He was wearing khaki shorts and a guitar. His chest hair looked yellow in the sun, but under his baseball cap I could clearly see it was bright red and curly. His lips were chapped. His bag lay next to him, forgotten and unnoticed. After a long time, he reached out for it to see if it was still there, then put his hand inside and brought out a piece of paper. He looked at it for about 30 seconds, and then thrust it back into the dirty bag. The next time he takes out the paper it will probably be crumpled; some environment cautious individual might even mistake it for garbage and kindly place it in the can. I observed him for over an hour. He moved the strings one by one with his long stubby fingers according to the tune playing in his mind, the rhythm beating in his heart. He looked so at peace with his music. Nothing else in the world mattered to him. It was him and his music and the world was just there, all around him. He was encapsulated by a thin layer of meditation. Occasionally he tapped his foot against the cement pavement, creating a different kind of music, creating a motion. His head bobbing toes tapping and fingers moving he created a performance. I’m sure he didn’t think himself to have an audience as I was the only one looking at him so intently. He did not even once look up to see if he pulled in a crowd. He was so enveloped in this bubble he perceived there to be, so lonely and so happy. – Shammy 9/8/09
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