Dead End Street (scribble)
How many people do you know who live on a dead end street? I sometimes wonder if the person who coined that phrase “Dead End Street” actually lived on a dead end street. Our house, if you could see it through all the trees, rested in such a block. Visiting a dead end street would be like visiting the dead at the cemetery. For those unaware, such houses cast their own entity, like a foul stench. Some days I feel my house alive as if the walls were collapsing upon themselves or moving inward on me like a vice.
How many people do you know who live on a dead end street? I sometimes wonder if the person who coined that phrase “Dead End Street” actually lived on a dead end street. Our house, if you could see it through all the trees, rested in such a block. Visiting a dead end street would be like visiting the dead at the cemetery. For those unaware, such houses cast their own entity, like a foul stench. Some days I feel my house alive as if the walls were collapsing upon themselves or moving inward on me like a vice.
Sometimes I would feel that I was born to die in that dreadful place - my bygone dwelling. It was drab, gloomy and stunk of mildew in the mornings. It is a dump. The house we lived in was a dump. Normal folks never live in a dump. Normal folks have gardens in their back yards, friendly neighbors, and fine plate settings. Normal folks would have brightly colored walls, a pool in the back and an embroidered framed cloth with the words, Home Sweet Home near a sunlit window.
But oh no, nothing like that in my dump. In my dump not a single picture frame hung on its walls. Not one lousy frame! Dump Bitter Dump would be the words defining our house.
Now
If a solicitor would come calling, our listless Fred, our brave mutt,
would hardly bring alarm to such a daring cretin. Fred would simply
amble up to the fence, give you a long, lazy look-over before
retreating back into the shadows.
_
The
tree monkeys giggled at their own antics. The first primate, in a
dark blue t-shirt and shorts, covered his eyes, bored. Next to him
sat two hysterical chimps bursting at the seams. The middle one of
the bunch, the red shirted one, tried to contain himself but could
not mask his cheery eyes; face aglow. The third one, with elbows on
bent knees, was defeated by his own hilarity. It was hard for the
threesome, minus one, to keep straight faces. This shameless riot was
caused, not by their infectious laughter, but by the poor soul behind
the camera – a diminutive man speaking a choppy talk and
maintaining an appealing grin; never keeping his bobble head steady -
the mocked tourist with scrunched-up eyes. Such wise (evil) boys!
_
Adorned
in pristine bell skirts and white floral headbands, the ballerinas
assembled behind a massive stage curtain, lowered. Two stood coolly,
veering their eyes off-stage. Around them an assemblage of angelic
dancers mingled in anticipation - bent torsos, loose shoulders, and
hair parted straight. It was grace at-the-ready. At the forefront of
the class, a reflective prima ballerina. Her mind, fluent: each step,
flow of motion and posture unfolding in thought.
Then, at once, the awaited gestured cue was displayed and the dancers arranged themselves fleetly. Her focus now in-tuned; her initial pose set when the giant curtain began to rise to an ovation of theatergoers.
_
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