I
The silence of winds, harsh and chill from the night past have overall vanished. I awake from slumber's grimmace under not of the greatest conditions, but digression insists for I am alive. Not a bit of light exists in the musk of my room, it is too dark here. But the insightfullness of a young girl's playful scream rouses the senses to awaken, the obviousness of this omen is clear: Today is anew. In the tunure of my twenty-three years of life, I've finally began my journey into the world of artistry as a writer, of sheer independence from collegial institutions for I need them not. The lessons of life and nature are not embedded in the walls of institutions but rather in the atmosphere of nature's embrace of a beautiful sunday afternoon. No plans, just the decadence of spontaneity. A quick shower to keen the senses, but I fast as punishment for dietary sins. Like Buddha under the Bodhi tree, I am the Buddha under the Bodhi tree of neglect. I step into the sunlight, there is no preperation for this-for the sun has been absent for the sum of one week. April is a drearily bleak month, in preperation for May flowers (the addage goes). But from here, the sky is nothing but blue. As I reached the final set of stairs I spoke not a word, I am silence. I bid a short farewell to the elegance of my apartment in the Irish district I find appeasing my needs.
The concrete stairs are no longer under my feet, but under my feet they shall remain, as by my feet (and as by everybody else) the matter of all things are connected. I am you as you are me-and I am the imagery to which my camera does capture the still of life as matter. For keep's sake. I take the path that leadeth me to the familiarties of conscious thought, it is simpler to remember the things you cannot forget. I cannot forget the first of many encounters, with which my aquintence to the scent of cherry blossoms would meet me on this day until the very end. The first to mask the unruly scent of charcoal brickettes that upset the senses briefly amongst the field I walk of green and purple lilac. The air was heavy for that brief moment but then came, laden, in all it's glory-the redemption of the senses. The tree overgrew from the gentleman's yard and, lo, dangled over the property. I reached out my gentle hand to embrace the tree's might-if not, for the serenity of one brief interval. Then the interval exceeded it's length and I kept true (North) and proceeded to tread upon the hill that overlooked the Irish neighborhood in it's entirety, gave the overall structural integrity one last glance and didn't look back.
The park is hilly and deep, old and rugged. Beautiful with it's age. Trees provide shade where necessary, sunbeams of amber and Boston cream through the leaf like crevices. The brick pathways repetitive "MISSOURI BLOCK, MISSOURI BLOCK, MISSOURI BLOCK" all the way down the set of hills until sand embanks the end and the rest is bastard concrete. It is there my journey leads me northwestern, it is amongst this criteria where the ruins of old Irish industry lays waste. The sight of abandoned factories, aged by rust in all it's obtuse girth-spells the history of this neighorhood's industrial past. The neighborhood's sorroundings gives me a clearer percentage to the downfall of an Irish majority district to which the only remaining industry of the Irish is the pathetic strip of pubs that allign one another on the same street. My Irish blood boils when I dwell on the thought of all the jobs my fellow bretheren lost. As the street curves back North I cut a right, at first in the eastern direction, followed by another curve back into the direction of Northeast where history has repeated itself on many occasion.
The letters read "TKE", the fraternity of frat boy Nazi's on the 14'th street block in which I've made myself known by the minor desecrations of property in the matter of broken glass. A young lady in obvious nightly wear grabs the mail, she stops and gazes upon me for a quick second, she is a fine looking lass with raven hair and pale skin. An obvious victim to the life of frat house chaos for it is written in her exausted features. Me in my blue shirt, black beret (with yin yang button on top), tartan (plaid) blue button up (unbuttoned) black pants, thick black glasses and thong sandals-shared a relatively short exchange of eye contact with her, then it was gone. I made my way to the campus of the college a short walk ahead. I made my leave from the desolate wasteland of drunken frat debauchery. It wreiked of eletist sex and bad decisions. How I longed to regain the scent of cherry blossom, with great decadence my longing was short lived. For it appears, my friends, there are no shortage of these trees in this part of town and, lo, I beheld the elegance of that second tree. In it's might, I held that moment for as long as one could and once more I proceeded onward, bidding farewell twice to the elegance of the pink and white petals and tiny flowers.
One way street heading northeast, I stand on the corner as I wait for oncoming automobiles to make their leave and gain access to cross the street. As I reach the campus of the college I take note to the drastic change in appearence. In the aforementioned frat boy wasteland, the barrens of macho insecure males in their poorly kept houses, painted a picture of the clear desolation and lack of care-over the well being of their environemnt. And "their chosen whores" for the night, reign supreme in anti feminist stupors, clans of young women giving up self preservation and dignities for a night of carelessness. Sexually diseased by the cruel joke of this pathetic culture. The scenery now is one of determined young minds in all their glory buzzing like the busy bee's of great Athenian descendency. Beautiful young ladies in springtime clothing carrying books in one hand and cups of coffee in the other, some with blushing young smiles of such virginity of the mind. While the others scurry across campus in haste, either worried by time restraints in fear of tardiness, or sheer eagerness to make it to their dorm to enrich her young mind in knowledge. I make my way across the campus but stop to capture the gaggle of geese waddling their way across the campus grass with my camera. Their large beaks lapping up puddles of still fresh rain water leftover from the rains this past week. I check my camera to make sure the shots were perfect. I regain compusure of my unplanned objective and carry on, but stop to mentally to remind myself to never forget what I had just witnessed.
