Transfusion

Marcus Books. Flax. The big Goodwill. Tall buildings that block the sun selling a “lifestyle” for a certain person that is not you, that is not me. Noise complaints from new neighbors who knowingly moved in next to music clubs.

It is like a transfusion, taking out what is already there and replacing it with something new. It hurts to watch, it is not sustainable, it is destructive as it disguises it self in construction, new, shiny, high tech, the wave of the future. If you are not here it may be hard to imagine the anxiety, the semi-panic when it is talked about–and it is talked about all the time, it gets boring, this isn’t the life we signed up for–whip fast changes and tall cranes coloring the backdrop and the foreground gets whiter than ever, feeling the loss of control, the greedy overtaking of a place you are in a long term relationship with, the sneers and smirks on the faces of folks in neighboring towns who never liked it here anyway because oy the parking and the piss, the quiet times when you appreciate what is left and still recognizable, when you have to fucking laugh with the rest of the folks still here so you don’t cry, tired on the bus going home in work uniforms, lunch pails, sensible shoes, ridiculous haircuts, grandpas holding granddaughters, wide eyed kids long taught not to wear red or blue when walking home, library books sticking out from bags, knowing how to have whole conversations when a minimum of three first languages are involved, shared joy when the sun warms us between the fog laden days, and shared shrugs of what the hell can you do as we stand in the middle of a storm together, watching, waiting, feeling terrible for sometimes thinking a pop of a bubble or a little shimmy from mother earth might not be so bad.

busfolks

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