Everywhere I go, I bring this green book with blank pages along with me and lately I have been writing in it entirely random encounters and observations I experience when going about my day. Some of them are kind of interesting, and since my writing lately has really taken off in a practice kind of way, I think it would be interesting to share them, to encourage me to do it more.
A bearded old man wearing huge blue sunglasses plays an acoustic guitar in the auditorium park blocks. It’s raining. He wears a short-sleeved shirt. He dances in circles as he plays fast simple chords in a chaotic melody. Perhaps that’s why he is managing to stay warm in the rain. Or perhaps he simply enjoys the feel of the rain hitting him as he spins around. He is just an old man doin’ what he loves, and being happy about it: playing the guitar while spinning in circles. Three children in different colored jackets and different ethnicities dance near him, using their different colored (closed) umbrellas like a Broadway show. The scene makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
A young man gets on the number 10 bus on my way to school, at the Reed stop. He has very stylish, wavy black hair and a torn denim jacket and black torn skinny jeans with a chain connected from the wallet in his pocket to a belt loop. I can’t hear it, but he talks very sincerely to the bus driver and then turns around sullenly and gets off the bus. As he walks up the street, he flips his middle finger up backwards without looking back. Seeing the poor ragamuffin makes me want to throw $3 out the window for him. The bus driver is the same one who drives me to school every time I leave at 10:30. Everyday he barely looks at me as I get on the bus, barely acknowledging that his passengers are people, zonking out as he shoves his bus along. Although, if the ragamuffin wanted fair treatment, he might not want to dress in a street-punk-probably-steals-lunch-money-from-first-graders kind of way. Ah, moral dilemmas…
As I walk to Japanese class, I notice a girl with frizzy auburn hair stop and bend down in the middle of the street. When she comes back up, I see she is holding a kneaded eraser. She kneads it in her hand for a few seconds, still standing in the middle of the road, then smiles and stuffs the thing in her pocket as she continues on her way….Portland…
Zoned out and watching life from my seat on the train, I notice a boy with an art portfolio that looks like mine hurry his way up to the parking lot of the Division platform. He reaches the long set of stairs from the platform to the parking lot. The stairs are divided in two by a railing. As the boy takes a few steps up the stairs, he suddenly stops and stares at the woman ahead of him. She is fat and staring down at her mobile device, taking each step as slowly as possible. The boy analyzes the situation, then turns back, bolts quickly down, and runs up the other side of the stairs, taking two at a time. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. I am a bad person sometimes…
In poetry class. I notice, across the classroom, a fresh-out-of-high-school African-American girl sitting among a group of three old, white hair and wrinkles, Caucasian men. I assume they are discussing the poetry readings. The old men nodding and responding in agreement with what the girl says, and her vice versa. The scene is particularly nice. It shouldn’t be, but it is. Perhaps I have subconscious beliefs that all white old men are racist and all young people hate listening/talking to old people?
Next bunch of tidbits here.