It's one week now that we are here, on Lanzarote island. The weather is still good. In the next days, there might be some clouds, but also sun. And the internet is back! It was down since Monday evening, a reminder to take nothing for granted. So here's the next post, inspired by the current photofriday theme "Street Scenes".
The photo on top is my favourite street here, when it comes to street names: Avenida de los Volcanoes - Vulcanoe Avenue.
And from the files, another interesting street scene: Sokrates lives here.
Being offline had a good side effect, or maybe it was just a coincidence in time - but this morning I thought about one of my resolutions for this year, to revisit stories I have written. And an idea surfaced, one that is so simple that I wonder why I didn't think of it before:
Each week, I like the way the new photofriday theme makes me go and look for that theme, either in a new photo, or in my photo files. And following those themes, I might simply switch folder, and look for a fitting story. So the revisiting would have a fixed place and theme.
Here's the one for this week, for "Street Scene".
I still remember how that story happened, in winter, while driving and musing, and seeing those scenes along the way:
Cars going. Cars coming. Cars whizzing through the night, in endless streams, forming a line of red leading inwards, a line of white leading outwards. On the side of a four lane road, a house with three towers and silver roof, fully alit, shining like an ufo that fell from the sky. The door, wide open. But no one there, at the door, in the rooms behind the countless windows. A life size still life.
In town, mazes of metal, of stone. Two yellow buses crossing on a bridge, in the very moment the traffic light underneath them turns green. Three trees on the left side, remnants of the time before asphalt. Prisoners of the city, they are. There is no way out for them, not to the left, not to the right. So they stand. Reaching for the sky with their black arms.
At the train station, a sign saying Agra. As if it was close. As if it wasn't two continents away. Between a media maxistore and a company called clockhouse: a plastic half moon, dangling in the air, accompanied by pink and green stars.
At a crossing, a woman in a long white coat. On the other side of the street, a guy in an orange jacket. Maybe their eyes will meet, for a moment, while they cross to the other side. Maybe we all met, somewhere, in between streets.