Protest in the Loop

I'm sure that we're all aware of the conflict in Gaza right now, and the polar views that have developed around it. I was at a local protest recently on this very subject. It was actually quite surprising: for a town with rare protests and political activism visible to the public, there were a great many protesters. People all across the world feel very strongly about this issue.

Providence 1

Debris crackles underfoot, diffused light falls lazily upon a kicked in television screen. Like a large patio, air flows freely through the grand rooms and out the shattered windows. Spray paint sticks to the walls menacingly, evoking curiosity, like an aged tattoo. Vague footprints lie about carelessly, difficult to discern. It is frightening at first, but that fades to sadness. Stale nostalgia lies like a sheet of cellophane over all surfaces.





The silence is thick. It rises to tumult when nothing moves, when the only whisper is from quiet inhales and exhales.



At night, the memories can lie comfortably: no one can see them. But in the fading sunlight, they are exposed. They scurry and hide amongst a shoe here, a record player over by the stairs. Here is one wallowing in the tip of a needle on the kitchen counter. Sometimes they sneak over across the room to meet each other, and they can be seen, a milky sheen in the yellow light.



Broken and burnt and alone and sad and cracked and desolate and rusted and peeled and bent. Forgotten.

Providence 2

People have been here, like gusts in between broken panes of glass. They were small and discarded. Some still lean against the walls at night, hugging the plaster for warmth.



Dried sweat tinges the air. Cheap vodka. Romance and feigned pleasure.





Ghosts roam these halls, memories shimmering in the fading light. These floors are tired; they have staunchly endured feet padding quickly to the bathroom, boots stomping loudly on the way out the door, blue and white sneakers treading lightly over decades of debris.

Providence 3

These are cities inside of cities, museums of trash. Styrofoam is like linoleum, lining the floors with takeout and to go cups.



The walls have been scarred–punctured here–an ancient sailor displaying the shark tooth that still lives in his thigh. There is wallpaper too, pink and blue and green, floral. There has been love here, hate and longing as well.





Monuments to loneliness and regret, these edifices are all part of a sprawling metropolis of rubble. Paint sags from the wall. Who has been here?