Tuesday, March 07, 2006
I tried to talk to him once
When does the shift happen?
When do you stop caring?
It was 9 o'clock in the morning when I tried to talk to him.
I'd seen him once before, late last spring, pushing a child's wheelchair down Parliament Street. It was entwined with fake flowers, a radio blaring classical music carefully tied to the front, and he was wearing a heavy jacket.
But it was 9 o'clock in the morning when I tried to talk to him, and it was late fall.
"Good evening," he warbled to me sincerely, the left side of his head matted with grey dreads. I guess my question had been answered.
But it still left me wondering: does that makes the "art" any less valuable? And more importantly, who is really the crazy one? After all, I'm the one taking the pictures and trying to talk to him at 9 o'clock on a cold fall morning.
I used to take comfort in the crickets behind my house, when I was trying to go to sleep. Now, nothing makes me happier than the rumble of the streetcar late at night as it turns the corner and my entire wall vibrates.
Posted by Jess at 8:10 PM