No Longer A Door by Chipka
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Description
The sky is an indolent thing, too lazy to hold the sun: too lazy to clear itself. Vapor like a sodden bolus is the thing he now calls air. The city chokes on its own phlegms and distempers. It too is seized by winter’s lassitude. There is light: a gray thing. There is warmth.
In a vacant lot, vagrants scavenge like muffled insects; their industry is a matter of pure survival. Their needs are simple. Warmth is what they most require. The burn of cheap gin is what they covet. Both are breeds of heat—honesty and deception bearing the same simple name. Fire-warmth is the honest thing. The burn of alcohol is the illusion, little more than a differential anesthetic. The esophagus burns, as does the stomach…not from the output of alcohol but from its irritation of soft, pink surfaces. This is not warmth, though errant minds read it as such.
Dry weeds rustle like whispered gossip and litter spirals in dust-devil play-shapes, a man with an axe works until sweat dampens his layered clothing. He has warmth, of a sort: rolled tobacco scavenged from abandoned filter-buts. Every day, he picks cigarette litter from curbs and crevasses in asphalt or concrete. He pinches the remainder of smoker’s weed from these remnants and saves the crumbs in a tin. At night, when there is warmth (from fire and from gin) he rolls the scavenged tobacco into strips of white, gummed paper. He crafts irregular cigarettes for himself, taking small comfort in the dignity of his act. He never begs for what he smokes. He takes what others abandon. He touches his hand-made cigarette-improvisations with a tongue of flame. He savors them. Sometimes, he shares them.
Today, the sky is as lethargic as yesterday, but friends—scavengers like himself—have found a wealth of wood. It is dense. It is heavy. It will burn dirty at first, but cleaner as it is reduced to embers. It will smoke, crackle, pop. But first it must be broken into shards and splinters. It is an old door, he sees; it is as heavy as the doors of his childhood in some long-dead grandmother’s home. He remembers the sight of antiques, of light through windows of leaded glass. They don’t make windows like that any more. They don’t make doors like this one: that are good for heat when burned, doors that smoke, crackle, and pop when their shards and splinters are shoved into an oil-drum as rusty and corroded as the hinges pried from the water-warped wood.
He does not know the truth that it was a lover’s door—from a home far, far away where one heard the serenade of a violin as the other played with sultry ardor. He does not know the shelter of this door when closed on nights of dalliance and sweat, and then opened on mornings as lazy as any Sunday with newspaper and television. He knows only that it will burn, dirty at first, and then clean when reduced to its most useful embers.
For reasons he does not understand, he saves the hinges: corroded in the colors of copper and brass, like old pennies forgotten in a damp and moldy corner. He likes the colors, the intense, acidic green and the reds like tempestuous passions best spent in languid hours of bed-play and provocative laughter. He knows nothing of the lovers who sealed this door against outside intrusion, but he knows that the hinge—rusty and useless now—belonged in someone's home.
Now, as he shatters the door with an axe (stolen from a garage) he jabs the shards and splinters into a rusted oil-drum. He smokes. He has found gasoline. He has found rags, and so the sodden fabric is mixed in with the wood. Friends have come to help in the building of fire, and one touches flame to rag and tongues of warm light dance in the maw of the oil-drum. Soon, there are flames. There is warmth. There is cheap gin in a bottle.
The lovers—so far away—know nothing of this. But their door, now abandoned, protects once more: not from intrusion, but from cold.
***
As always, thank you for viewing, reading and commenting.
Comments (29)
jocko500
wow this is so cool looking here. love the colorsw and textures
myrrhluz
I love your description of the sky, to lazy to hold the sun or clear itself. As I read this, I thought of one of your many strengths as a writer. We live in a world of metaphor. Many of us see a door, or window and subliminally understand meanings other then the obvious one, but unexamined they are only partially incorporated into our lives. In your wonderfully descriptive way, you look at these meanings and expand on them. as I read your words, sometimes I respond, "Ah yes, I've felt that," and think on it much more deeply that I would have. At other times, your connections are new to me and I am further enriched and encouraged to think in a slightly different way. I love the ending. What has seemed a somewhat shameful end for this once very important door, turns out to be affirming. Even in its death throes, is gives out life sustaining heat.
elfin14doaks
Outstanding story and the photo to accompany it, You write so well.
popeslattz
Beautiful photo and words. You've given life to this twice useful door. Your descriptions and metaphors are excellent and thought provoking. One can almost smell the smoke and feel the warmth of the fire.
kgb224
Outstanding capture and story my friend.
flavia49
fantastic!
watapki66
Making a door hinge look good in both photo and words, know that is an art!
dashboard_jehovah
..in short...love it! great image and prose...awsome work!
Roxam
"DELICIOUS!"
beachzz
I love this story, the man who found the door, the lovers who loved behind it. He saved the hinge, just because. And the door, as you said, gave warmth once again. Chip, you just blow my mind with your words and your fotos--and here you did it yet again!!
blinkings
A tasty bit of decay! Nice one.
helanker
WOW! You dont just see a door, you can describe its past "life" as it was exactly the life it "lived". SO beautiful. SO is the capture of it. Superb indeed. Keep that doot Chip. It can be beautiful again :D
auntietk
I love the idea of the door providing safety and warmth in different ways throughout its life. Beautifully written! It reminds me of a children's story about a man named Joseph who had an overcoat which became old and worn. He cut it down to make a jacket, which became old and worn. Then a vest, a tie, a button ... and the item became useful and loved and admired in each of its incarnations. (Look for it when you're next at the mother ship.) There is something 'just right' about using a thing with mindfulness until it's gone.
Meisiekind
Most amazing writing Chip.... you have such wonderful talent! I would one day like to read a book you have written!!! You can illustrate it too as this image carried me through your story! Well done dear friend! :)
lior
So fantastic!
gypsyflame
beautiful words as always Chip..I love the way you write, I think every author prays that is words will capture his audience and draw them in to the scene...you do that so very well!
Ac-Dc
marvelous textures and colors too, well done.
durleybeachbum
Rich and multi-layered image and story...How do you do it so well and so often!?
marybelgium
fantastique !
sandra46
I LOVE THAT OLD PIECE AND THE ACCOMPANYING WRITING GAVE ME AN EMOTION
blondeblurr
There seem to be no more screws holding the locking-plate, just the natural rust and corrosion...amazing! what a great find for a good photographer/writer. Your imagination has no bounds, the door maybe long gone, but the memories from behind that door will live on and on, it is so nice to live a dream with you, so let's dream some more and hope that lanky Russian will read it as well. BB
bmac62
Your descriptive writing fills my minds eye. I've seen all these things before. Not from living in such a camp in a run-down, mostly abandoned lot or under a bridge in the Bronx or Brooklyn...but from the passing windows of a car or the old elevated train I used to ride between Queens and Manhatten with my grandmother when I was ten or eleven. These are strong impressions you've created. Sights, sounds, scenes, smells, tastes and even the thoughts of long gone lovers enjoying themselves behind a solid door that no one ever imagined would one day wind up in a burn barrel. Great writing Chip...way to go...illustrated with just the right image. Now, may I exhale:) I always hold my breath while reading one of your narrations:)
MrsRatbag
Love your little ruminations, Chip; well done!
Eresther
I suppose you use postwork. Another fantantic rusty metal texture! I would love to use it in 3D one day :o)
anaber
Fantastic Image and fantastic description!!
Alex_Antonov
Excellent!
FunkyShaman
Beautiful work and beautiful write-up!!
alanwilliams
This works so well.
Asmoday
All the rust and contrast fits excellent in pic. Very good eye for this one.