Painted Ladies - a short story

Painted Ladies 

While on vacation in the city by the bay, I turned the corner and there it was! A row of houses, each painted in different colors from hues of purple, red, yellow, blue and green -- as if they were different people with their own life experiences. Their own ancestry. Their own culture. Yet, they were the same. The same as the focused university student just a few blocks away at The Mill who enjoyed her coffee and pastry the same as the retired gentleman who held his granddaughter with a similar passion. The same as the gruff opinionated homeless veteran alone in the crowded coffee house, and the well-dressed business woman intent on leaving if her beverage was not finished by her standard of two minutes as indicated by two fingers forming a "V" -- but not for peace.

A row of houses each filled with history -- like the rows of tables filled. Filled with dreams -- fulfilled and lost, planned and forgotten. Yet at the same time, unable to erase memories. Foundations of imagination. But I was stranded in a circular thought, like circling the block. I thought it should be renamed Writers Block. But last night, in the comfort of my own home, my wife Clarity lovingly urged me to consider it's not my surroundings necessarily in need of change.

After soaking in the last drops of coffee I scribbled down the street with a pen held by a hand living in the land of freedom. A liberty unprecedented, but blocked by a blank page. Blocked by various degrees of cowardice; or was it something else? Everyone held their own pen. Every home protecting their own.  We lived across the park for years, but I did not know the name of a single neighbor. I presumed they did not know mine.Across Alamo Square Park stood the row of Painted Ladies, with the city in the background -- like the strangers in a coffee shop, with their respective day on the forefront of their minds. I crossed the street, walked up the steps to the door. A door with a blank stare -- which should have developed into a nod or greeting. This was a repeated occurrence, door after door. Frustrated at the threshold of a lost original thought. A thought to be formed somewhere in the living rooms of tomorrow. My page yearned to expand.

But was kindness on vacation? Curious if my self-imposed dilemma added to the regretful repetition previously encountered, I stumbled back to the coffee house. One block at a time. One table at a time. Not in step like a drunkard, but absent in word. A repeated occurrence, table after table. Yes -- there I was! On Writers Block, a neighborhood of various colors filled with experiences, and experiences filled with various colors. If only I had the courage to knock.

~

Partly inspired by the poem entitled, Writers Block.