Jottings

Its a brisk walk from Eliot Park to my house and you should'nt have much problem locating it if you walk as the crow flies. Do not stop to ask for directions for people who have no inkling where they are heading can not guide you. Come in the dying light of the day when the sagging wires cut a line across mute buildings mottled with time. The proud structures of the city trace silhouettes against a scanty greying sky and you might see a solitary songbird silently perched on the gaunt arms of a roadside tree. Or maybe the dappled wares sprawled on the street shall catch your fancy and it's riot of colours. The peanut seller who would take a second off from roasting the nuts to twitch his mustache and snap beads of sweat or maybe the hawker who would hustle with plastic toys or the ingratiating voice of some tramp. Park Street is dotted with eating joints where men wolf food the docter warned them to stay away from and little barefooted children who brazenly sing songs from the celluloids.
And as you walk by will you internalize the scene with the snippets of conversation that waft your way and maybe you could go back to your appartment and write down some verses about it. Watch them but hurry on by. Don't halt to ask for directions. for they will surely say that the place doesnt exist. And some might add that it never existed.