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Street People By: D. J. Dixon on 11/19/2005; 12:41 AM Wind on the water so still, so quiet. A walk down the lonely streets of this my present hometown. The wind carries silent voices of quiet desparation; With a quieted mind I pause. Listen. The glaring lights of construction not far off blind me at night. I hear them scream; Progress, Progress! Dour faces of conflicted people line the bus stops along my street. Another note of desparation heard. Foul-tempered men yell at their women. Everyone hears it. Yet,no one sees. I am a witness to my world, because so few can be bothered. Hard to bother some one who is wrapped tightly within their only, lonely shell. A man walks down my street. Bugs in soul. Fire in his eyes. Haunted faces harass me every day. What do I do? What can I say? In the center of my minds eye I see them as they once were. The woman with dirty blonde hair. The weight of disappointing years have taken their toll. I imagine her as a young girl. Her hair becomes as bright as straw. The lines and creases disappear from her face. The light returns to her eyes. For a fleeting moment I see the hope she once had, now long gone. Her face is snapped back to the present. Hope fades. Grim reality reasserts it hold on her frail form. Over and over again this scenario plays itself out. On man and woman alike. Paradigms of life enforce their will upon the unlucky. The Doomed. Now I too feel the slow clenching grip of time. My dreams are not once they once were. I wanted to be a scientist, a rock-star, a dreamer. Now my dreams are like that of my neighbors. Twisted, malformed. Now I just want to get through a single day unabated. Untroubled. In my neighbors I see a reflection of myself.
RE: Street People By: judith dixon on 1/25/2006; 2:04 AM It's always easier to see what others are doing than to look at yourself, isn't it? To have to acknowledge what you are doing to others. Abusing, causing pain. Leaving a pile of wreckage and walking away. Not a dreamer; a coward. I had a dream of painting again, but noone would buy me an easel and paints, canvas, brushes; allthe little things that go onto a picture. No one would help me organize the small space I needed for my project. If I had bought it myself, there would have been a tantrum, like the many others used to keep me in line. Took off like a thief in the night to avoid responsibility. Left rent unpaid, so now I face being one of the "street people".Never mind broken promises. Abandonment must run in the family, All the sensitivity for others is a huge crock. This guy sounds like a huge "bleme the victim" afficionado. Demonize them to justify the wrongs you've done to them, even if they don't know you've done them. Then, run and grab a gun and threaten to kill yourself. Then, run to a locked ward and stonewall. But first, get the other person to run you some errands. Then, run and hide. He once taunted me that I was afraid to live alone with him. I guess I should have been. I guess I should have let him pull the trigger.
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