... to write about. It's a nice neighborhood, really.
Still something of a new experience, this blog thing. I've been journaling for decades, off and on but this has a very energizing immediacy.
Last night - at the end of a perfect day I was perched on the stoop on Doctor's Row - otherwise known as Deering Street, the old Antebellum street of physician's homes, now turned into nice - or functional - apartment warrens.
Across the street was a silver pickup truck, a light one, rather like a Toyota. One of our guys from the hood was engaged in a spirited argument with the occupants - lot's of comments on the other's relationship to his mother, that kind of thing.
Well, I went inside - it just didn't sound like the kind of thing that would contain itself. By the time I was inside the living room the truck was pulling out and our boy was on the ground with a busted nose and a bleeding forehead.
Lot's of red stuff on the sidewalk.
I got on the phone to 911 - so did the folks grilling dinner in the dooryard - we all ran across and I got to use that absurd first aid kit I keep in my backpack - well, at least I got to take it out.
We convinced him to go to the hospital - the cops actually arrived in force in a very short time - as did the fire department and an ambulance.
So, where does that leave me?
It has been one of the most stressful weeks of my life, teetering between joy and abject fear. I suppose I should be grateful I even have feelings to have.
The context of life - my friend dying of breast cancer, C.'s friend being shot and killed in a spectacular murder-suicide, watching a guy from across the street get his head stove in by a size 14 boot - it's not that things are bad or worse and we spend our time comparing scars.
I think it's that what looks like the slope of a valley to you may look like the side of a rising mountain to someone else. I have to remember to see what I'm looking at - around me as well as where I am.
