Song of the Week

So, I haven't found much time to write yet this week, but I promise a few walking posts within the next few days. Meanwhile, enjoy one of my new favorite songs.

Video of the Week

I'm sure many of you have already seen this, but if not, this beats every Super Bowl commercial ever. NOPE!

Day 3: Façades

I woke up a little late this morning and expected to walk out my door into more light and noise as people hurried down the streets to work, but it was still dark and silent, at least in our part of town. A slight sprinkle formed puddles along the gutters replacing the snow and ice from days before. The weather has gone up at least 10 degrees (Celsius) since my last walk, making me excited for spring. I walked straight to Main Street this morning wanting to cross over to the other side of town. I quickly passed the pile of cigarette butts in front of my neighbor’s door, the still-shuddered windows, and the burned-out garage. Nothing stood out to me except this crushed Uludag can.

Beyond making me want a Doener Kebap and Uludag for lunch today, the crushed can came to life telling a story of the difficulties of Turkish immigrants living in Germany, their struggle to overcome stereotypes, racism, and the physical violence many continue to endure at the hands of xenophobes. I’m sure similar crushed cans—Latino cans in the United States, African cans in France, and Caucasian (the geographic region not the skin color) cans in Russia—lie all over the world sharing similar stories of their fight to exist as a minority.

All of the shops were still closed this morning except for the bakeries and a little shop to buy lottery tickets.

I guess it’s never too early to purchase false hopes. As I thought of the hopes I have, false and firm, I was startled by the honk of a car’s horn. I wondered what type of person had the gall to honk this early in the morning. What could have been so impeding to the driver to justify waking up the rest of the city?

There were more cars on Main Street and more people in the buses. When I crossed to the Southside of town, I passed an interesting array of people. There were construction workers in coveralls, business men with briefcases in hand, and the occasional student hurrying along on a bike, a worn out backpack to attest for long nights in the library.

As I passed a bakery this morning, the shelves were already full of breads and pastries, filling the block with the smell of home. The first customers were already sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Directly across the street, another woman was making a meat salad in the local butcher shop as she prepared for the day ahead. I wonder whose work brings more satisfaction, the baker or the butcher. The one brings seemingly dead ingredients to life through the life-giving catalyst of yeast. The other cuts, seasons, and packages those once living beings, making death more desirable. Or does each return home with an equal satisfaction having put in an honest day’s work, providing life’s necessities to their neighbors?

Just around the corner, an arts and crafts store held on to last year’s Christmas spirit.

Why is it that Christmas lights, which are so magical in the season, become so tacky and out of place in every other season?

Just passed the Christmas lights I entered a dark alleyway I had never before noticed. There is always an eerie feeling that accompanies dark alleys, but I went down it anyway. On the one side, a home had been suffocated by vines.

I crouched down to take a picture and could hear a subtle creaking in the vines as if they were preparing to strike and swallow their next victim.

The alley turned out to be a dead end, but as I backtracked across the street was another before unknown, but more welcoming alleyway. This sign combined with the early chirping of birds announced that this side of the street contained more life than the last.

The first building to the left, however, made me second guess my first impression. It was a large, brick building, each brick was weathered and worn. It looked like the remnants of a fortress, even the windows were bricked in.

The building’s only visible entrance or exit was these large pipes protruding out of the back wall.

As I made my way home, I spotted a building that has often caught my attention before, but became more fascinating in dawn’s more critical light. It displays an architectural style found throughout our little town made up of a thick, cement façade, which hides the old, decaying farm wood that makes up the side walls.

I wondered how often architecture reflects its inhabitants. How often do we also build up thick façades to disguise the rest of our being? Yet we all wear our cement masks for different reasons. Some of us hide dirty, decaying wood, as this building did. We hide shame and guilt, loneliness and self-doubt. Our façades make us invulnerable. But, as this juxtaposition of buildings suggests,

our façades also make us normal. We conform to the stylistic norm to cover up our uniqueness, resulting in a dulling uniformity. Each building appears the same as the next, different sizes and colors, but sporting the same styles and trends. The monotony observed in these architectural façades made me want to find the nearest sledge hammer and break down the outer wall and get down to the real substance. I found the hidden walls more beautiful than the façade. I wanted to see and get to know the old, decaying wood hidden behind the cement surface. Why are we afraid to be vulnerable, visible, observable? Why are we so afraid to be unique? What do we have to hide?

