Pigeons
Morat gave us an assignment. We were to be benched, not like an unsuccessful pitcher but we were to sit on benches in public places for a week be quiet and watch. Murat said look at people, try to understand. Then with his usual flourish he left to sip his tea.
First, I hate pigeons. I disliked them before the assignment began, but I hate them now. They are rats with wings.
Initially, I saw nothing. Just people going back and forth, milling around, feeding the damn pigeons.
Then I noticed movement. They move differently. You can sense something from that. Some have intent, others nothing. Some are strong, some weak. Some have the movement of strength but don't seem to intentionally display it. Some show bravado but don't move with strength.
Then faces. At first I counted the eyes, noses and mouths and usually they fell within the norms. But then the eyes. The way the eyes moved. Some shined, not really, but it seemed that way. Some were downcast. Some looked back and forth as if they were afraid. Some always forward, so focused but seemed to see anything around them.
Finally, the lines. I came to think a person's entire life was written on their face. In young people they were subtle, in the old more evident, but always there. I could see laughter, pain, courage, fear. If I looked hard enough I could see all of life.
We returned to Murat. "What did you learn?" he asked. We spoke.
We spoke of movement, eyes, faces, everything I felt. Murat remained quiet.
Moments passed.
"Well you can make anything of appearance, and your presumptions are almost always wrong. But didn't you notice the dirty pigeons. They are like flying rats." Or, so spoke Morat.
First, I hate pigeons. I disliked them before the assignment began, but I hate them now. They are rats with wings.
Initially, I saw nothing. Just people going back and forth, milling around, feeding the damn pigeons.
Then I noticed movement. They move differently. You can sense something from that. Some have intent, others nothing. Some are strong, some weak. Some have the movement of strength but don't seem to intentionally display it. Some show bravado but don't move with strength.
Then faces. At first I counted the eyes, noses and mouths and usually they fell within the norms. But then the eyes. The way the eyes moved. Some shined, not really, but it seemed that way. Some were downcast. Some looked back and forth as if they were afraid. Some always forward, so focused but seemed to see anything around them.
Finally, the lines. I came to think a person's entire life was written on their face. In young people they were subtle, in the old more evident, but always there. I could see laughter, pain, courage, fear. If I looked hard enough I could see all of life.
We returned to Murat. "What did you learn?" he asked. We spoke.
We spoke of movement, eyes, faces, everything I felt. Murat remained quiet.
Moments passed.
"Well you can make anything of appearance, and your presumptions are almost always wrong. But didn't you notice the dirty pigeons. They are like flying rats." Or, so spoke Morat.