Where we live isn’t a place known for graffiti or problems with tagging, but there are a few places where people have left their marks in public places that feel enchanted. This is one of them:
I might have liked the way this red car door looked better before someone(s) took their own paint to it, but there’s something mystical about the swirls and arrows and numbers and scribbles here now that enchant me.
The compulsion people have to write on things where they’re not supposed to. Leaving intentionally vague or coded messages right out in the open. Saying something about themselves you would never hear them say out loud, if you were to ever notice them existing at all. Passing notes to strangers you will never speak to.
It’s not my style of pleasure writing, but I do perceive some of it with pleasure. The composition of this one and its contrasting colors strike me as perfect. The scrawled shapes the same color as the pinstripes. It is gorgeous down to the rust and the fir needles hanging against it, both living and dead.
