Storytelling Skills
True Story:
“The Man with the Textured Face”
Soft raindrops trickled down the branches into what some construe as
“The Plaza” located in the heart of downtown Petaluma. In the far left-hand
corner, silently sitting on a park bench wedged in between a tree and a small boutique sat an aged man, staring into the dark abyss that had become of the winter skies. Condensation slowly dripped down his indentured face like a thousand rivers throughout a desert canyon, his skin was the color of rich earth mixed with caramel highlights. His eyes lit with a green glow unlike anything I had ever beheld, capturing all and any poor soul, as to have lost one’s self in the jade jewels set deep within the skeleton-like face, highlighting strong cheekbones, below, a carved and sturdy jaw line, creating shadow and depth.
Quickly scolding myself for staring, I silently returned back to the book that had entranced my attention prior to this latest addition. Skimming the same page what seemed to be a million or so times, I subtly looked above the very rim of my book in order to catch another glimpse of the man that, for some odd reason, captivated my attention so intensely. I gazed further from the face and studied the entire picture. He was sitting in what looked to me to be a rather awkward position, crossing his leg over a bag that looked as if his entire life was contained within its premises. Draped across his bony and brittle skeletal-like shoulders was a black and red plaid blazer, tarnished in the elbows and ends, obviously having lived a long and harsh life. The jacket looked as if it would disintegrate
before my very eyes. He wore long, ebony pants that were tarnished with caked mud and dust, worn in from years of use. His clothes looked as equally worn in as his body, showing years of harsh weather, conditions and other factors that led me to believe that he had led a long and vigorous life.
Not only was the man an interesting spectacle to study, himself, but he seemed to be grasping on to some sort of manuscript or book that I had not the chance to view properly. Moving myself to the left, underneath a tree, I caught a full glimpse of what the man was doing, jerking his hand up and down so violently on that book. Before my very eyes was a complete representation of the woman sitting at the café table a few feet away, drinking coffee. The lines, shapes, and every detail was perfectly represented in what looked to me as an artist’s representation of artistic nirvana. I gazed in complete wonder as his eyes seemed to dissect her entirely, breaking down every form in order to get every detail from the brush of hair across her eyes to the creases in her jeans.
By this time I had moved again, to a different bench, having left to grab a coffee at Deaf Dog, making my observational view even better. I had the bench directly across the lawn. I sat down, opened my bag and took out my book once more in order to conceal my real intent of watching what the man would do next, silently thinking to myself that the man must have once been schooled by some type of art classes or had a history with the very concept that I personally hold incredibly dear. As I sat and wondered, I kept an eye on him as I watched the cars pass by. Every time a car would swish by, a sheet of mist would shoot up from the gutters, attacking any poor passerby who happening to have been thereat the wrong time. The air smelled of alcohol drifting from the nearby bars, steaming coffee from nearby shops, and the surrounding and constant smell of rain dew and wet grass. There was also a particular haze, partly cigarette smoke and fog, that seemed to drift through the alleys into the courtyards, creating a
somewhat dreamlike state of the entire set of circumstances. From a distance I could hear car alarms, thunder and a mixture of nearby voices and the pitter-patter of rain dropping on my face like melted ice crystals, creating intricate designs of liquid across my long overcoat. I then began to study the passer-byers and began to wonder what their lives were like. I wondered if they had warm homes to go back to, if they felt the same cleansing feeling I felt as the rain dripped off their noses, or if they were happy with their lives. After watching people drudge by, doing everything from grumbling to laughing, I soon averted my eyes to something that had not ever happened before. My eyes ascended the thin old man, once again, to find not only him, but also a young man, maybe early thirties speaking softly to the older gentleman. He then gave the older man a sandwich wrapped neatly in a paper sack and brushed off with nothing more to
say.For a time, the old man sat completely still and silent, as always,
examining every last detail of the bag, as if he had no conception of its
contents whatsoever. He sat like that for seemed like an eternity, the wheels going full speed in his tiny, bony, hairless head, scrutinizing over all the details and taking in all his surroundings. He then looked up, slipping the package into his sack and rearranged himself, taking in a full view of his entire surroundings. His eyes then befell onto me, which he then gazed with those emerald eyes,crinkling at the sides as his lips curled into a smile of complete and utter contentment. His eyes then sealed shut completely, and he was asleep. I gave one last look to the man who had taught me about life, the man who had given me insight without a single word. The man with the textured face.
This felt like it fit.
"Life is no cabaret. We dont care what you say. We're inviting you anyway!"
