|
|
Why are the best things in art and life so hard to find? I sometimes wonder if I am to look. Some days I will walk, my laces untied, my stringy-ripped jeans, my unshaved face, and I will have this desire to look, look for what you might ask, look for the questions or the answers of this day, maybe.
But you know what I have found thus far? It is when I am walking slow, when I am not looking, when the space before me will crack. When a happening is born into the history of my life. When the unexpected snaps its fingers in my ears and I am faced with a choice. I have many stories to tell of this. I will share one.
One day I was going to class, passing the bodegas, the breakfast cafes, the pigeons on the slanted roofs, when out of nowhere a heavy-set man in his 40s, turned toward me and said, "Do you know of any underground movie makers?"
I thought about it for a moment. Sometimes you have to step back and second-guess if what is happening is truly happening, or is it an illusion, or lyrics from some song coming to life before you. But no, it wasn't. It was real.
He appeared helpless. A ripped gray shirt. Greasy gray hair. His back a little hunched. I told him I wasn't in the Art of making movies, and that I was sorry I didn't know anyone for him to correspond with. He understood.
But then I asked myself, why would someone ask me that? So I couldn't let it end there, you know? How could one let it end there? Why would this happen? So I refused to take a step on my way because somehow, in someway, I needed to hear this man's voice.
So I said, "Why are you looking for someone in the underground movie making business?" ( I had no idea what that was.) He said, "I have an idea. I want to make a sleezy horror film - blood and violence sells." He sighed. Looked down at the sidewalk where the ants crawled and where the scratched lotto tickets lay.
He then told me about his life. His current status. His mother and father had just died. He moved in with his sister and her husband. After a week or so, they decided he couldn't stay with them any longer. He then was on the streets, using the pay phones with gang signs and beer cans on them to contact the welfare agencies, so that he could arrange some miracle. I don't know the specifics; I don't think I need to anyway. He then told me that he was living with an artist in this house that has a spray painted golden door. A house or a group home, I'm not sure. But a golden door? What could that mean? Maybe nothing. Somehow it worked out for him. His name was Bill.
When he approached me he had a Cable Box in a Shop Right bag and said that he had to return it because he couldn't afford it. It was strange, though. It looked like it was missing pieces and the plastic on the wires was torn. After all of this, he told me, "I believe in Jesus ... I believe He is my hope." He sighed again, but then looked up towards the sky, a spotless sky it was, and managed a smile.
To this day I replay this occurrence. To this day I see him on his porch where sick people walk in and out, addicts and prostitutes. I look over and he waves his hand. And I say to myself, this is my fellow man. And I say to myself now, I must speak to this man again. Though he may be a stranger, he has something to say, and I must listen. And if I can do something, then I will check myself, my soul, and act.
|
1
Tags
You must be logged in to add tags.
|
Writer Profile
Daniel Brophy
Homelessness. Poverty. Hunger. Men under bridges with rain dripping on their scruffy faces.
Every day I am exposed to these tragedies. I can't help but to address them, somehow. But in them, in the corners, in the cracks of the paint, or on the walls in graffiti, their is some message of hope for the viewer. I guess what I want to say is this - in our darkest most depressing of times, there is hope, we just have to find it, to look at our life, to listen to it, and find it.
|
Comments
You must be a TakingITGlobal member to post a comment. Sign up for free or login.
|
|
