If one doesn't drive north of Lambert, east of Pantano, west of I-10, or south of Barrazo-Aviation highway/Broadway or Speedway, one doesn't really understand how close to the essence of Tucson the inhabited portions of The City are. The Fearful are too busy ignoring their lot, being messy, being normal, being human. The City's truth gets covered by what might laughingly be called 'civilization.'
These things, ideas, of being normal, being civilized, they are imaginary in the face of Tucson. Even inside the perimeter outlined here, Tucson shows through the cracks in humanity.
During off traffic hours, one might think that the city has been abandoned. Empty roads, cracked and decaying, emanate sullenness and quiet horror, especially when the marks of the sausage creature are present. Some great travesty might have taken place, robbing thousands of their lives. Truly, such is the state of being in The Hive sections, very nearly literally.
The very houses themselves look as though they have lost all hope. Shabby and slumping, they sit dark and gloomy. The feeling is often magnified when the people who own the things inside the houses come and go, or play in the street with the other children of adults who own the things in the other houses. The weeds choking these yards give a quaint touch of despondency. I cannot call them homes. The Fearful have no homes, because their life in Tucson is only ever temporary. "Houses," they call their domiciles. Never "home." Never home.
These things, ideas, of being normal, being civilized, they are imaginary in the face of Tucson. Even inside the perimeter outlined here, Tucson shows through the cracks in humanity.
During off traffic hours, one might think that the city has been abandoned. Empty roads, cracked and decaying, emanate sullenness and quiet horror, especially when the marks of the sausage creature are present. Some great travesty might have taken place, robbing thousands of their lives. Truly, such is the state of being in The Hive sections, very nearly literally.
The very houses themselves look as though they have lost all hope. Shabby and slumping, they sit dark and gloomy. The feeling is often magnified when the people who own the things inside the houses come and go, or play in the street with the other children of adults who own the things in the other houses. The weeds choking these yards give a quaint touch of despondency. I cannot call them homes. The Fearful have no homes, because their life in Tucson is only ever temporary. "Houses," they call their domiciles. Never "home." Never home.