"...the theme is 'Male Vulnerability.'"
A renewed attempt at mobility: crutches outside. The metallic extensions allow me to focus on the left leg's calf and the right leg's thigh. Balancing through isolation. Strengthening through simulation. I'd used this approach before, during the summer, back when I thought I was just about to return to work. Back when I was fueled by caffeine, alcohol, and ignorance of what ailments my body had accumulated.
Tonight, I'm propelled by desperation, still, but without the non-prescription chemicals. Mostly, I just need to get outside. The comfort of the apartment is a collection of pillows that grows softer with each passing day, a softness that threatens to drown the senses and dull any sharpness of the mind.
Admittedly, I need the congress of trees and the evidence of other, fellow brain stems and microbiomes (aka. humans). My destination is The Meadow of the nearby park. From above, the oblong loop looks like a unicellular organism; a protozoan Pac-Man perpetually hoping for some errant bit of algae to drift into its rounded "mouth."
I wear headphones. I put a look on my face that I hope says determination. I don't want to answer questions, don't want to be forced, as always, to decline unneeded and unsolicited help. The concern is touching, it really is. But what I want is to get stronger. Dealing with a barrage of questions from strangers shouldn't have to be part of that process. The headphones tells people, Yes, I know I'm using crutches. Yes, I'm supposed to be here. Yes, I'm here by choice.
Halfway around the Pac-Man, I hear some wooping and hollering. It's the city's eccentric rollerskater, making his way in my direction. I've seen him around town for years, usually in the park or other paved paths. He's middle-aged, bald, and a bit overweight, a surprising trait because he must rollerskate for hours every day. He wears bright red headphones--each earcan covered with a clear plastic ziploc bag (I assume to prevent sweat damage)--and sings out loud to whatever song is playing on repeat. Often, the songs are good choices. Oldies. Crowd-pleasers that please even more crowds because of the skater's trademark loud, off-key, and joyful singing. He often tells runners that they're doing great, or tells passersby that he likes some article of their clothing, or encourages others to sing with him. If no one's nearby, he gives an energetic, "Woo!" or "Yeah!" He's an utterly charming individual. Just seeing him--or, as is more often the case, hearing him--brightens my day.
Tonight, I'm indeed cheered by seeing him coming my way. I anticipate his usual encouragement but, instead, when he sees me, his face grows concerned. He asks, "You okay?"
I reply with, "Yeah!" except that my voice doesn't sound like I had intended. My tone is off, especially when considering it was directed toward a fellow human and especially one who brings me joy. I sound more defensive than celebratory. I follow it up with, "How're you doing," just as he passes but my voice sounds even more wrong, as if I'm passive-aggressively provoking a bar fight.
The man's face changes. His mouth adopts an unnatural geometry otherwise known as a frown. I wonder if I'd just made an antagonist out of someone. Someone whom the mayor would give the ceremonial keys to the city for a day in recognition for his attempts to brighten the lives of countless strangers on a countless amount of days. Have I just unintentionally become this man's nemesis?
He passes me but, unlike most of the times when no one's around, he doesn't fill the air with wooping and hollering. His silence says so much.
I continue on, slightly crestfallen over potential misrepresentation and misinterpretation.
In the mouth of the protozoa, someone else stops me. A young man with a large camera hanging around his neck. I take my headphones off and he immediately apologizes for interrupting my progress along the path. He asks to take my picture. He's a student at GSU, working on his final project for his final semester. He's just about to complete a BA in photography. I share a moment of solidarity, complimenting the faculty and coursework I had completed during my time there.
He asks me to face eastward. I imagine what he sees through his camera's viewfinder. The city skyline is behind me, as well as the traces of a smoldering sunset. I take a guess at what this shot composition might imply about me as a subject, with a dark ending to the day making up most of the canvas, at my back, giving an impression of broken finality, a wasting away in the space just before nightfall. With me is a tree outlined by yellowing leaves, their fluttering are like loose flags portending the oncoming winter. I then wonder what the shot composition might imply about the city, the few towers with pinpricks of lights piercing the dark clouds serving as a background, and a thin middle-aged guy wedged between two crutches, giving a smile that (always) looks like a one-sided smirk.
"Are your photos going to be displayed at all, like an end-of-the-semester exhibit?"
"Naw," he laughs. "Hopefully they'll only be displayed on my professor's laptop."
I laugh as well and stand upright between the crutches, readying myself for departure.
"Oh, does your project have a title? Or a theme?" In other words, How do I represent a concept, as a subject?
