Sanctuary

Slowly we would pass larger and larger houses that would get less and less frequent until, all of a sudden (even though there were few at that point anyway) they stopped. Their large, walled-in manicured lawns and perfect rows of colorful and exotic flowers
gave way to shrubland, tall grass, dusty dirt and trees with varying degrees of foliage.
The road was still there though, as were the storm drain canals and fully functional street lights. There was even running water in a neighborhood for houses that diddnt exist yet because one day we played in and around a ruptured pipe shooting potable water at least 20 feet straight up into the air.

At one plot there was an unfinished house whose shell simply looked abandoned. A work bench stands useless with its dry grey brittle wood once soggy from the rainy season, has ivy anchoring on its legs and is using its surface to cast new roots. The masonry of the derelict house stands firm for now as it is sturdily anchored to a good foundation, but soon enough, the trees' roots will reclaim the malleable, nutrient-rich soil upon which it stands
and knock it's walls over for the grass to finish decaying as their green blades cut through the cinderblock and mortar leaving nothing but small stones; a fading and distant memory of perhaps a family's life savings and their hopes for a future. This speculation is no one's but my own.

We are still in the city; I can hear the highway hustle and bustle crisp and clear while it is busy during rush hour, but something (maybe the wind?) at night pushes the distraction further away until it is nearly inaudible.

And I can see the stars.
Most importantly, I can see the stars.


If you venture far enough into the gridded neighborhood of yet-to-be dwellings at night, you can almost block out the light pollution that has been steadily increasing over the recent years.

My favorite corner was this one little cul-de-sac with absolutely nothing special about it. I would bring many friends there and none of them seemed to be able to find it without me, as though it would only exist when I willed it to. I would drive there and spend time by myself either sitting in the shallow concrete ditch or on the roof of my car and either take the sensory input given to me, or send thoughts out into the world. My friends and I spent a fair deal of time there, and I tried to vary the friends I would bring simply to keep the spots mood from going stale.

There were a few dark nights that happened there which need not be repeated, but the cul-de-sac and myself took these for what they were worth and moved on.

One of my favorite memories of this spot was in the company of the person with whom I was romantically involved with at the time. We existed there during the later afternoon and watched the sun go down. I believe somewhere I still have a picture I took of the sunset reflecting off the roof (or maybe hood) of my car. We diddn't speak the whole time we were there; not because we couldn't, and certainly not becasue we were mad at each other (we were not), but simply because we didn't find it necessary. We were in awe of the blazing reds and deep purples, ultramarine blues and fiery yellows all dancing together in a beautifully violent ballroom-dancing mosh-pit of anger, passion, love and beauty only to dramatically soothe out the conflict in the slumber of night-death sprinkled with the hope of forever in the sparkling evidence of the cosmos. I don't remember leaving that night; in fact, in retrospect, It seems as though after seeing such a thing, I would not have wanted to pollute the memory of having to return to mundane life in the human world from an experience that made me forget my flesh, my life, my asthma and physical weakness and the fact that at some point I would need to drop off my partner, go home, shit, and go to sleep.

It has been many years since I last went to this makeshift, borrowed, temporary sanctuary. Last time I went we passed several armed guards patrolling the house-shells including the one I would see there before, maybe under new owners, maybe not. The area smelled like sadness, my cul-de-sac had a cement truck right in the quadrant most conducive to blocking out remaining city lights. new roads had been built but none had the former welcoming to them as the old ones did since I was now a stranger. The old roads had moved on with their loves, some even having the shiny new cars of their new owners parked on them in front of their new, large, walled-in manicured lawns and perfect rows of colorful and exotic flowers.

I long for the shrub-land, tall grass, dusty dirt and trees with varying degrees of foliage, living where houses one day might; my old sanctuary.