feel a lot like that little house looks.

I have no idea what happens today, past the next shiver.

Away, Away,
Aunt Beast
Tags: cold, days off, houses, rhode island, stale hell
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