they say every house in Detroit tells a story. Like a person it has it’s own character, shaped by the life it lived and the life’s it has witnessed. So you ask yourself – wandering the streets: What do you make of this house? How did it live, what did it do? What’s its name?
I guess this is Margerite, it’s up to you to visit her as often as you like, she would be happy to be visited a little more often. Then she wouldn’t have to watch the street all the time for the tiniest of attractions. Oh, but there were many tiny attractions in Margerite’s sight. Lucky her, sitting at a junction. Two streets crossing each other. So she doesn’t even remember how many rats she had seen crossing the street or getting caught by the neighbors cat Willy. Or a squirrel only escaping death by an approaching car-tire driven by some human at a thin margin. Only to pick up that fucking nut, which almost caused its death ten seconds later. And then there was this one squirrel, Margerite’s imagining it as a boy of course – which got hit. By a tire. The tire, connected to the truck the guy from the other side of the street bought last year. He didn’t even noticed the sweet little nut-greedy squirrel. He was looking at his smartphone, swiping. Left and right. Right, right, right, leee- no, right. To find a new partner. To sit next to him in his big big red truck.
Margerite could watch her street like this for hours. Doesn’t matter if it would be raining or not. The weather could be stormy as hell but for her there was nothing as beautiful to her as watching life. Life unfolding right in front of her little porch. Her empty little porch with those beautiful blue window-shields in the back. She almost couldn’t see out of her door anymore. Too many plants had grown all over her. It made her feel cozy and hugged. Sweet little trees and plants.
– Detroit, 10/09/23
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