Distractions like cracks in the sidewalk. One after the other, nonstop, like spaces between the ivories, black keys to mark the footsteps of a broken heart.
Broken into pieces that fall between the cracks, swallowed up by the mud and carried off into the veins of the city. Its sewage pumping with the rag time jazz of car horns and bar fights, a light show of neon and lighter flicks. Alley cats tracing your path as you stumble back home on a rainy night. I always thought cats didn't like the rain, why are they following me? I’m convinced of their menacing but they look at me with eyes that want me to take them home. Yellow in the midnight shadows, like stars against the sky. Blinking. Maybe next time. Maybe next time they're gone. Different eyes, human eyes. Robber?Thin man. Thin man in a long coat. Thin man in a long coat with a dirty hat and thin wrists, not saying a word. It’s still raining. It’s always raining. Streetlights fill pot holes with life. Pools of yellow, of faux sunlight. It’s not warm, it doesn't keep you dry, but it’s comfort. Like a lie you keep telling yourself over and over. There is sunlight, it's warm, it's dry, I’m okay,she'll come back. She’ll see me here bathed in this yellow fog and she’ll come back. Only… lies are only lies if they never become fact, else they be prophecies and I’ve never had reason to call myself a prophet by any means. I am just a liar. And I can never bring myself to talk of double negatives. More rain. Waves down the streets. Small life boats of litter drift passed my sodden shoes. A cigarette box, a box of matches, more cigarette boxes, more matches...that's all anyone does here, just smoke. If you don't smoke, why are you standing out in the rain with wet feet and bad company, lying to yourself about faces you see in magazines and poster ads? She’s not coming back. That was last week. That was too many buses ago, she's gone. Now that ugly real-estate lady has taken her place on the back of the 110 east to Shitville. She was the only thing good about watching a pack of defeated parents and abandoned children crammed into one of those crates and being shipped back to their cages, or to where they stand in the rain and look in at empty cages that they could sleep in for the hefty piece of their experience. It all happens in a very noisy quietness. A downcast face and a turn on a heel. No one will give up their experience for that. Shitville is shit until it's about to be taken away. The rain on your face stings until you can push a button to make it stop forever. Then you linger. With that bony finger just above that button, waiting... for what? For that last rain drop? For that last extra smelly breeze? For the sound of an injured dog so perfect you need it to be the last one you hear again? I don't know. Maybe it's just leaving home that's tough. Even getting better feels uncomfortable at first. Peeling off those wet socks is the worst part of my day the second worst is when they get wet in the first place. They've become my second skin, I feel through them,my senses expand with them. And maybe that's the same with the sounds, the smells,the sights and tastes of Shitville... maybe that's someone's second skin as well.When the water's a little higher than normal, when the air a little more sour,the mist a more bit tart, and the sounds a bit quiet... what would someone from there do in paradise? They would listen for the dogs, feel for the current,wait for the wind direction and wonder why all their senses have gone a sort of snowblind. They would be lost in paradise. We can grumble all we like I guess,but I doubt any of us would know what to do with ourselves if we had nothing to grumble about.
Hmm... yep, still raining. Maybe I should stay inside... I don't have much. Just a cardboard box. I remember when I was little I always wondered what it would be like to be homeless, and to live like I live now. But I thought it would be different. I don't know how I thought it would be different, but just... not the same. I stay dry for the most part, as long as I don't need to go to the washroom. It’s always raining. So the good part is that I’ve found an ally that's sloped so the current doesn't reach me. That also means I don't need to go far to take a piss. And I really do count my blessings as it were, that I found this place with an old air conditioner hanging out of one of the low level room above me, so that provides a small amount of relief from the rain, as long as the wind isn't blowing. How else am I staying dry? Well scraps of old tarps. All different colours, and some crayons. Yep, crayons and candle wax, all over my box, layer after layer after layer. It works fairly well, I even did the inside too, and I drew pictures all over it to make it seem a little more homey. I’ve got a fireplace, a mantle, even a window that I can see trees out of with little animals and birds that run around in them before I go to sleep. I don't have much money, so buying things for pleasure isn't much of an option I have, most of my treasures are found items. I have an old green army man who's missing an arm, a small toy car, a few pieces of Lego,most of a card deck and a half stuffed Yosemite Sam doll. He’s actually a better friend than I expected him to be. When there are really tough nights I sometimes ask him what it must have been like to be stuck out in the wilderness when it rained or when it was really cold out, and his stories keep me up for hours. The army man and toy car are really just reminders of how much fun those toys were when I was a kid. If