II
Young men skateboarding by the tire store. Jumping the median which seperates the store's property from church parking lot (Funny commentary on church and state). The big red Firestone sign blazes in the sun with bright reflection. One of the young men is wearing a cowboy hat, couldn't stick the landing on board but lands on his feet. Cameraman films it all in hope he captures something astounding. Guy in background across the street watching it all is me, nothing astounding about what I am seeing. Impressive? Very, but I've seen better from friends of mine. I'm standing on the corner of sixth street and second avenue. Waiting for the light to change. Cedar Rapids lights are the fucking same.
I finally cross over to the Margerette Bock Housing Unit where friend lives. I havent talked to him in weeks, last voicemail I got said his old lady was fucking boss. Left him. Cheating was weak. Not her fault, kid's an asshole. Not his fault, kind of mental anyways. Both at fault. Both have anger issues up the ass. I rang his buzzer, no answer. Continue this ritual til I grab a phone and call him. Phone's off. Leave the kid a message. Hang up. Bastard anyhow. Old man let's me in. Much obliged. Knock on his door. No answer. Knock louder. Drunk next door coughs up tobacco smoke. Knock once more. No answer. Bastard anyhow.
Leave the apartment building in pissed mood. Never around when I need him. I head down second avenue towards same interesection I was before. Different side. Same difference. Skaters are still there trying. Determination. Not suiting them well. Head down second ave til' I hit the corner by Art Museum. Wonderful place. Great Anti-War photo exhibit in February 2014. Standing at stoplight by Cedar Rapids Gazette. Scumfuck newspaper I hope to write for some day. Don't ask why. I cross street and hit a hard left. Libraries open today. Had no clue. Try checking out book on Charles Manson and another on evolution (Another funny commentary on humanity). Give card, rejected. I owe money, how? Never late, never overdue. Systems trying to fuck me. Labeled delinquent. Put books down and walk out. Retrospective was kinda fucked anyway.
Gather thoughts. Pick self up and head back home. Made one last stop before hand. Scottish Rite Temple. Free Masons. Gave'em the finger. Walked away. No blossoms in this concrete jungle.
III
The sandals on my feet had officially started to hurt, the painful blistering can drive a man mad if this journey had lasted days-but I can handle a few hours. I reached once more the bend where the pathetic industry of Irish pubs still remain. The sun was high and I was sweating through my beret, I was glad this long walk was finally reaching it's end but deeply troubled by it's end as well, for as I reached the park with it's brick pathway I had once walked before-I remember that I had once stood atop of this park with it's steep and high hills and looked upon my surroundings with admiration and had not looked back. At least not for very long, for I knew this path of mine would only bring me back. Rather than take the park back home, I therefore decided it would be a great distinction to walk among the neighborhoods behind this Irish district to see how the other half lives. I had to advance over one more roll of hilly streets before I reached this modern colonial village. I breathed in the air it had to offer. The air hinted the old cedar of the houses in which they were originally constructed, I savored that scent. But there was still the one scent that remained amiss in my journey. Twice I had this pleasure, but I had nary a thought in my head that thrice an accounter would present itself. The notion was immediately cut bait.
Never before had I once been presented the attributes of this neighborhood in daylight, at night I had wondered but night does not always hold the key beauty of imagery. Night holds the beauty of slumber, in that dialect, the beauty of seclusion presents itself. Seclusion is great, but seldom to an extent. It is not wise to be secluded for long. Just when it is needed. In light the neighborhood gleams, black iron gates, and white pickets merely enforce this majority white stereotype. The architecture merely fabricates laziness with every second house looking the same to the prior. It is no surprise to me in this aspect of Americana. I glance upon these nice homes in their silent glory. I notice one home has a busted lamp post, to which my mind produced a theorem that even in decadence there is a sliver of poverty. Amongst that poverty, thrice into my tale, the saddest of sights thine eyes could see. Barren of it's branches, the cherry blossom's petals had ceased to remain amongst the tree. It's scent no longer sweet, it's scent reigned a vain stiffness. The stiffness that comes with age, the one we all must face as it is the cross we are to bare. I gently treaded across, giving my journey it's innevitable end, more importantly, I gave the petals one last glance, and didn't look back.
END
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