I don't know why I'm attracted to ruined places.
I don't know why I'm attracted to ruined faces.
I've been a ruination, and who hasn't had to suffer some kind of rehabilitation.
But still, it's something other. Some vow some part of me made when I was sleeping, maybe in my sleep I was weeping about staying low enough to listen.
To listen to the root of bricks in the sand, to listen to the snow underfoot through the weed places, where pavement never levels, and trestles hum some blues for the old trains of work.
Why do I keen to the bent refineries, the cracked silos, the cracked earth...?
When it's all fine and high line, in my mind I am walking again in the meat packing parts of town when they used to pack meat and saying a prayer for the dead auto body shop and looking for the next back alley.
I don't know why but I do.
I am suspicious of the brightness and everybody's new new self. I want to see how things die.
I want to slow it down and see the next thing coming.
I want to see the phantom in the long black coat work the life of grace and grit through high fallen snow.
(Photo by Susan, Toronto, August 2012)