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Photo of a doorway on West Main. The leaves build up every year, the light burns on constantly, people pass to and fro to restaurants, night spots, sort of blowing up and down the street. The ivy had once grown in a pattern above the door, the work of some past business. Lots of businesses have popped up in the cracks, faded, disappeared.
I began the exposure, and a man rides up on his bike and stops. He hands me a worn notebook with a page of beautiful script, each swirl and flourish precisely the same on the page. It gives his name, says that he has been deaf since birth, so he can’t speak, and that his family could use some help. I give him some bucks, we shake hands, and he rides off. He has a good vibe about him.
I like West Main. It always has been something in between something else.
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