I grew up on a block. We called it a block. A solid city block bound on two sides by streets and two sides by avenues. A concrete island where all the single-family homes had long stoops leading up to all the homes that were connected by a single common wall between them. People living on top of each other, on square islands bordered by black asphalt rivers ebbing against a coastal sidewalk.
Elsewhere, on real beach shores, people stroll, they stand in the water up to their knee, and others do a little stretching. I believe there really is a Yoga position called the sandy stretch.
In another city at another time, a woman named Sandy Stretch is getting married. Sandy will be throwing her bouquet after her ceremony, to be caught by the next bride to be. To death, they do they part, based on only a sample of who they are and who they will become.
Sometimes I think people should walk around wearing warning signs that actually say, “Sample”, so those who might get involved with them know they are only getting a glimpse rather than a fixed view of who they will be the rest of their life regardless of what impacts them.
Each of us resonating at a different frequency and moving at a different pace. If we are fortunate enough to have the gift of sight, we might not like to see or be seen, but we all like to watch something.
While some are attracted to models running, others would much rather see the cracks on the sidewalk. I usually don’t stare at the cracks, but don’t step on them either as one needs all the good luck they can gather.
For some people, if they didn’t have bad luck, they’d have no luck at all. To them, the street is their home where they are free and unburdened by the cost of safety, security, and status. The rest of us who live in square boxes on square blocks have chosen to pay the price for endless debt and the health debilitating stress of a steady paycheck.
Would you rather be a king in hell or a slave in heaven?
There are as many opinions and points of view, as there are colors found on an artist’s pallet. It takes courage for the artist to see the world as they do, often times different than everyone else. For some, an awkward family photo may be hard to look at. For others, it is a full pallet of pure perfection that creates a chuckle whenever it’s viewed, regardless if it’s morning, noon or night.
This morning, I watched a little bit of a movie called Farenheit451… loosely based on the Ray Bradbury story about a futuristic dystopian society where reading, writing, and books were banned.
I watched this movie as the number one crime of the people in the movie would be to own a book or write words. For some, the compulsion to write is no less urgent and required, than the necessity of breathing.
In our society, writing words are not outlawed yet but with all communication, there is a risk as a huge discrepancy often exists between what is being said vs what is being heard. Sometimes the thing they are trying to say is obfuscated by a moment when readers cannot pick up the true message that’s being put down. So many of us are so misunderstood due to no fault of our own.
We all have moments that we are not proud of, but it’s doubtful that we all can understand how dramatic of a turn life takes for some people. I don’t know if even at my worst moments, a little snooze on the sidewalk would be my preference, but we can’t critique another’s situation without knowing their struggle.
For some, closing their eyes and going to sleep is their cheapest and easiest escape. Others embrace their poverty, dress accordingly, and are not above making a statement when strolling down Fashion Avenue wearing all the news that fits to print.
Where did he get that outfit you ask? Well… it’s classified.
I grew up on a block just like any city block. It had curbs, fire hydrants, man-hole covers, sewers, driveways, telephone poles, stoops, on-street parking, street signs and street lights. Every house had a number on it, and every block had numbered streets on two sides and lettered avenues on the other two sides.
I learned how to ride a bike on those sidewalks, and learned how not to crash that bike into trees and garage doors. I played stoop ball on those stoops and Skully on those driveways. I played touch football in the street between those manhole covers and telephone poles. Occasionally someone would yell, “CAR!” and we knew to move to the side and let the car through before we could continue our game.
When I hear that someone has writer’s block, I wonder if it’s conceivable that they have no story to tell or that they fancy themselves to be a writer who lives on a block.