A wall of apartment houses is going up along Sepulveda west of here.
My western sky is closing down.
That, at least, is how it seems at dusk, walking along forlorn and roughly paved Columbus Av. where the large lots are clearing out, those junkyard properties of dubious reputation and unkempt presentation.
There is still one left at 6537 where hundreds of rusted cars, boats, trucks and trailers sit in back. The cops and the courts are after him but that’s an old story without resolution.
Next door to 6537, at 6533, the bulldozers came, and in one morning, wiped clean 80 years of habitation and put back the flat emptiness I fervently wish might reincarnate as an orange grove.
There will be hundreds of windows in the sky behind Columbus Avenue, electrically illuminated and peering onto neighbors. The sun, the sky, the clouds, the jet trails will be wiped away by the new apartments.
The peripatetic and temporary adventurers will move into the new places and go on putting down mattresses and rent payments, and doing whatever humans do wherever water and walls and windows coalesce.
I will watch it all from Hamlin for as long as I’m permitted. Perhaps fate will intervene and pull me somewhere else where I will miss a show by strangers whom I will never know. And who may see me, the stranger below, who lives or lived across the way here in Van Nuys.