A Picture

Drawing, tracing a figure with a fingernail

scraping against the pavement as the mid-day sun beats

down on the street, radiating from every surface and evaporating

every drop of moisture from the skin of his brow

having already produced beads of sweat resembling

raindrops collected on a leaf.

He feels the pressure on his finger, the subtle scraping

of his nail as it slowly fractures and turns to dust against

the coarse top of the black surface, dragged like a stick

in the sand along the beach, taunting the tide to wash it away.

He saw the movement of legs and skirts and pants and briefcases

and bicycles and cars and dogs as they moved past him.

They moved and he remained still.

As he slowly draws circles and squares and

triangles to create his figures his cuticles catch the surface

ripping the skin from his finger and creating

specks of blood that draw contrast as the red

blots of his life mix with the white trail

of flakes that represent his solid mass.

He felt the skin under his nail catch the pavement and stopped

and thrust his finger into his mouth and tasted the blood as it trickled

slowly on his tongue. He touched the raw skin with his tongue

and felt the smooth yet raw skin that tinged with pain

as his tongue brush against it passing along to find the pain.

He touched the injured finger to his lower teeth, slowly feeling

the wet, slippery ridges that existed on ivory that was so strong.

He looked to the sky and stared at the sun which had revoked any sense

of relief simply with its presence. It touched the beads of sweat on

his brow and stung his eyes as he stared directly at this white beacon.

He stood, feeling the pull of the muscles in his legs and the creaking

of his knees as he rose above the ground and looked down upon

the pavement that had become his canvas. He looked down

to the pavement and saw the collection of circles and squares

and triangles and he saw the world. He saw humanity he saw

his soul he saw lives of those around him and of those who

had walked passed him as he created this picture, some not noticing

him others dismissing him as crazy or homeless or a runaway or

a junkie or a poor artist. He looked down and saw the world.

©2012. All rights reserved.

A Brief Note On Used Books

Over the past eight years or so I've discovered the power of literature. Sure, there were a few books I enjoyed as a kid, even a few required reading selections that I actually read cover to cover in high school. It's been rather recent, however, that I've come to appreciate the effectiveness of the written word.

This morning, I was perusing the shelves of one of my favorite book stores, Barner Books in New Paltz. What I enjoy about Barner Books is that they carry just about everything, including rare publishings and an awesome selection of used books at great prices. Whereas stores like Borders or Barnes & Noble have all of their books itemized and categorized as uniformly as possible, the uniqueness of Barner is that sometimes you have to really dig for the good stuff. 

There are a few special characteristics of used books: First, they're already broken in. While many people enjoy breaking in a brand new book and watching it age, why let a perfectly good, easy to handle used book go to waste? Also, older books may be earlier editions, meaning they may be more rare, or could have some unique quirks in the printing that required additional editions. Secondly, used books belonged to someone else at some point. While this is obvious, most people tend to leave traces of themselves in or on their belongings. With enough searching, you may find a book that contains a love note, an old laundry list, a bookmark, or some other hint of humanity.

I say this because as I was in Barner Books today, I purchased a used copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha. I've always meant to read the book, but have only recently remembered to pick it up when I had the chance. To my surprise, the book was only $4, which in my eyes is a price that you cannot pass up. What made the book special was an inscription on the title page. As I mentioned above, the hints and markings of humanity are often what make objects more valuable - they have history. The inscription reads,

"Michele, 

I hope that you will read this with a seeking eye, because I feel it has much to offer, and is a root in a common search for the more meaningful aspects of life. 

I hope it will mean as much to you as it has to me.

Love, 

Bernard

2/4/71"

Not only did this book mean something to Bernard, and quite possibly Michele, but now this allows a connection between these two people and myself, whether they are alive or not. We will experience the same words, the same pages, the same paper. 

We often times overlook the simple connections that we humans have with each other. While this idea may not mean anything to you, it is a wondrous thing to allow yourself to imagine the lives of others. While the words in this book may have had different effects on Bernard and Michele, and that I may also have my own experience, we are participating in the ongoing cycle of how one is affected by literature.