Day 2

It was a lot brighter this morning as the street lamps reflected their yellow light onto the freshly fallen snow.

There’s something about snow that beautifies whatever it rests upon.

The snow also heightened the morning’s sense of mystery, framing the movements of every passerby. I immediately noticed a line of drawn-out footsteps signifying that someone was out earlier than I.

As I took a closer look, however, I noticed that they led from a car into a house and the drawn-out effect in the snow was caused by dragging, signifying that this person had just called it a night while I was beginning a new day.

I went the opposite direction today—my goal is to never walk the exact same route twice—and I was immediately drawn in to a door stained with bleeding, black letters, the markings of an amateur artist.

I wondered how it must feel to see those letters each time you enter your door. I wonder how many times those letters force the tenants to take one last anxious look over their shoulder before locking the door behind them.

Bolted to the outside wall of the building was a disturbing display of vending machines. The juxtaposition of a cigarette machine, 

a candy machine,

and a toy machine

created the perfect meeting place for people of all ages to get their fix. Each machine hung at different heights according to the targeted audience, a street school, of sorts, where parents unconsciously teach their children the addictive process from toys to treats to smokes. Each deep inhale and cough of smoke teaching, “One day you’ll grow out of treats and toys, and be a grown up.” There were three more cigarette machines on my short walk. I wonder if they’re strategically placed in this part of town.

The next block down, a house door slammed as a large man stammered drowsily out into the cold, letting out a leonine yawn and stretching his back before crouching into his undersized car. At the same time, a woman under an umbrella dragged her luggage along the sidewalk setting off for an exciting journey. I wonder where she’s going? Packing and unpacking luggage is always exciting.

To my left, a small light reflected off of the shuddered windows. I headed toward the light only to find a woman wearing a head lamp as she delivered newspapers. She must feel underappreciated these days, knowing that the news she delivers has already been published online hours before. A few yards further, I passed a man, digging through a pile of garbage and we exchanged a “Guten Morgen!” In the background, a window reflected the flashing images from a TV that seemed overused, signs of a sleepless night.

I turned the final corner and entered my door, still silent, wife and daughter sound asleep; I sit down and begin to write.

Day 1

In Thoreau’s essay “Walking,” he writes, “I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks—who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering.” Thoreau goes on to admit that in order to keep up his own health, good spirits, and inflow of literary inspiration, he was wont to saunter at least four hours a day. Having chosen to have and support a family, which I'll never regret, life’s demands allot me much less than four hours a day for sauntering. Thoreau’s assertion, however, recently kindled a desire to discover the genius—the art—in walking. Thus, today I begin a journey, one I hope will last a lifetime, of early morning walks. This blog will serve, in part, to record the art I observe on my morning walks.

I set my alarm last night for 5 AM, but my three-month-old daughter’s hungry cries woke us all up at 4:45. (This may seem ridiculously early to be going on a walk, and it is, but my typical day’s demands begin at 6. So, in order to always get my walk in, I’ll be waking up a little earlier than usual for now on.) My wife took over the daughter duties—hungry babies don’t usually care much for dads—as I pulled on my coat, scarf, hat, and gloves and ventured out the door.

I accompanied my first step with a deep cough that shattered the dark silence as the freezing air rushed into my lungs. My first thought was to turn around and go back to bed, but I walked on. The sky was black, no stars or moon, only street lamps suspended between block houses to light the sidewalk.

I immediately recognized the mysterious beauty of shadows and darkness, Hawthorne and Poe tapped into so many years ago. My next cough ricocheted from house to house ahead of me announcing my coming. A part of me felt strange, not wanting to be discovered, walking about the silent streets dressed in Christmas pajama pants while mumbling impressions into an iPod. I was sure some onlooker would suspect me a drunk, though I am an ever-sober saunterer.

