Separating true from false

JEANETTE RICHARDSON Artist/Vendor

Many wars began because of harmful lies, you should learn to detect them and reject them. Let thankfulness and trust be your guide through these days. Take care of the Earth, the planet deserves our respect. Climate change is real, we must acknowledge that our action affects the planet. Be true.

FREDERIC JOHN

Artist/Vendor

Hallowe’en time, 1989. The chill dusk and the faltering street lamps vie for dominance. More pronounced are the fluttering wheezings of circles of dry leaves — desiccated and umber as shreds of dead skin. A scraping sound on the pitted concrete turns out to be sneakered feet.

I’m bent forward, my head buried in a tattered hoodie. My shivering is from more than the icy air. Who is that bearing down on me?

The heart stops abruptly — I imagine an irregular shiv-blade drawing across my gullet. My step freezes. I half emerge from the hollow of my pullover jacket. A bone-thin figure, struggling with an oversized paper sack, lurches past me. Not glancing sideways, thanks God.

In the sallow light, the “Boys Baptist Academy” looms overhead. Clad in a creepy “perma-stone” front, the old villa retains only bits of its original Victorian grandeur: eyelid hood molds over windows, jagged stepped cornices; two narrow Addams Family-style blind-arched doors. One incandescent bulb flickers. Otherwise, silence.

Down by the juncture of Vermont and Thirteenth sits the pooled darkness of Logan Circle proper. At one end is the “Cadillac,” a mansion turned bordello since before World War II! Across the oval lies a bulging double monstrosity that could have been thrown up by old General Logan himself, or his buddy U.S. Grant!

At this point, as the slumping skinny dude drew back and gulped a pinkish liquid from the rumpled paper sack, I resumed my sliding gait, jawwalked in the near-dark, and made it to a vacant bench ‘round General Logan’s crusted copper-green equestrian statue.

I used to like my friend’s sister Vicky (I was in love with her, she was very cute. I would have married her. We also were very good friends. I would always give her what she wanted. I used to dress clean and appropriate — I wore fine clothes). My only sister was also named Vicky and I loved the hell out of her. She was taken from me when I was 3 years old. I wish to God I can see her before I leave this earth, then I can rest in peace. My mother only had the two of us.

I cannot judge people and they cannot judge me. Some people can be very nasty, even me, I can be nasty to Mom or I can be nice. The longest I’ve been clean from drugs in my life was 17 months. I was proud of myself. I can only thank God for that. It was hard for me to break things down in my life and I ask God to help me. He’s the only being above this world that can save me, no one else. I thank the good people in this world who support me and also Street Sense for being by my side. They understand what I’m going through in life. Until next time!

COREY SANDERS

Artist/Vendor

Dancing in the dark, radio playing, in the car but not moving. I would go to see what’s wrong but $50 is too much for me to lose. My main mission right now is for me to improve, but folks at the missionary said I’m not focused and doing too much grooving.

Now, I’m selling papers at Street Sense. I could see my life going far with the money I make here. I might get a Cadillac car. Okay, maybe I’m pushing it. But I know with my Metro card I can afford the red line. But there’s nothing wrong with me dreaming of flying that Boeing 747 airline.

Dear donors, roses are red, violets are blue, I am sorry I missed ya’ll on Valentine’s Day, but here’s my love to all of you.

I drew my arms tightly around my achey frame. I folded back my legs up into the slat seat. Fatigue consumed me. As I dozed thankful I had no Miller beer left to chug, and murmured, “Definitely, I’ve experienced some genuine LOGAN DREAD!”

The irony of being like a speck of neglected human detritus framed by the Baroque ghostliness of Logan picture-frame residences — well, it was beyond my wearied perception. Miraculously, I awoke unscathed on my bench, groped my way back to the kitchen of Help House, and inhaled two bowls of Smate Bean. In the early a.m., I awoke on linoleum, beneath the slab table. I returned by morning light, armed with a spare pair of ox-blood loafers, which I sold to an old man for $3.00 —- enough for six ponies of Miller.