I haven’t written in a while, and in the times that I have, it has been about painting whether directly or indirectly. This post has nothing to do with painting. Or so it seems.
Visible from my kitchen window, a section of the street corner about 4 feet by 7 feet has been roped off. And in this space, various belongings have been dumped. What were once pieces of someone’s life, are now but an eyesore on the side of the road.
I imagine this person is being evicted. Although this is the only explanation that makes sense, in many ways it makes no sense. It makes no sense that someone’s personal belongings–with memories imbedded like mattresses, old mexican party hats taken home from a drunken night at the bar, suitcases with name tags still attached– could be tossed aside so thoughtlessly as if their owner were not deserving of some decency or understanding.
As I ponder this, random passers-by are pillaging off of this misfortune. I have witnessed three cars pull up, survey the pile, choose what they deem salvageable, and with guilty looks on their faces load up their cars carrying away this person’s misfortunes with them. This is happening to my neighbor, yet I do not know him/her. And although I do not know him/her, I am sadly witnessing from the sidelines, my neighbor’s life being picked apart as if it were up for grabs.
Someone’s life is now junk on the side of the road. Perhaps soon it will be another person’s treasure.
