rhythms

i'm not an optimist by nature (shocking. i know.)

i don't go out of my way to be pessimistic.

i hate the weather in florida.

i love the mountains.

i live in an underserved neighborhood. not the projects. barely the ghetto.

i haven't written in months, but have wanted to. very much. and keep day-dreaming of an awesome entry i could post... #thiswonthappenanytimesoon

yes, i just hash tagged on my blog.

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Listening to the odd clicks and taps of my transmission, I notice movement off to the right side. It's dark. The streetlight is out. I'm pushing 45 in a 35, always on alert for police. A few red and blue lights flash off Parramore Ave tonight.

Almost home.

One of the tall figures moves away from a bush and I catch him chuck a Budweiser can, liquid still flowing as it moves through the air, into the grass. The other figure, maybe a woman, moves away from the taller figure and throws a still-lit cigarette into the road. I watch small sparks kick up as my tires rush past.

Stationed at his usual post, Jose half-heartedly lifts his hand and nods as I turn onto Westmoreland. His children play chase of some form in the dirt yard at his feet. His wife shakes out a towel, dust flying amuck in the pale porch light.

One of the locals bikes alongside me in his NY Giants jersey. Ballcap cocked sideways. Drawers pulled way below his waist. Texting.

It's dark now.

The overweight, elderly woman who sits on her front porch every single day, most of the day. Just watching. Spying. Yelling at people and animals to get off her lawn. Checking her security camera when she can't be on the porch.

Eddie, grilling something delicious. Waves and smiles, sitting in his beach chair. I slow for my final turn onto 18th.

The golden pitbull mix pops her head up over the porch at the corner. Her owner looks up from a bike chain he's tinkering...

I turn onto 18th... the west side, the side lacking sidewalks.

Two locals walk in the street, near the dirt, trash, broken glass, chicken bones and McDonald's wrapper... a 20-something white girl, heavy-set, scantily clad... I think her name is Stacy. The boy she's always with, young black kid, probably 17... dragging his right leg lazily like others in our neighborhood. Both walking at a steady pace. Waves. Half-smiles. Not missing a beat in their semi-loud conversation. Stacy opens her phone and it casts light on her face as I look in my rearview.

Ka-klunk! Shocks and struts groan... creaking over giant potholes onto our driveway. Asphalt to concrete.

The rhythms of our neighborhood.

Shocking and familiar. Never mundane. Hard-to-see beauty. Always haunting. Often maddening.