Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Old Man with Painted Lady
I walked past him, not quickly, but as quick as I could on the crowded bus. There were a lot of people behind me and dawdling was not even an option. But what I saw of him made quite an impression on me: He was old, looked to be up in his 80s. Regardless of his actual age, his body was aged - shriveled, wrinkled, frail-looking. Thin wrists, bony fingers, and hollow cheeks and eyes; his face was a confection of tiny wrinkles; his throat, a clutch of wattles in almost-transparent skin. He wore a thoroughly broken-in denim shirt, well-worn khaki pants; the clothes were sturdy and in good repair but looked rather tired. He also wore a straw hat with a conical crown and a wide round brim turned up at the edges - it called to my mind a field worker’s hat, but quite clean and well-maintained. At his feet was an oil painting, about 18” x 24”, unframed on its wooden stretchers. The painting was a portrait of a woman in middle life, blonde hair fashionably coiffed in the style of a mature woman in the early 1960’s, with clothes to match in style and vintage. She gazed with a distracted look from the canvas, painted with vibrant color, clunky geometricism and thickly-brushed pigment. I could see at once that it was a painting taken from an old photo. She cast her glance up the bus aisle, scoping me out as I shuffled past. He cradled her lovingly in both hands. He was still as a corpse except for his mouth - his tongue and lips twitching convulsively, smacking and licking and pursing and poking silently at the empty air. His eyes were as unfocused as her painted ones. His oral spasms were disturbing to watch. I continued into the bus and stood up the whole way downtown.
And you know what, I found a few final aphorisms from services this year. I like’em so I’m posting them. Nothing can stop me now.
* Don’t worry so much about loving god. See if you can love the person sitting next to you.
* Stravinsky had written a piece with an impossibly difficult violin part. After hours of painful rehearsal, the violinist came to him and said, “I can’t play it, no violinist could - it’s too hard.” Stravinsky replied, “Yes, that’s what I’m going for - the sound of someone trying to play it.”
* The flower is the proof of the existence of the root.
Okay, I really think it’s out of my system now. But I may relapse at any minute. You’ve been warned.
