TakingITGlobal - Panorama

Published on: Nov 15, 2005

Topic:

Type: Short Stories

https://www.tigweb.org/express/panorama/article.html?ContentID=6589

The hour is near. You know – the hour when behind the black branches the sparrows fly into the gray sky, landing on the dripping telephone wires above, crumbs and worms and gummy bears in their mouths, and myself there sitting, thinking, ‘what am I to do this day, what am I to do with my life, where is this life going?’

Sometimes you just feel like an unpeeled orange on the ground, or a slice of half-eaten pizza left behind in saw dust at a construction site; sometimes you even question if you are alive, or if the world is alive. But anyhow, I continue to look at this world, to look at it in terms of line and color and darkness and light and hope and love, the man next to me on the bench saying, "What are you drawing there, it looks like a stage-set." I reply, "Just a drawing."

Walking to classes today, I had in my hands a portfolio of some of my drawings and my drawing box, and my book bag on my back. At first I felt the weight crushing me, pulling me down, but as I became preoccupied with the faces before me, and the expressions on them, the pain ceased. Every day of the week I walk this stretch of road to go study, and sometimes I can't help but think that it will be this stretch of road that will become the focus of my urban studies.

The people that live on it – those ghostly faces staring out at me from their rugged porches, the pizza man throwing up his dough, the sagging eyes looking down from their apartment windows. I ask myself, what do these people believe? I shouldn't categorize them as a whole. Who are they individually? What are their philosophies? What do they dream about at night, or can they even dream because of the horn of the train every half hour?

I found a young girl’s letter on the ground; she was writing to herself about the disasters that happen in the world, about the Tsunami and Katrina and the tornadoes in Kansas. She said she was glad that New Jersey rarely gets hit by any natural disasters, but that she was sad about those who weren't so lucky. How did that letter end up on the ground?

The feeling of art around my body. What will I create on this new day, who will I see? I saw an old woman with a white blouse and blue shorts and flip flops, sitting in a lawn chair on a street corner in the shade of a car dealership, with bug spray at her feet and wearing funky glasses, and I don't even have to ask myself if this woman is a painting; she is a painting, she is all things one can be on that one street corner, all things beautiful I mean, and the whole world I see takes a deep breath before and after looking her way. She has that appearance of an angel, or of someone who knows something no one else knows or will never know.

I wrote down on paper, "aRt iS . . ." and I then handed it to a stranger sitting down on the bench. His name was Carmillo and he wrote down ". . . Love." Can you believe this miracle? He wrote "aRt is ... LOVE." Then he took the paper again and wrote, ". . . vision in a dream." Carmillo then told me about an artist who got into a car wreck and lost his colors, not his limbs or his brain, but his colors. Carmillo said this artist was never the same, everything appeared in black and white. I thought how tragic that is, and then I thought at least he didn't lose his line. I hope this artist finds his colors again.

At the train station tonight I saw a man in his 40s, from Africa he was, at one time a professional soccer player in Europe, he told me. I sat beside him and I asked him, "How are you?" He looks up, his teeth bleeding a little, his eyes swollen, his one bag in his grip. He said to me, "I don't feel like talkin’ to Nobody." So I sat back. And then he started talking to me.

He seemed very sad over something. He told me that one of his bags was stolen from him as he slept on a bench in the city. He said that people are ignorant and will steal anything and that I should always hold on to my bag as tightly as I can. He expressed his anguish and hurt. He told me that he had 28 children in Bristol, England, and that if I ever went there, they would give me lodging and care for me.

With the trains whooshing by and his accent it was hard to pick up everything he said, but he did say something to me and one can't help but to replay a stranger's words over and over. I asked him his name, and he said if we were meant for us to see each other again, he would tell me then. The train arrived and I said, “well, my name is Daniel.” He smiled and said, “well, my name is Patrick.”

« return.



by Daniel Brophy
Published on: Nov 15, 2005
Topic:
Type: Short Stories
https://www.tigweb.org/express/panorama/article.html?ContentID=6589


The hour is near. You know – the hour when behind the black branches the sparrows fly into the gray sky, landing on the dripping telephone wires above, crumbs and worms and gummy bears in their mouths, and myself there sitting, thinking, ‘what am I to do this day, what am I to do with my life, where is this life going?’ Sometimes you just feel like an unpeeled orange on the ground, or a slice of half-eaten pizza left behind in saw dust at a construction site; sometimes you even question if you are alive, or if the world is alive. But anyhow, I continue to look at this world, to look at it in terms of line and color and darkness and light and hope and love, the man next to me on the bench saying, "What are you drawing there, it looks like a stage-set." I reply, "Just a drawing." Walking to classes today, I had in my hands a portfolio of some of my drawings and my drawing box, and my book bag on my back. At first I felt the weight crushing me, pulling me down, but as I became preoccupied with the faces before me, and the expressions on them, the pain ceased. Every day of the week I walk this stretch of road to go study, and sometimes I can't help but think that it will be this stretch of road that will become the focus of my urban studies. The people that live on it – those ghostly faces staring out at me from their rugged porches, the pizza man throwing up his dough, the sagging eyes looking down from their apartment windows. I ask myself, what do these people believe? I shouldn't categorize them as a whole. Who are they individually? What are their philosophies? What do they dream about at night, or can they even dream because of the horn of the train every half hour? I found a young girl’s letter on the ground; she was writing to herself about the disasters that happen in the world, about the Tsunami and Katrina and the tornadoes in Kansas. She said she was glad that New Jersey rarely gets hit by any natural disasters, but that she was sad about those who weren't so lucky. How did that letter end up on the ground? The feeling of art around my body. What will I create on this new day, who will I see? I saw an old woman with a white blouse and blue shorts and flip flops, sitting in a lawn chair on a street corner in the shade of a car dealership, with bug spray at her feet and wearing funky glasses, and I don't even have to ask myself if this woman is a painting; she is a painting, she is all things one can be on that one street corner, all things beautiful I mean, and the whole world I see takes a deep breath before and after looking her way. She has that appearance of an angel, or of someone who knows something no one else knows or will never know. I wrote down on paper, "aRt iS . . ." and I then handed it to a stranger sitting down on the bench. His name was Carmillo and he wrote down ". . . Love." Can you believe this miracle? He wrote "aRt is ... LOVE." Then he took the paper again and wrote, ". . . vision in a dream." Carmillo then told me about an artist who got into a car wreck and lost his colors, not his limbs or his brain, but his colors. Carmillo said this artist was never the same, everything appeared in black and white. I thought how tragic that is, and then I thought at least he didn't lose his line. I hope this artist finds his colors again. At the train station tonight I saw a man in his 40s, from Africa he was, at one time a professional soccer player in Europe, he told me. I sat beside him and I asked him, "How are you?" He looks up, his teeth bleeding a little, his eyes swollen, his one bag in his grip. He said to me, "I don't feel like talkin’ to Nobody." So I sat back. And then he started talking to me. He seemed very sad over something. He told me that one of his bags was stolen from him as he slept on a bench in the city. He said that people are ignorant and will steal anything and that I should always hold on to my bag as tightly as I can. He expressed his anguish and hurt. He told me that he had 28 children in Bristol, England, and that if I ever went there, they would give me lodging and care for me. With the trains whooshing by and his accent it was hard to pick up everything he said, but he did say something to me and one can't help but to replay a stranger's words over and over. I asked him his name, and he said if we were meant for us to see each other again, he would tell me then. The train arrived and I said, “well, my name is Daniel.” He smiled and said, “well, my name is Patrick.” « return.