. a certain kind of lonliness .
remembering at 9:11 p.m. on 2002-12-25
There is always a point when you want to go back.
The heavey lurching of the city bus swayed our heads back and forth, in sync. I have one ratty sweatshirt covered hand, up near my face, propping my chin against the narrow sill of the window. Rings of every variety on every finger. A butterfly, an ahnk, a heart, a cheap beaded spiral, and a precious amethyst ring. My fingers almost green below them, from constant wear.
I push the back window open slightly, catching the gaze from the old hispanic woman across from me. Her umbrella tucked neatly between her legs.
It's pacific weather...fall weather.
The light mist that escapes from the outside to my closed eye-lids, Entrances me.
I'm 17. My sketches on dirty school art boards, propped against the seat frame. One knee balancing them casually. The crinkly of butcher paper, softly in all of our ears. A halting stop on the side entrances of the apartment building my sister used to live in, and a thin, young transiant boards. He picks between the change and pocket lint of his hooded sweatshirt. Pausing only to pull his hood down from a wild tangled head of dreadlocks.
The bus driver pulls the bus away before he even gets to sit. His thin hands grasping for the cold metal bars as he makes his way back to me. I close my eyes.
Pretending I'm not here.
Pretending I'm not me.
He sits too close to me to allow me to ignore him. So, I look at him instead and am disgusted/intriqued that he is peering at me as well.
I realize he has facinating eyes.
Deep, soft green, and puzzling, like the randomness of a kleidscope.
An akward smile and he is done with me and moving onto my boards.
"Can I see what you got?"
Why argue?
He handles them with much more delicacy than me. A slow, familiar smile of awe.
"These are beautiful..."He says softly.
He asks me hundreds of questions about them. These pale, watery sketches. These tiny hopefuls of my pencil's grain.
Its my own moment of pride. My heart swells.
I'm smiling for once. For once I cannot feel the embarrasing sting of my forearms. Aching, bleeding strikes of whatever.
I'm humbled by his adoration.
He, this dirty, teenage vagabond encourages me gently. More than any other. More than my harping mother, my blank staring father. More than my oblivious art teacher...who is drowned in a sea of crayola acrylics.
Its a secret. This ten minute fame.
This departure from my childhood.
He leaves 2 stops before mine. Right before 78th broke into Main.
It's another world when I carefully step off the bus, and into the whitewashed rain.
I was an artist then.
never was � never will be
