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People watching ...
Aug. 5th, 2004 01:31 pmI wrote this last night, in the throes of utter boredom. I'm not supposed to write while working the cart, but the alternative was unconsciousness, so tough for them.
I saw a little girl today, all big smiles and bright eyes behind her glasses. She looked eight years old, maybe.
She was wearing a white 'Champs Safety Leader' t-shirt and black shorts. Both of her legs were gone at the knees and she wore rubber-soled peg-legs coloured with bright paint and rainbows. He lft arm ended in a pink bump at the elbow, round and uncalloused. Her right arm was whole, and her thin hand bore a thumb and two fingers. I could see two sets of bones in her outer finer, side by side as if keeping warm in the shared sleeve of a glove.
She loved elephants. I remember her shiny brown hair swinging around her face as he circled my kiosk, only to find that she already owned half of the elephants I had. Her mother reminded her that her birthday was coming soon.
Then I saw a woman in her mid-forties poly-cotton spandex, denim, and hair bleach ensenble, staggering by in stiletto heels more frail than my little finger.
I wanted to draw that little girl, but I was ashamed of the thought of asking her to sit still. I try not to stare. No ... I don't stare. I only want to look and see.
I saw a man last week in a low wheelchair. His body had no legs, and possibly no pelvis as well. I remember the legs of his jeans folded neaty on the seat of the wheelchair beneath him.
On the CTrain rde home that night, I saw a familiar figure through the smudged glass. There is a man on the streets of Calgary who panhandles for sympathy with a false prosthetic leg.
Pity is an odd thing.
I have seen young women swathed in the black cloaks of burkhas, with only the thin slit of skin around their eyes visible to me. Their gloved hands weave in the chatter of every excited female shopper, and their high heels clack on the tile as they walk into le Chateau with the rest of them.
I saw a little girl today, all big smiles and bright eyes behind her glasses. She looked eight years old, maybe.
She was wearing a white 'Champs Safety Leader' t-shirt and black shorts. Both of her legs were gone at the knees and she wore rubber-soled peg-legs coloured with bright paint and rainbows. He lft arm ended in a pink bump at the elbow, round and uncalloused. Her right arm was whole, and her thin hand bore a thumb and two fingers. I could see two sets of bones in her outer finer, side by side as if keeping warm in the shared sleeve of a glove.
She loved elephants. I remember her shiny brown hair swinging around her face as he circled my kiosk, only to find that she already owned half of the elephants I had. Her mother reminded her that her birthday was coming soon.
Then I saw a woman in her mid-forties poly-cotton spandex, denim, and hair bleach ensenble, staggering by in stiletto heels more frail than my little finger.
I wanted to draw that little girl, but I was ashamed of the thought of asking her to sit still. I try not to stare. No ... I don't stare. I only want to look and see.
I saw a man last week in a low wheelchair. His body had no legs, and possibly no pelvis as well. I remember the legs of his jeans folded neaty on the seat of the wheelchair beneath him.
On the CTrain rde home that night, I saw a familiar figure through the smudged glass. There is a man on the streets of Calgary who panhandles for sympathy with a false prosthetic leg.
Pity is an odd thing.
I have seen young women swathed in the black cloaks of burkhas, with only the thin slit of skin around their eyes visible to me. Their gloved hands weave in the chatter of every excited female shopper, and their high heels clack on the tile as they walk into le Chateau with the rest of them.
