It was fake and I loved it but first lets set the scene:
Boarded-up windows, vehicles propped up on cinder blocks, the distinct scents of a cold winter mud, backyard grills, and fireplace smoke. The sharp echos of dogs barking, children laughing, and the nearby highway form a soundtrack, punctuated with the occasional bounce-crash-whump of a basketball goal with no net.
I am visiting a friend in a neighborhood that I’ve not visited before – one of those forgotten peripheral urban neighborhoods that had their rise and fall in the 1960’s yet somehow has thus far escaped a new wave of gentrification.
Maybe you live in a neighborhood like this, or maybe you've driven through. I’m sure you can picture it. For me it strikes a feeling of wholesomeness and hope alongside obvious challenges. Residential segregation and the racial wealth gap can be seen by a simple turn of the head or street corner. As I stop at an intersection entering the neighborhood, an elderly man approaches my car, rocking in a rhythmic, uncontrolled motion as he walks. He extends his hand towards my window. I roll it down to hand him some cash. “Hope this helps” I mutter. He rocks back to the curb and sits down on a crate. Billows of breath-steam escape his hooded face.
I’ve exited the highway here 1,000 times but never turned left. I always turn right, toward my kids’ elementary school. In my mind, to go west was progress, and to go east is struggle. The line between fixer-uppers and knocker-downers is drawn by time. To the east, neighborhood blocks are decorated by colorful wind-blown trash, shuffled around by the wind like rebellious disbanded prayer flags. Everything immobile hosts hieroglyphic graffiti tags, layered by decades. Many house repair projects seem frozen in time–the makers or the funding seemingly disappearing mid-effort.
I arrive at my friend’s house. He points to some scattered trash in front of his home and says matter-of-factly, “This is camouflage so I don’t get broken into.” This is a place of practicality. It’s nearby and amidst other neighborhood camo detritus where I find this moment of brilliance. A clever nearby homeowner has crafted a facade of a “garage” in front of their home. In a rectangular space framed by weathered wood and peeling paint, they have taken large pieces of cardboard, perhaps from a refrigerator delivery, and pieced together a “fake” two-car garage door. Held up by who knows what, the cardboard is the exact shape of a garage door, where a garage door would be, however the artist painted classic square and rectangle shapes, complete with a painted handle and decorative insets.
I immediately sense the spirit of this person: practical and hilarious. Maybe it is a placeholder for a future project, or maybe it is just an artist saying, “I know where I live, and I think this is funny.” So do I. Now I am dreaming of how to coat my whole house in cardboard — siding, shutters, and windows with hand-drawn knotholes and woodgrain. I remember my friend’s comment: This is camouflage so I don’t get broken into. I wonder how long the garage masterpiece creator stood there, staring at a decrepit or non-existent door, before setting out to work. When did the cardboard lightbulb appear over their head and they thought “I’ve got it!” as they reached for a cardboard hammer and nails?
In his book The Dharma Bums, beatnik Jack Keroac writes, “I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted”. GAHH, I LOVE THAT LINE. I regularly scribe this lyrical gold in my journals as a scriptural reminder. I even had it embossed on a journal (see above).
It’s true, AND it isn’t —and that paradox brings some level of honesty and comfort. Our lives ARE vast glowing empty pages to explore — and YES, we can attempt to do anything we want.
But life has boundaries and limitations. We can’t have it all. I can’t flap my arms and land on the roof of my house. (You are welcome to watch me try.) And I can’t coat my house in cardboard with any hope for longevity. All pursuits offer compromise. The fake garage door reminded me of the spirit and terror of the blank page: We stare it down our whole lives and it never gets smaller or less intimidating. We only grow in confidence and creative prowess.
Among many things that keep me up at night, home projects continue to be monsters under my bed. I imagine what my entryway would look like if I removed the stairs and widened them. I think about it over and over. The dimensions. The material. What if we tore out that kitchen wall and made an inset arched window? What if we made it all out of cardboard and called it a day?
As we dive into 2025, our plans take shape and our calendars fill up, and yet our year ahead still remains in some way a blank page. I’m trying this newsletter thing and wrapping up a book. I am painting on occasion. I’m trying to stay mentally healthy despite literal and figurative fires all around me. And apparently I’ll be building something ornate out of cardboard in homage to a stranger.
And I’m curious to hear from you, my new subscribers: What are you adding to your blank page of a year? Let’s discuss in the comments.
ART TO CONSIDER
I’ve been a long-time fan of Cleon Petersons work. He explores good vs evil through stark and often bloody battle scenes tapping into history (both real and imagined). He lost his home AND studio in the recent Los Angeles fires. Here is his work peeking out from beneath the destruction and an opportunity to help him rebuild.
MUSIC TO CONSIDER
By Shovels & Rope Featuring Gregory Alan Isakov
ON MY NIGHTSTAND
Thank you for reading. Be Dareful out there, JC
I'm currently sitting on a blank page. I'd like it filled with family, love, passion, and creativity. I've been reading more books. I read Drawn: The Art of Ascent again, which brought me back to see what you are up to. It felt like the universe was timing my reconnection with reading, art, storytelling, (and, of course Jer and climbing to 😂)
As a brand new RN entering into the realm of healthcare, my addition to myriad blank pages will be to make it my mission to provide the best possible care to the men and women who have served our country.
Oh….and I’m on a mission of Stoicism to quell the thoughts racing through my head about the destruction being so irreparably rained down on our country.