View Full Version : Something I wrote after a therapy appointment....

06-24-13, 10:23 AM
I love the back alleys, the peaks and plateaus, ridges and valleys of the cracked asphalt. The gasoline rainbows slick on wet pavement puddles. The old wooden garage door, with peeling paint of 4 different colours, all have some oddity in opening, a certain knack that only the initiated can gain access. The childish chalk drawings dusty and thick, and the abandoned skipping ropes twisted and fading like some exotic worm.

I walk these alleys and they comfort me. Not for me the facades of the main street, not the big picture windows that and the fussy innuendo of curtains. The prim rows of “bedding out plants” the begonias ,geraniums, and pansies. No, I prefer the overgrown kudzu and bamboo choking those wild spots by the fence, the Virginia Creeper and ivy that messily escape the yard and push outwards into that no mans land, of the civic easement.

Near the end of the month the back alleys become treasure troves of discarded pressboard furniture, sad mattresses with their sordid stains and some brass adornments. Once these many times re used items made a house a home, but now just signal tarnish and house proud students with retro tastes and a slim budget. Once I found a celluloid doll, dressed in 1940s style clothing with a felt hat that was glued to the head. I brought this sad, wet specimen in maroon taffeta home, but she was beyond repair and I passed her on in a box of donation items.

Sometimes I see small boys playing at older kid’s basket ball hoops. The baskets are too high, the net is a distant memory and the small boys are randomly throwing the ball, with no idea of a lay up or jump shot. Sometimes an older kid grabs the ball and “schools them” and sometimes a dad comes home and shows them how to play. The hollow rubbery pong pong pong of the basketball sounds like Anytown to me.

Behind me I hear a familiar gravelly whir. Someone is skateboarding this cracked alley and the sound of the wheels brings back the 10 000 times I heard my brother and his friends skate down our own side alley. I know she sound of a quick stop, an “ollie” and a flip kick by the pauses and sounds of board, wheels and feet.

Another McDo’s wrapper flutters in the grass that grows around a phone pole. The slight breeze kicks up tiny little bits of leaf meal from last year, and this concrete wilderness suddenly takes on an earthy musty smell. A long lost sock, wooly and grey with the big red stripe sits soddenly in a puddle of dirt and collected rainwater.