Beautiful Stranger
The giant Christmas Tree in Martin Place has divided the thoroughfare between George and Pitt Streets in twain (I love that word - twain) and the usual chaotic traffic of criss-crossing pedestrians have been forced into the order of two distinct lanes. But this only lasts for about twenty metres.
As I keep walking towards my bus stop I see a beggar on the side of the Colonial building. There are at least a dozen suits walking out of their impressive doors, giving no notice to the man that they are passing. He holds his sign up towards the heavens, whilst his body slouches down towards the ground. It read:
Please help
I am in need of food, home
And hope
Or words to that effect.
As I drew closer to the man, a lady approached him. Her hair was pulled back in a neat and respectable manner. She clutched a Country Road folio and her suit covered her body in a way that only a good suit can. She began speaking to him in hushed tones and within a minute, sat down on the ground beside him to listen to his story.
I took a seat from a distance and watched the conversation unfold.
He would flail his arms in a frenzy, and I was convinced that he would conjure the whirlwind of unfortunate events that he had encountered into an image before her. He kept looking towards the sky and shied away from her eyes. He played with his cardboard sign with great unease and relief, a nervous yet comforting twitch, like biting one's nails.
She sat there on the ground and listened. She nodded. She asked questions. She cared.
After fifteen minutes she stood to say goodbye, shook his hand and walked off. His money box was left empty, but from the look on his face it was as clear as the sky that day that what she did was worth more than bills of plastic and pieces of silver and gold.
Brilliant - A Forward
According to a news report, a certain private school in Perth was recently faced with a unique problem. A number of 12-year-old girls were beginning to use lipstick and would put it on in the bathroom. That was fine, but after they put on their lipstick they would press their lips to the mirror leaving dozens of little lip prints. Every night the janitor would remove them and the next day the girls would put them back.
Finally the principal decided that something had to be done. She called all the girls to the bathroom and met them there with the janitor. She explained that all these lip prints were causing a major problem for the custodian who had to clean the mirrors every night. To demonstrate how difficult it had been to clean the mirrors, she asked the janitor to show the girls how much effort was required. He took out a long-handled squeegee, dipped it in the toilet, and cleaned the mirror with it.
Since then, there have been no lip prints on the mirror.
According to a news report, a certain private school in Perth was recently faced with a unique problem. A number of 12-year-old girls were beginning to use lipstick and would put it on in the bathroom. That was fine, but after they put on their lipstick they would press their lips to the mirror leaving dozens of little lip prints. Every night the janitor would remove them and the next day the girls would put them back.
Finally the principal decided that something had to be done. She called all the girls to the bathroom and met them there with the janitor. She explained that all these lip prints were causing a major problem for the custodian who had to clean the mirrors every night. To demonstrate how difficult it had been to clean the mirrors, she asked the janitor to show the girls how much effort was required. He took out a long-handled squeegee, dipped it in the toilet, and cleaned the mirror with it.
Since then, there have been no lip prints on the mirror.
The Journeyman In The Kitchen
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
The rug beside him is worn and tattered, covered with dust and dirt from all the feet that have passed it in its short and forgettable life. There is a drum kit, too, in the room, and the Journeyman begins to wonder how such an instrument could be at home in a kitchen. The fridge hummed consistently in the other corner, its head adorned with cereal boxes and miscellaneous muesli bars. A few days' worth of dishes were piled neatly near the low-lying sink, and the benchtop was of a fiery, orange hue. The Journeyman could already envision placing a few mandarins on the benchtop just to watch them fade into the background.
Amusement can be found in any situation, if you try.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
His face is worn and weary, like those of young soldiers sent to a mad war. Or those who had seen too much, too quickly. Or those who had lost hope. Or those who had no homes.
He tells me that airports were everything he knew in life. And that it was in between transit (ie, his current situation) that he felt most vulnerable, alone, useless, and scared.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home. He is waiting for the next journey.
You can tell that flight was the only thing he lived for. Heathrow, Kingsford-Smith, JFK, Changai - these were the names he had grown familiar and accustomed with, as we do street signs and landmarks in our neighbourhood. He felt a sense of friendship with the luggage-handlers, customs officials and organised stewardesses who shook his hand in the streets. To the Journeyman, home was only a flight away.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home. He is waiting for the next journey. The Journeyman does not object as I study him.
I envy his lifestyle because it bears the promise that tomorrow is different. Tomorrow I am surrounded with the stifling humidity of a South-East Asian monsoon day. Tomorrow I am greeted with the unpredictability of London showers. Tomorrow I am hurried by the crowd of the world's metropolis - New York. Tomorrow I am saying 'Ta' to the relaxed officials at Mascot.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, staring back at me. I question him.
Do you envy me? Don't you wish you had the comfort that a home can bring? That you had roots like a grand oak or even a simple palm tree? That you too were a tree, and not a leaf whose fate was subject to the occasion of a seasonal wind?
The empty suitcase sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
I sit in the corner, observing my new, temporary home.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
The rug beside him is worn and tattered, covered with dust and dirt from all the feet that have passed it in its short and forgettable life. There is a drum kit, too, in the room, and the Journeyman begins to wonder how such an instrument could be at home in a kitchen. The fridge hummed consistently in the other corner, its head adorned with cereal boxes and miscellaneous muesli bars. A few days' worth of dishes were piled neatly near the low-lying sink, and the benchtop was of a fiery, orange hue. The Journeyman could already envision placing a few mandarins on the benchtop just to watch them fade into the background.
Amusement can be found in any situation, if you try.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
His face is worn and weary, like those of young soldiers sent to a mad war. Or those who had seen too much, too quickly. Or those who had lost hope. Or those who had no homes.
He tells me that airports were everything he knew in life. And that it was in between transit (ie, his current situation) that he felt most vulnerable, alone, useless, and scared.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home. He is waiting for the next journey.
You can tell that flight was the only thing he lived for. Heathrow, Kingsford-Smith, JFK, Changai - these were the names he had grown familiar and accustomed with, as we do street signs and landmarks in our neighbourhood. He felt a sense of friendship with the luggage-handlers, customs officials and organised stewardesses who shook his hand in the streets. To the Journeyman, home was only a flight away.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home. He is waiting for the next journey. The Journeyman does not object as I study him.
I envy his lifestyle because it bears the promise that tomorrow is different. Tomorrow I am surrounded with the stifling humidity of a South-East Asian monsoon day. Tomorrow I am greeted with the unpredictability of London showers. Tomorrow I am hurried by the crowd of the world's metropolis - New York. Tomorrow I am saying 'Ta' to the relaxed officials at Mascot.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, staring back at me. I question him.
Do you envy me? Don't you wish you had the comfort that a home can bring? That you had roots like a grand oak or even a simple palm tree? That you too were a tree, and not a leaf whose fate was subject to the occasion of a seasonal wind?
The empty suitcase sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
I sit in the corner, observing my new, temporary home.
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