they could help me out then, I don't see why it would be bad to keep them around now. And besides, if I poke small holes in the wall of my box I can put them on my mantle, and then it really looks like I have things to show off! I’m pretty lucky still, I have folded up boxes that I sleep on, and when they're layered like I have them they form a pretty good mattress. They also work as emergency patch kits for my home. I don't have to deal with any expensive renovations this way! I kind of feel like I’m cheating when do that though, it feels good to finally get one over on those building guys. I guess some of them are nice though. They have to be. I’m wearing a garbage bag over top of everything because it's waterproof. I know, I’m wearing an old rain coat underneath though, right? But that has holes, and I remember my parents always telling me that it's better to be safe than it is to be sorry, so I have a little extra protection this way. They always said I was a smart one. Under that I’ve got an old fleece, it's one of my favorites, I think it used to be yellow but now it's kind of a bunch of spots of different shades of brown. I like it. I don't think there's another one like it anywhere else. Under that I don't really know what I’m wearing, a couple shirts to be sure. It’scold, and when the wind picks up it doesn't matter what you do to stay warm, it still bites. My shoes are pretty neat, I call them Jesus shoes, because they're so hole-y!.. Get it? Hah! I always was funny in school! So that's why I wear plastic bags over my socks, but inside my shoes. They aren't waterproof in the first place, so they're going to get wet no matter what, so I just have a bunch of socks on at a time and try to keep those dry, while my shoes only keep my feet off of the pavement, and glass and needles and dead rats and birds. That’s something that's been getting worse, I don't like it. There are more dead animals around lately. I don't think they're being killed, they're just dying. Sometimes I’ll watch one die, age or disease just taking its toll. I think it's very pretty actually, to see something so great as death stop by and give attention to something so small and ugly, most people just walk by rats, or yell at them or run them off, but death stops and waits and then takes them with him. I think that's very nice. Others just appear there overnight, I don't know where those come from. I guess some must be from the same reasons, but I don't think they all can be. Some look really injured, like they were in a big fight or something. Others look twisted and broken. I don't like seeing those ones. I think there are kids who do these things. I hope they don't, but I sometimes hear them when I’m in my home. They talk with different words than I use, it's the same language, but it's as if it's all in code. I sure didn't learn those words in school, and I don't remember ever hearing anyone else use them before I moved into my box. Sometimes I’ll be pretending to be asleep, hoping they go away and they're just shouting. Maybe 5 or 6 of them, their voices all high and low like they can't make up their mind, shouting and sounding angry and laughing,and then bang! My box will shake and my army man and race car decorations are knocked out of my wall, and once, when I peeked through the holes that were left I saw them running off. They have short legs. And they don't wear so many shirts like I do. I wonder how they keep warm. Every time after that happens and they're gone I poke my mantle decorations back up and go to sleep listening to Yosemite’s stories or watching the trees from my window. In the mornings though I always find a dead thing outside where something hit my box. It’s dead and it's twisted and it's dead and it's ugly and I don't like it. For these ones I hope death was busy and didn't have time to sit and wait, but was quick and took them away fast. I wonder what they talk about after they're gone. Sometimes I think all day about where they must be going. A while ago, I can't remember when, but it was also raining then, I wasn't feeling well. I was sick. And I didn't leave my box for at least two or three days! That was a different box though, I needed a new one after that but I don't want to tell you why. But while I was laying there I wasn't very happy, and things didn't seem very good,and I often wondered what death was doing then and if he wasn't too busy to come visit. And I wondered if he was already there, just waiting, or maybe he wouldn't even notice when I die. Maybe that's what happens to people who live in boxes, maybe no one notices them so much that not even death knows they're there?That’s a scary thought. When I die I want someone who knows what I’m supposed to do to help me get to where I belong. I don't want to have to figure it out on my own. What would I do? Where would I go? What am I supposed to eat? And would it matter where I go to the bathroom? Maybe I’ll be able to sneak into all the rich people houses and use their washrooms! That would be fun. And I could pretend to eat rich people food, and sit where rich people sit and sleep where rich people sleep. Yes, I think when I finally die it won't be too bad. And if death wants to help me out that would be really nice too, but now that I think of all the things I can do on my own if he doesn't, I think I’ll be happy either way. But until that happens, I’m going to stay in my big brown box.
(Another close-your-eyes-and-just-type product from months ago, finally cleaned up.)
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