(no subject)
The Statue Garden
It is August but the leaves have begun to fall. My feet crackle like static on the streets of my old neighborhood. I am walking my dog in a land that is now more familiar to her than to me. She leads me by the cord that runs through my left hand and around my right. I pass many familiar houses, and many that never managed to leave a mark in my memory. I remember the house with the garage, where there are always more cars parked, and the garage is filled with middle aged men discussing car repairs while respectively surrounding an old Charger. Today the garage has three younger persons inside, none of which can be above the age of twenty five. They smoke cigarettes and discuss the Olympics, which is being shown on a tv in the corner of the garage. I avert my eyes and try to dodge what is forming as a vision of things possibly to come. I see three people, in a garage, smoking cigarettes next to what is now a much older Charger. The tv has never been turned off, and ash sits ankle deep on the ground and sternum high in the lungs.
My walk continues and I pass a break in the houses, where the wood that surrounds my neighborhood encroaches upon the street. It makes its presence known with a slight path through the trees to the creek beyond, and then protects its inner sanctum with thorn bushes and hanging branches. It is nighttime now, and I can’t see beyond a few feet from where the trees begin. Phantoms of the past, shades of my friends and I rush through the clearing shouting and hacking at foes and villains, winning historic battles until the man who lives next door yells about the damage to his trees. I remember feeling poorly about fighting the branches, but a bit surprised by an older mans immediate anger. I think about taking a crack at the nearest oak, sure that the noise would bring the man bursting from his door. He is a troll in this vision, hairs in his ears, demanding payment for the path forward.
A few houses onward, in one of the houses I never had reason enough to remember, I can see a woman through the window. She does not move in the 20 seconds that I stare, her senses captivated by the tv that stands taller than she does. While thinking of this permanence, I notice her dog behind the glass front door, sitting completely motionless, its’ senses captivated by my dog and I as we walk by. I wonder what dead emperor or king they are ready to defend, worshiping other gods all the while.
I pass a street I do not recognize. It bends quickly and has no street lights. It is impossible to see more than a few hundred feet down the street, but there seems to be no way that it can connect to any other street in the neighborhood. It is simply in the wrong place. I hear a large booming bark coming what is presumably the other end, an outlet somewhere, or just a dead end.
My dog follows a large orange moon, and leads me back to familiar territory. I think of the neighborhood as a whole, and I realize that there is growth here, even where it is hard to see. There is attempted permanence, there is much decay, but there is change and rebirth as well. The forests move the streets, encroaching on houses and wrapping vines around those happy just to stay in one place.
It is August but the leaves have begun to fall. My feet crackle like static on the streets of my old neighborhood. I am walking my dog in a land that is now more familiar to her than to me. She leads me by the cord that runs through my left hand and around my right. I pass many familiar houses, and many that never managed to leave a mark in my memory. I remember the house with the garage, where there are always more cars parked, and the garage is filled with middle aged men discussing car repairs while respectively surrounding an old Charger. Today the garage has three younger persons inside, none of which can be above the age of twenty five. They smoke cigarettes and discuss the Olympics, which is being shown on a tv in the corner of the garage. I avert my eyes and try to dodge what is forming as a vision of things possibly to come. I see three people, in a garage, smoking cigarettes next to what is now a much older Charger. The tv has never been turned off, and ash sits ankle deep on the ground and sternum high in the lungs.
My walk continues and I pass a break in the houses, where the wood that surrounds my neighborhood encroaches upon the street. It makes its presence known with a slight path through the trees to the creek beyond, and then protects its inner sanctum with thorn bushes and hanging branches. It is nighttime now, and I can’t see beyond a few feet from where the trees begin. Phantoms of the past, shades of my friends and I rush through the clearing shouting and hacking at foes and villains, winning historic battles until the man who lives next door yells about the damage to his trees. I remember feeling poorly about fighting the branches, but a bit surprised by an older mans immediate anger. I think about taking a crack at the nearest oak, sure that the noise would bring the man bursting from his door. He is a troll in this vision, hairs in his ears, demanding payment for the path forward.
A few houses onward, in one of the houses I never had reason enough to remember, I can see a woman through the window. She does not move in the 20 seconds that I stare, her senses captivated by the tv that stands taller than she does. While thinking of this permanence, I notice her dog behind the glass front door, sitting completely motionless, its’ senses captivated by my dog and I as we walk by. I wonder what dead emperor or king they are ready to defend, worshiping other gods all the while.
I pass a street I do not recognize. It bends quickly and has no street lights. It is impossible to see more than a few hundred feet down the street, but there seems to be no way that it can connect to any other street in the neighborhood. It is simply in the wrong place. I hear a large booming bark coming what is presumably the other end, an outlet somewhere, or just a dead end.
My dog follows a large orange moon, and leads me back to familiar territory. I think of the neighborhood as a whole, and I realize that there is growth here, even where it is hard to see. There is attempted permanence, there is much decay, but there is change and rebirth as well. The forests move the streets, encroaching on houses and wrapping vines around those happy just to stay in one place.