Neighbors will always be a central theme to the Narrative, and I always try [I do fail] to think of the Place I live as opportunity to be this unto those in close proximity.
I’ve lived in a small variety of building-types and social settlings, which has brought under the Lamp to the vast assortment of Context, and, which ways specifically this tends to affect persons-in-community [though it's perhaps equally the converse] — all the Hows and the Whys and the Whens. Outside of Spanish Harlem, a house named Ellsworth was one of the most interesting permutations in the line of life-settings.
Home to a strew of upper middle-class Dallas property owners, Lakewood Heights is the broader setting of Ellsworth, actually a house on the street Ellsworth Avenue. Heights is the less successful little brother to Lakewood, a famous neighborhood in Dallas where Old Money lines the streets in the form of Mercedes and brass lion statues.1
The demographic of Ellsworth Avenue was the most curious to me perhaps because I had no connection to the Situation of most of its people – family-growing by the throb of city-center. I hadn’t grown up in a family outside of the suburbs, and as a 23-year-old single guy there, I was definitely of the minority. Most of those families were wealthy homeowners, whereas Taylor and I moved in as a pair of twenty-something lessees, struggling each month to trust that Art would buy some bread.
Ellsworth’s make-up was largely outdoor dwellers, and for this one should blame the grand canopy of oaks above the street, and the neighborhood’s likeness to somesmall cottage in Northern England. When night’d fall, the firepits would be lit all along the street, and, insulated by St. Augustine’s thick grass, the rich laughter in all nuance from these little gatherings was preserved in a cloud of good-tidings, which traveled all the way down to the frontsteps where I silently sat.
I made a effort very often to find in these small moments of observation a thesis to their Story as a neighborhood and as individual families [and with some, as individuals]. The exercise was with purpose of ascertaining which ways people need and fit with one another, and the Shalom that makes the togetherness possible. Even when I didn’t imagine their situations realistically [surely I often didn't], it was productive to the point that I was able to Hope with them:
2. 6246
3. 6254
4. 6259
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When I moved into this space called Vickery – which is a wholly different beast from Ellsworth; a bit more bustling and urban – I anticipated at least the same of neighbors here. I was looking forward to coming to know them more than I did with the ones at Ellsworth, especially considering the proximity we’d share and our similarities in lifestage. I live in an antiquated, giant house that only in recent years has been converted into eight separate one-bedroom units.
Quickly into my stay, I realized [to my Idealist's surprise] that the reason the other seven units of this old house are occupied by solo-dwellers is that they want to be solo. I’ve met a number of them, and have become fairly close to a few of them. But even to this day – five months after my move-in – I’ve still not seen two of them, knowing nothing of their presence besides the nametags above their mailboxes, and their cars, coming and going, mumbling of Michealangelo.
Marisa was one of my closest friends here. She’s since moved out, having met a man at a bar and looking back not at all since. Steven, the kickboxer, actually goes under the name Richard now, I’m assuming because it seems more suitable for one seeking lawyerhood, as he is. 2
Another guy named Buck lives in apartment 6, directly across the hall from where I’m sitting. I haven’t the opportunity to talk with Buck much, but I do like his name, and I do imagine it to embody a great wealth of Story. The central basis of our relationship is a competition over whose electricity bill will be lower by the end of the month.3 I am glad to say this last month I had the cheapest bill of the three of all the competitors.4
There’s also girl named Tara who lives in the first apartment of whom we all see very little, but Buck and Marisa have filled me in on some of the details of her Vickerian sojourn. She is well-tenured here, apparently senior to us all, though no one can gather what she does during daytimes or where she is when she isn’t Here. It only took a few days into my stay back in May to find that Tara was supreme over this property, when one afternoon I chose to park Derrick alongside the building in one of the two prized parking spots there. 5
New to the house and thus ignorant to this and similar habits of the tenants already living here, I took the spot. When I returned outside hours later to drive to dinner with a friend, I found a huge posterboard under my left windshield wiper that read “DO NOT PARK IN MY SPOT, EVER! -APT 2″ Tara – APT 2 in person – had blocked in my car from behind, and I was forced to drive over some of the lawn and the curb onto Matilda just to leave.
Since that day, I’ve only seen Tara once. We were both unlocking our apartment doors, and before I could get a good look at her, she’d slipped stealthily inside. It seems that Vickery is hermitage to her same as it is to so many of the others here. It made me all the more curious of Tara, though, and so I’d hoped we could share space sometime before one of us’d moved away.
Only four nights ago, I’d gone outside to read a bit under the streetlamp, sitting on the frontsteps where I often do to Think or to return phone calls. I’d my back against the front door, as it’s a very low-traffic exit for Vickerians and thus low-risk for being slammed in the spine.
After a few moments, I heard some pounding footsteps from down the hall, growing more intense and furious as they neared. I intended to get up and move, assuming they were leading right to the other side of the door upon which I leaned, but before I could, I felt the sharp impact of the cold metal door, and it thrust me forward into the front yard into a stumble.
Tara came storming through in tears over something, and, after regaining my balance, I quickly apologized for my poor choice of Seat. She too apologized, adding “So, so, so, so…” to her I am Sorry, and it was then that I knew our Concern for one another. She hurried off, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, opened the driver’s side door of her chartreuse Acura [which was parked in The Spot! on the side], and left.
With the transience of city-life, people are constantly in and out of these sorts of buildings. Just last weekend, four new tenants replaced four of the original dwellers from when I moved in. Way I see it: more potential for Storywriting, and for Storytelling, and for elaborating on one another’s by Sharing. After all the larger Narrative is concerned with that, isn’t it?
Perhaps Marisa’s old idea of a frontlawn vegetarian barbecue will really catch on with Richard and Tara and Buck, and we’ll be able to show our new resident-aliens some Home.
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- ↑1 Okay, I’ve only seen one. But still.
- ↑2 However, when he isn’t listening to Rage Against the Machine and practicing Jujitsu on the rubber dummy in the center of his living room, he’s pacing around shirtless in the parking lot on his cellphone. I can’t help think that even nomenclature like Richard would be of assistance to his credibility?
- ↑3 Marisa was once a part of said competition, and it’s her, actually, who introduced me to Buck. The month we began friendlily competing in this way, I’d erroneously set up an autopay system through my bank , not realizing I’d already somehow already paid the bill twice. Though it was bad that first month to have paid for three Texas-summer-electriticity-bills at once, I’m now still living in the credit of that slip-up. So all’s not too bad.
- ↑4 Since Marisa moved out for her lover, Buck and I decided that she was disqualified and therefore we were entitled to fine Belgian ale on her credit.
- ↑5 When handing me my keys, Landlord Bob said that all tenants have equal rights to all the parking spots, but apparently there are some specific wrongs that only Experience can bring to light.
More than any other human being have I taken photos of this guy. Providence has us sharing space for upwards of eight years now – playing together in multiple bands, crafting web identities for fake clothing lines [college is something to miss], backyarding Ellsworth just beneath Stanley, and, sinking in the sound of Love is Hell from the Libertine’s high-backed-booths. Like any, our relationship is far from Perfect, but, even less perfect, I think, are we as individuals — so there is that.
Anyywhoo, yesterday, Austin took it upon himself to be my assistant [since he also knew the guy we were photographing], carrying a large volume of stuffs I didn’t end up using, and readying lens caps for the quick switch in a needing moment. We tested a bit of the Dallas light before the shoot, ’specially since I was a bit inspired by those near-Muttons.
