Kangol Man

He packed up to leave. 

An older man that had long-time sadness on his face. From the wrinkle on his face, it wasn’t hard to tell he hasn’t smiled much in his life. No crow’s nest around the eyes. No dimples on his face. A droop in his body and face. It was a sunken soul.

A quiet man, he was. Didn’t speak much and seemed to fear being loud. He offered me his seat when I asked to sit next to him. Needed to charge the laptop. Ran out of juice while at Barnes and Nobles. He happily and considerately gave me his seat so I can be closer to the too scare outlets.

Seen him before. A nondescript man that had lines on his face that angled downward. A Droop about him that slowed.  Sitting next to him I felt an unfinished life. An unhappy one. No one to talk to. No one to bring joy. Maybe I am overanalyzing. I hope that I am not projecting, but I sensed a deep, cavernous sorrow in him.

Noticed the picture he drew. It was that of a house. It was a brick house with a green roof drawn a small piece of paper, the kind of paper that one keeps close to his heart. It was rectangular, 3x5 by my guess. His brick house had no dimension. A simple one with no depth, no perspective. The kind that a kindergartner would draw. It had a dog and an American flag. He used a professional drafting triangle. The plastic drafting sort used by architects and contractors. It was a purple plastic with circles, symbols, and figures to trace. He worked on it the whole time I was there. This home meant much, I think. Maybe it was a home he imagined he had? I sensed he did not have much

He wore an old Kangol hat, backwards at that. A sign of style some 30 years past. He wore black Dockers.  The well-worn faded kind that one finds at a Goodwill. His shirt covered his large roll surrounding his belly. The oversized shirt couldn’t hide the unexercised life.  There was no passion in him. No joy at all. It seemed there was a longing for his 3X5 card home. Maybe an ex-con. Maybe formerly homeless. His white shirt was clean though. It had a giant American flag, that said “Patriotism, the American Way.”

He is an older man whose life seemed to pass him by. He wore a gold ring on his middle finger of left hand. Too large for his frail hands. On the right hand he wore a silver band on finger next to his little finger. He gripped the colored pencil loosely, but colored with an anger of something missed. 

He turned around, hoping for someone to speak with. There was no one needing help. The ladies standing next to him were waiting to just to use the  busy internet computers. His body language showed disappointment. Reminded me of a tied up old dog waiting all day for the kids to come home school. The kind of dogs that is always chained up, whose master nevers come home to play with him.

He sat next to me and I could not escape this feeling of disappointment. No one to help. No one to talk to. I was going to say something, but I didn’t. It was a library. He needed someone to talk to. He needed to be needed. Like an abandoned pet that hasn’t yet give up on company, but has been too often learned of disappointment. He sits there—not being a part of anything. He is at the outskirts of company. He is socially abandoned.

There is goodness in him. Its there. It is the puppy waiting for his master to play with him. He knows only the disappointed waiting where the master comes home just to water and feed. Never to be play catch or take a walk. Never to experience joy. He had no one to play with. No one to bring joy to. 

Can’t help but feel bad for this older man. It was like seeing the too many homeless person on side of the street as you drive by. You would like to give him a hand, but knowing that if you could, it was more than you were willing to give. It is a despair I felt for this older gentlemen. He had intention for something more, to do more, to do good. He was here to help. He wore a blue lanyard around his thick dark neck that held his city volunteer badge. He moved the plastic stand that said “Homework assistance”

Despite all this, one could not escape the sadness around him.

He looked at the clock again and gathered his pictures. He packed up to leave, pulled on his faux leather laptop case. Gathering his colored pencils and sharpener. Opened up his computer bag. There was no laptop inside. Several papers and pens spilled out his overfilled bag. Just colored pencils and kindergarten pictures of his homes.

He glanced me and smiled, a sad smile. I nodded and he waved back. Maybe next time, I will speak to him. Hope his sadness was just today for him. Hope that this sadness is not the kind that follows him home. I hope he has someone to play with. I hope he has someone to talk to. It saddens me and life is too short to feel such a hole inside. I hope to never feel like him.

I promise to talk to him next time I see him.

(Sorry. No Pictures. Out of Respect. We too often have seen this kind of Sadness)

Venice Sunday

Here I sit. Wondering where this stream will take me. Listening to Sting’s Russians from the CD The Dream of Blue Turtles. Its been a few days since I tapped on the keys. 

Couple days ago, I went on camera adventure of the Venice Canals and the Ocean Front Walk of Venice Beach. Traveled up the beach and watched surfers outfitted in black wetsuits brave the waves. Saw a man with a giant fishing pole stand on the rocks from afar. Watched a couple transfixed on the seagulls hunting for sand crabs. Witnessed the national paddle tennis championship for a few minutes. Enjoyed the play of hand ballers and white men jumping (Wesley Snipes and Woody Herrelson lore). Travelled up and down the Ocean Walk to see vendors with candles of skulls and Marilyn Monroes sporting ink. Spoke to a medical marijuana doctor about my health choice options of the natural herbs. (Don’t normally see this in AV. Why not?) Photographed a 3-D wall of dancing dogs, replication of Starry Nights, and a climber repelling a wall. Visited an empty Muscle Beach and watched skaters of 8 and 50 ride the walls of the skate park.

It was a short day, but I saw much this NFL Sunday.  Picked up the camera and there I went not sure where I would be heading. Knew that this need to see the Canals has been percolating for some time and this was the day to do it. Ever since I saw it in a movie, Valentine’s Day, I knew I had to go.

Almost did not have the day. However, a nice parking attendant lady, Patricia hooked me up. Ready to turn around and head to Tatay’s house, the lady said she would give me the parking for $7 for the day. It said $17 for the day and this seemed ridiculous to me.  But, I accepted her offer and it was a nice few hours.

Looked at the beautiful Beach front homes. Very Zen. Rocks standing atop of itself. The world’s smallest front lawn. Had a staring contest with a seagull. Watched junior captains navigate the waves. Got my memory bottle of beach. Stood in the waves and read a plaque dedicated to a lifeguards lifeguard, George Wolf. Read the graffiti of today’s youth. Smelled the strong scent of Venice Canals. Saw a blue tree and faced up with a squirrel.

I’ve enjoyed these tourist guide books. It maps out places to see and not miss. Looking at LA in the eyes of a tourist has made these adventures more educational. Taking these pictures has focused my eye on the little things and I find that there is much to see, even in a place you have been a hundred times. One gets appreciation of the history of place by studying them. These self-guided tours has been enlightening. This love to explore and see more is something that I’ve discovered in me. When you look at things with new eyes, you are amazed at all the beauty out there.

Lucky for me, I’ve always had the wanderlust. Hope to never lose the need to go and flow. Well, sitting here in Barnes and Nobles has got me wondering where I should go next. Time to pickup a DK Eyewitness Los Angeles. 

To those that read, thank you for the many emails. I appreciate all the comments and feedback.