November 19, 2005
Passing seasons
By the time I was walking home the streets were dark as if it has always been night. I had forgotten the pleasure of cold winter evenings, where everyone huddles indoors, grateful for warmth and diversions that did not involve being out in the cold. Only on nights like these that one could peer into the private living rooms and bedrooms of private lives, be quietly astounded at how life ticks away like a clock. The snow-silenced streets induced a kind of calm; the cars were stealthy, the people apologetic. These are the days we would eventually forget.
My writing machine sits atop a chest of drawers to the side. Sometimes I wondered if moving it to the desk would mean that words would come by themselves, but truly, I knew better. It is a thought I continually toy with, staring at it day-in, day-out as I reach for necessary belongings in the wardrobe behind it.
The recent months have been tiring, stifling; every day I see souls stolen by a greater machine. The role of the artist is not only to produce art that simmers inside, but to wield the sword that inspires, lightens, reflects, and enriches. The art that rises from surrounding oneself with the beautiful and the harsh comes easy. But here, here I live in mediocrity and witness the lives of those the world forgets. The quest for a better life is that which imprisons, small things become big things, big things become too big to perceive.
I was looking for wool. For some reason, the shop was low on black balls of wool of the same density. I was trying to decide which I ought to use, when an old woman turned around, frantically searched through her handbag and said, "They've taken my purse."
It wasn't the disbelief in her voice that was gut-wrenching, but something else. She went on and explained hurriedly that she had lost a lot of cash recently when someone had stolen her handbag. At that moment, I spotted something leather-brown, nestling amongst some pale blue balls of wool, so I pointed, "Would that be yours?"
"Oh my!" she exclaimed and thanked me a thousand times over, saying "God bless you!" and then thought better about it and said, "That means you'll have a really good day."
She held out her purse to show me. "See? Feel that? There's a lot of money here. I had just been to the bank."
"Are you sure you should be telling me that?" I smiled at her.
"Oh, I trust you, love," she said, with a careless wave of her hand.
She was a little upset because she couldn't find the right pink wool to finish a hat for her granddaughter. Guessing she might have missed the next aisle, I took her around the other side and showed her that there were more, and again, received a great shower of blessing and thanks. Deep inside, I worried a little about the cliché of a young girl in a future pink hat, but such is the prescribed order of this world.
Posted by sniffles at 11:00 PM | Comments (3)