Through their survival they gain vitality from the struggle. They are down on their luck, there's no mistaking that, and even the shiniest bits of existance are easily tarnishable by a haze of hallucinations. They do degrading things for food and shelter; degrading to others, but more important- to themselves. But how can others, the "others" think that they "those people" don't understand the horrifying things they must do to survive? But with this, or without it, comes sweetness where you least expect to witness it.
I admit that the intended concept for this bit of prose was unclear to me when I first started writing it. Instead of clearly conveying some sort of cognitively well-written thing, it came across as judgemental and ignorant. I realized after a featured admonishment from a friend of mine, that I had gotten too carried away-in the wrong direction, and realized that the more I looked at this, the more I just wanted it to be an innocent observation, devoid of judgement, but having a small endearing metaphor to it. A cliched metaphor, sure, but still a harmless one.
I walked through urban decay today. I saw the flashing of police cars and ambulances, not streaking by as usual to somewhere else, but slowing down, checking housenumbers, tavern addresses. I was somewhere else. I saw men sleeping on benches, men and women fighting in the streets, boys robbing the disabled man who couldn't cross the street, I saw men furtively looking at girls from their darkly lit intentions, and I saw a crowd of men throwing apples into a heavily laden tree, shouting, laughing and bantering amongst themselves, pure exquisite joy on their faces. The green fruit was overripe, and somewhat bruised as it tumbled to the ground among cries of delight, that 'we're going to make pies.'" A siren screamed anonymously by.
I wrote this yesterday after walking for what seemed like days, if you were to measure it in the amount of things that I drank in around me. I had sat down to write this on the steps of a small modest looking church when a man named Warren sat down next to me. Warren was thoroughly enjoying the prescription of "Josephine", but after some cheerful chatter, he informed me of his abstract poetry writing abilities ("I can make anyone cry.") and thus became the first man to ever write me a poem that was from the bottom of his no doubt erratically altered beating heart.
"Why did you leave me at, at filth.
I do.
Did I look at someone else and make them cry?
You feel I flew."
-Warren B.
I also met a lady named Myrna on the ave, and she actually followed me for about two blocks, because she wanted to read the pins on the back of my bag (please don't question whether I'm naive or not, because I'm not, I assure you). I asked her automatically "what she did" because she appeared very familiar with the area and sharply observant with her darting swallowlike motions and glances. "I keep an eye on the girls." Immediately my mind sprang to all sorts of conclusions, so I asked her to specify. "They don't let the drunk ones into the shelters at night, so I make sure they stay out of trouble, keep warm, get food and stuff." Upon my enquiring she told me that she just did it "because someone has to", elaborating that she was on worker's comp., and "bored silly" with nothing else to do. She said that she'd been there, she knew what it was like, and she didn't want anything to happen to the ones she saw there now. And I asked her if she needed help. She said she didn't really, but told me where I could find her if I ever wanted to try and help anyways. And I think I may sometime, although any number of things that I'm not prepared for, physically or mentally, could happen. I was completely enthralled at the brevity of this hawk-eyed sharp tongued ferocious woman. As we walked down 95th, she told me the names of people we passed, and those people in turn would greet Myrna by name. I think she's an unsung hero, this petite woman in acid washed tight jeans and a mullet, and foam heeled running shoes, with the faded pink tee-shirt and the rose tinted bottle-rim glasses that is glaring back at me, not with avarice at this spoiled girl traipsing about in the wrong neighborhood, but like she immediately knows that though I am who I am, it hasn't made me immune to pain or suffering.
¶ 10:02 PM