"Yeah, man..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sven Laux & Fione - Sökningen
[Listen on bandcamp]
Sven Laux & Fione - Sökningen [The Search]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tonight, I'm propelled by desperation, still, but without the non-prescription chemicals. Mostly, I just need to get outside. The comfort of the apartment is a collection of pillows that grows softer with each passing day, a softness that threatens to drown the senses and dull any sharpness of the mind.
Admittedly, I need the congress of trees and the evidence of other, fellow brain stems and microbiomes (aka. humans). My destination is The Meadow of the nearby park. From above, the oblong loop looks like a unicellular organism; a protozoan Pac-Man perpetually hoping for some errant bit of algae to drift into its rounded "mouth."
I wear headphones. I put a look on my face that I hope says determination. I don't want to answer questions, don't want to be forced, as always, to decline unneeded and unsolicited help. The concern is touching, it really is. But what I want is to get stronger. Dealing with a barrage of questions from strangers shouldn't have to be part of that process. The headphones tells people, Yes, I know I'm using crutches. Yes, I'm supposed to be here. Yes, I'm here by choice.
Halfway around the Pac-Man, I hear some wooping and hollering. It's the city's eccentric rollerskater, making his way in my direction. I've seen him around town for years, usually in the park or other paved paths. He's middle-aged, bald, and a bit overweight, a surprising trait because he must rollerskate for hours every day. He wears bright red headphones--each earcan covered with a clear plastic ziploc bag (I assume to prevent sweat damage)--and sings out loud to whatever song is playing on repeat. Often, the songs are good choices. Oldies. Crowd-pleasers that please even more crowds because of the skater's trademark loud, off-key, and joyful singing. He often tells runners that they're doing great, or tells passersby that he likes some article of their clothing, or encourages others to sing with him. If no one's nearby, he gives an energetic, "Woo!" or "Yeah!" He's an utterly charming individual. Just seeing him--or, as is more often the case, hearing him--brightens my day.
Tonight, I'm indeed cheered by seeing him coming my way. I anticipate his usual encouragement but, instead, when he sees me, his face grows concerned. He asks, "You okay?"
I reply with, "Yeah!" except that my voice doesn't sound like I had intended. My tone is off, especially when considering it was directed toward a fellow human and especially one who brings me joy. I sound more defensive than celebratory. I follow it up with, "How're you doing," just as he passes but my voice sounds even more wrong, as if I'm passive-aggressively provoking a bar fight.
The man's face changes. His mouth adopts an unnatural geometry otherwise known as a frown. I wonder if I'd just made an antagonist out of someone. Someone whom the mayor would give the ceremonial keys to the city for a day in recognition for his attempts to brighten the lives of countless strangers on a countless amount of days. Have I just unintentionally become this man's nemesis?
He passes me but, unlike most of the times when no one's around, he doesn't fill the air with wooping and hollering. His silence says so much.
I continue on, slightly crestfallen over potential misrepresentation and misinterpretation.
In the mouth of the protozoa, someone else stops me. A young man with a large camera hanging around his neck. I take my headphones off and he immediately apologizes for interrupting my progress along the path. He asks to take my picture. He's a student at GSU, working on his final project for his final semester. He's just about to complete a BA in photography. I share a moment of solidarity, complimenting the faculty and coursework I had completed during my time there.
He asks me to face eastward. I imagine what he sees through his camera's viewfinder. The city skyline is behind me, as well as the traces of a smoldering sunset. I take a guess at what this shot composition might imply about me as a subject, with a dark ending to the day making up most of the canvas, at my back, giving an impression of broken finality, a wasting away in the space just before nightfall. With me is a tree outlined by yellowing leaves, their fluttering are like loose flags portending the oncoming winter. I then wonder what the shot composition might imply about the city, the few towers with pinpricks of lights piercing the dark clouds serving as a background, and a thin middle-aged guy wedged between two crutches, giving a smile that (always) looks like a one-sided smirk.
"Are your photos going to be displayed at all, like an end-of-the-semester exhibit?"
"Naw," he laughs. "Hopefully they'll only be displayed on my professor's laptop."
I laugh as well and stand upright between the crutches, readying myself for departure.
"Oh, does your project have a title? Or a theme?" In other words, How do I represent a concept, as a subject?
"Yeah, man..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sven Laux & Fione - Sökningen
[Listen on bandcamp]
Sven Laux & Fione - Sökningen [The Search]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~