This time of year, more often than not, I find myself walking my dog in the dark. As I do so each winter I am reminded I do not live in a small city - I live in a large graveyard. Such is the streetlight stillness of the Steepleton night.
The park, even in winter a place of considerable activity, lies like a new graveyard awaiting its first customer.
The street too is quiet except for rare travellers risking their own interment as they race along stoked by bottles, pills and Orwell's telephones.
(An aside - the fucking homeless, as they are known, ought better be thought of within the spirit of our age, as the fucking telephoneless.)
The sidewalks are never quite empty however. From a distance we often see fellow dog walkers going 'round. The ones with the smallest dogs turn on wee flashlights to help them find their dog's little shits in the grass.
I do not need a flashlight to find the Hammer's big shits. Even if she has shit a great distance from me I need only look for steam rising from the graveyard and follow my nose until it finds me the smell of death.
It is very much like voting in a municipal election.
1 comment:
You are right. Your piece reminds me just how much I fucking hate phones. Yet. Several years ago, more, when I was living in a homeless shelter my mobile phone was primarily the one thing which kept me sane and in touch with my son.
In hindsight, I suppose, it elevates me marginally above those junkies I shared a bathroom with, but only just. It took some resolve, I remember, to stay away from pawn shops.
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