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A Walk Home
I don't know who to blame: architects and planners, for giving us cities onto which it is hard to impose ourselves; or us, for not trying harder.
And so we get streets like this, streets that don't need us, streets that could be Boston or Taipei or Ganymede. I'm sure this street has a name, but there's no sign anybody cares what it is. I am walking home from the nearest nowhere.
The more we've paid for a thing, the less willing we are to mark it. But shouldn't it be vice versa?
Unresolved spaces are taboo, the more so where they should be most thrilling.
We make isolated stands,
or we don't.
We tolerate aesthetics according to their virulence,
and when we see ourselves in them, the reflection is always the newer model,
and we are our flaws.
But we are still there, in corners, if we know where to look.
And once you know where you are, suddenly the maps start to make sense.
And so, against odds, we find and make places.
Through the places, the streets run with names
We make rules,
we follow rules;
we empty from one place
into the next.
We balance our allegiances,
and we fall in love for instants.
We see ourselves,
or we do not.
We are pretentious, to disguise our fears,
or honest, to evade our dreams.
We line up for how we're supposed to be happy.
We catalog resistance unawares.
And then somewhere, if our belief has enough power, we find the vantage point from which air and water can help, or bridges and skyscrapers, or a boat or an airplane. We give a place a name, and draw it around us, and then it is alive, and we are almost home.
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