It seems like – we can’t forget those who planned this city. Crafted and drafted it with eyes and hands focused and reaching out with anticipation for this very moment now. Where we’ve fledged and flown from the first dry blue prints, inking translation from script into built reality like bleeding stones to build each plotted precocious home. Ahead of time, along the the highway, straight skyway pointing spine of the road-planner’s organism. The Cartographer’s concepts condensed and constructed – finally – now we are in the imagineer’s eutopia. Roads slightly wider, less wilder, tress pleasingly planted and parks. So there’s less chaos perhaps. More satisfaction of geometric, angles and fractions. No nervous tick. For those who like symetry and paths without tricks.
In other towns. Sometimes there are aspects. of this. An half a suburb, crawled and curbed by vision and hands curtaled and courted by plans. Streets, lit by measured widths of street lights flicking out against stary nights. Sometimes the feel that the streets have been re-ruled, a new vision as the city is tailored to the eye of its new heir. Buildings established with pride and care, to stand proudly as a pilar of fresh thoughtful industrious air.
As you head north, along the coast, sometimes the feel that these arms of the suburban animal lurch and wheele. Nights become milder, the plans wilder.