“The Man with the Textured Face”
Soft raindrops trickled down the branches into what some construe as
“The Plaza” located in the heart of downtown Petaluma. In the far left-hand
corner, silently sitting on a park bench wedged in between a tree and a small boutique sat an aged man, staring into the dark abyss that had become of the winter skies. Condensation slowly dripped down his indentured face like a thousand rivers throughout a desert canyon, his skin was the color of rich earth mixed with caramel highlights. His eyes lit with a green glow unlike anything I had ever beheld, capturing all and any poor soul, as to have lost one’s self in the jade jewels set deep within the skeleton-like face, highlighting strong cheekbones, below, a carved and sturdy jaw line, creating shadow and depth.
Quickly scolding myself for staring, I silently returned back to the book that had entranced my attention prior to this latest addition. Skimming the same page what seemed to be a million or so times, I subtly looked above the very rim of my book in order to catch another glimpse of the man that, for some odd reason, captivated my attention so intensely. I gazed further from the face and studied the entire picture. He was sitting in what looked to me to be a rather awkward position, crossing his leg over a bag that looked as if his entire life was contained within its premises. Draped across his bony and brittle skeletal-like shoulders was a black and red plaid blazer, tarnished in the elbows and ends, obviously having lived a long and harsh life. The jacket looked as if it would disintegrate
before my very eyes. He wore long, ebony pants that were tarnished with caked mud and dust, worn in from years of use. His clothes looked as equally worn in as his body, showing years of harsh weather, conditions and other factors that led me to believe that he had led a long and vigorous life.
Not only was the man an interesting spectacle to study, himself, but he seemed to be grasping on to some sort of manuscript or book that I had not the chance to view properly. Moving myself to the left, underneath a tree, I caught a full glimpse of what the man was doing, jerking his hand up and down so violently on that book. Before my very eyes was a complete representation of the woman sitting at the café table a few feet away, drinking coffee. The lines, shapes, and every detail was perfectly represented in what looked to me as an artist’s representation of artistic nirvana. I gazed in complete wonder as his eyes seemed to dissect her entirely, breaking down every form in order to get every detail from the brush of hair across her eyes to the creases in her jeans.
By this time I had moved again, to a different bench, having left to grab a coffee at Deaf Dog, making my observational view even better. I had the bench directly across the lawn. I sat down, opened my bag and took out my book once more in order to conceal my real intent of watching what the man would do next, silently thinking to myself that the man must have once been schooled by some type of art classes or had a history with the very concept that I personally hold incredibly dear. As I sat and wondered, I kept an eye on him as I watched the cars pass by. Every time a car would swish by, a sheet of mist would shoot up from the gutters, attacking any poor passerby who happening to have been thereat the wrong time. The air smelled of alcohol drifting from the nearby bars, steaming coffee from nearby shops, and the surrounding and constant smell of rain dew and wet grass. There was also a particular haze, partly cigarette smoke and fog, that seemed to drift through the alleys into the courtyards, creating a
somewhat dreamlike state of the entire set of circumstances. From a distance I could hear car alarms, thunder and a mixture of nearby voices and the pitter-patter of rain dropping on my face like melted ice crystals, creating intricate designs of liquid across my long overcoat. I then began to study the passer-byers and began to wonder what their lives were like. I wondered if they had warm homes to go back to, if they felt the same cleansing feeling I felt as the rain dripped off their noses, or if they were happy with their lives. After watching people drudge by, doing everything from grumbling to laughing, I soon averted my eyes to something that had not ever happened before. My eyes ascended the thin old man, once again, to find not only him, but also a young man, maybe early thirties speaking softly to the older gentleman. He then gave the older man a sandwich wrapped neatly in a paper sack and brushed off with nothing more to
say.For a time, the old man sat completely still and silent, as always,
examining every last detail of the bag, as if he had no conception of its
contents whatsoever. He sat like that for seemed like an eternity, the wheels going full speed in his tiny, bony, hairless head, scrutinizing over all the details and taking in all his surroundings. He then looked up, slipping the package into his sack and rearranged himself, taking in a full view of his entire surroundings. His eyes then befell onto me, which he then gazed with those emerald eyes,crinkling at the sides as his lips curled into a smile of complete and utter contentment. His eyes then sealed shut completely, and he was asleep. I gave one last look to the man who had taught me about life, the man who had given me insight without a single word. The man with the textured face.
This felt like it fit.
"Life is no cabaret. We dont care what you say. We're inviting you anyway!"