A moment later, I almost slipped on an unnoticed stretch of ice. I most definitely would have if it wasn’t for the encased cigarette butts that roughened the surface. I’ve never been so grateful for my neighbor, who sends more smoke into our atmosphere than any chimney on the street. I was surprised when I looked up and didn’t see him. I thought if anyone would be out at this hour it would be him, standing on his doorstep as he always does, a cigarette hanging from his chapped lips, staring off into some unknown abyss until I startle him with my daily “Guten Tag!” (I’m currently studying in Germany, hence the German greeting.) He always returns my greeting gruffly, but I imagine that beneath his ashen surface he is glad someone acknowledges his existence with more than a choking glare.  

I soon passed a burned-out garage at the end of the street with boards over the windows. The fire happened about a month ago. Could those iced-over cigarettes be to blame? The garage belonged to a retired couple and had been in the family for centuries. Before the windows were boarded up, the street stank of those possessions forever lost. I had often stopped to look in on the remains of an antique sewing machine, garden tools, and hunting trophies, reminding myself to collect memories more than material. The reminder was even more penetrating this morning, coupled with the morning’s silence.

The silence broke suddenly with the ignition of a delivery van as I approached the nearest bakery on Main Street. Behind the window stood a stout, middle-aged woman next to a case of freshly baked rolls. She had obviously been awake and working for hours. One of these days I need to drop in and thank her for waking so early and working so tirelessly to make our lives so delicious. In front of the bakery stood street lamps decorated with flower pots, filled with last year’s flowers, brown and rigid, yet seemingly content, knowing that springtime sun will bring resurrection.

To my right, David Beckham stood staring at me in his underwear. Just yesterday my wife took pictures of me standing in front of a similar ad, fully clothed of course, but trying to imitate Beckham’s face. Those of you, who know me, realize how comical this was for my wife since I can't make a serious, model-like face for the life of me. Seeing my reflection in the advertisement this morning reminded me of my own normalcy.

Behind Beckham sat an old couch begging me to investigate its abandonment. Its worn cushions testified of absolute loyalty, having always provided immediate comfort to the family it had served only to be tossed aside when financial circumstances proved capable of more modern furnishings, a testimony to how rapidly fidelity gives way to fashion.

Finally the morning’s first bike passed, a flickering headlight guiding the way 

as a woman approached the tram station from the opposite direction. The tram appeared from around the corner, proving the woman perfectly punctual, and announcing that the city was slowly coming to life.

To my right, the local bank's digital thermometer attested to my insanity and my right hand begged for a glove as it shivered to take another picture. 

Opposite the bank, a gift shop display caught my attention, tempting me to take a closer look.

It seems there is always 50% off of something somewhere, yet big red letters continue to prove persuasive in making us buy things we don’t need. When will the justification, “But it was on sale?” ever make up for an empty wallet and a garage boxed to the brim with superfluities? Oh, spring cleaning can’t come soon enough! This walk is proving to be a self-spring cleaning of sorts.

Just before I turned back for home, I spotted a set of electrical boxes stained in graffiti in a language I didn’t understand. 

In retrospect, I count my linguistic ignorance a blessing, for graffiti never fails to remind me of adolescent obscenities. There’s something about graffiti, though, despite the language, and despite the message, that gives a city a certain flare, a unique character; yet an undeniable, inner anxiety.

Directly behind me, a tall steeple bid sanctuary, yet the surrounding trees bid a much gloomier welcome. I entered the chapel grounds only to discover the doors to be locked. It seems that steeples and sanctuaries often fail us when we most need them, proving our inner conviction the deciding factor when man-made edifices lock their doors.

 

Down the street a block or so, a single light flickered as I passed. The rickety sound of opening shutters drew my attention to a man staring out from behind the glass, half-awake and half-confused at the strange looking, self-conversing saunterer returning his stare. Outside his house stood a BMW, the interior blinking red to scare off intruders. The ever-blinking red reiterated the feared dangers of darkness. There would be no light to blink if there was no burglar to break in.

As I turned the final corner back onto my street, I observed a refreshing home, displaying less worries than the rest. It was equipped with the old wooden shudders that emanate a welcoming charm, an open trust in the common good of the neighborhood. Its open shudders were singular, however, as all other windows hid behind their upgraded, more fear-repellent, roll-down shudders.

I saw my last, visible breath as I opened my door and entered the warmth of home just in time to relieve my wife of dirty diaper duties.