One a rare weekday out of the studio, I went for a short wander down one of my favorite side streets, an odd mix of renovated and abandoned houses, overgrown yards, holistic shops, restaurant backs, stray cats, bamboo and silver floss trees. It could be even more intricate inside those hedge-guarded gardens, but they keep to themselves. On humid summer afternoons, where the low clouds close everything in, sound exaggerates a little, so a mango dropping to the ground makes a theatrical splat.
This house is boarded up, but somebody still mows the lawn. I hadn't noticed it until today. It's straight out of Faulkner, Florida edition. Or the short story by Joyce Carol Oates about the woman who wakes up blind but thinks that daylight has died instead, and locks herself in forever. But it held some one's dreams, once, for a while.