The Contemplator
I saw a crazy man this morning.
I've actually seen him before but this morning he stood out like never before. I was riding my Vespa to work feeling quite stylish and quite Italian. I wore my jacket with the British flag on the back and dark goggles. While feeling quite chic in my mind I was hoping with all hope I would not be side swiped by a red neck in an F150 or hit on the head with a beer bottle. I suppose my black visored helmet had that later covered but the former would have been disastrous. I was motoring through West Columbia, an area that was once a suburb of Columbia and now is seemingly forgotten. It is run down, dotted by apartments and small houses that should be condemned. If that wasn't enough, the area is punctuated by a chicken plant that dispenses an odor strong enough to wrinkle the nose. There is usually a parade of interesting people out on the street but today one particular man stood out. He was probably in his 60's, of course the apparently hard life he has lived might hide the fact that he is in fact my age. He has a whiskered covered face that never seems to grow into a beard but never seems to disappear. He walks in a jerky way, almost like a squirrel as he saunters down the side walk with a kick in his step. He usually has a the stub of a cigarette in his mouth a treasure that was probably cast off by a motorist idling at a nearby traffic light.
Today as I stopped at a light I noticed him standing on a corner. My first reaction was, "please don't come over to me." as I attempted to look away. Despite my attempted disinterest he seemed genuinely uninterested in me or my Italian fashion. Instead, he stood almost posing with his arms crossed looking up at the street name sign with a look of intense contemplation. He would jerk momentarily, and contemplate the sky before returning to the street sign.
Years ago when I was a child I was riding on a train in Europe with my parents. We were staying in a sleeping compartment. The concept of sleeping compartments is quite foreign to most Americans unless they saw one in a an old movie. In this case what they saw was nothing like the compartment we stayed in. Perhaps the first class people knew such luxury but our second class train ticket meant the compartment was made up of three bunks on each side of a closet sized room. There was probably a generous two and a half foot clearance from one bed to the next meaning the poor soul in the bottom or middle had better not be claustrophobic. Many travelers tended to bath less than Americans and in those days, deodorant was not so common in Europe. At times the smell would be a bit overwhelming as six people wedged themselves into their U-Boat sized beds.
One night we were traveling on a train to Paris and passed through Germany. A man got on the train and entered our compartment. He seemed young and was a bit odd. My father reached down deeply into his high school German and attempted a conversation. The man engaged my father in a discussion yet for some reason the German seemed to fall on deaf ears. The man did explain his name was Marc and it was only after an extended period of diligence that my father came to the conclusion that he was quite drunk and perhaps not completely there in his mind. Perhaps my father's mind was not as void of the German language as he had feared. For whatever reason in life there are certain memories of certain inconsequential people that stay with you until you die, Marc was one of those people. There is no reason he should continue to exist in the dark synapses of my brain yet he does.
Sometimes I think about people like Marc and the Contemplative man. I wonder who is the sane one, me or them? My life consists of so many thoughts and responsibilities. There are so many things I don't understand and worries that consume. Somehow Marc and the Contemplative man have found a way to overcome that. They discovered a balance between need and the occupations of the mind. While simplistic on their surface their blank expressions might conceal a brilliance lost inside an endless loop of reflection. I am convinced in live that all those truly brilliant in thought or creativity walk a line between sanity and insanity. Perhaps these men simply stepped over the line and lost their balance.
At the very least I have found new respect for the Contemplative man and sometimes wish I could view the world in such a consuming way. In his very essence, the Contemplative man has become one with his mind. Isn't this what we should all strive for?
I've actually seen him before but this morning he stood out like never before. I was riding my Vespa to work feeling quite stylish and quite Italian. I wore my jacket with the British flag on the back and dark goggles. While feeling quite chic in my mind I was hoping with all hope I would not be side swiped by a red neck in an F150 or hit on the head with a beer bottle. I suppose my black visored helmet had that later covered but the former would have been disastrous. I was motoring through West Columbia, an area that was once a suburb of Columbia and now is seemingly forgotten. It is run down, dotted by apartments and small houses that should be condemned. If that wasn't enough, the area is punctuated by a chicken plant that dispenses an odor strong enough to wrinkle the nose. There is usually a parade of interesting people out on the street but today one particular man stood out. He was probably in his 60's, of course the apparently hard life he has lived might hide the fact that he is in fact my age. He has a whiskered covered face that never seems to grow into a beard but never seems to disappear. He walks in a jerky way, almost like a squirrel as he saunters down the side walk with a kick in his step. He usually has a the stub of a cigarette in his mouth a treasure that was probably cast off by a motorist idling at a nearby traffic light.
Years ago when I was a child I was riding on a train in Europe with my parents. We were staying in a sleeping compartment. The concept of sleeping compartments is quite foreign to most Americans unless they saw one in a an old movie. In this case what they saw was nothing like the compartment we stayed in. Perhaps the first class people knew such luxury but our second class train ticket meant the compartment was made up of three bunks on each side of a closet sized room. There was probably a generous two and a half foot clearance from one bed to the next meaning the poor soul in the bottom or middle had better not be claustrophobic. Many travelers tended to bath less than Americans and in those days, deodorant was not so common in Europe. At times the smell would be a bit overwhelming as six people wedged themselves into their U-Boat sized beds.
One night we were traveling on a train to Paris and passed through Germany. A man got on the train and entered our compartment. He seemed young and was a bit odd. My father reached down deeply into his high school German and attempted a conversation. The man engaged my father in a discussion yet for some reason the German seemed to fall on deaf ears. The man did explain his name was Marc and it was only after an extended period of diligence that my father came to the conclusion that he was quite drunk and perhaps not completely there in his mind. Perhaps my father's mind was not as void of the German language as he had feared. For whatever reason in life there are certain memories of certain inconsequential people that stay with you until you die, Marc was one of those people. There is no reason he should continue to exist in the dark synapses of my brain yet he does.
Sometimes I think about people like Marc and the Contemplative man. I wonder who is the sane one, me or them? My life consists of so many thoughts and responsibilities. There are so many things I don't understand and worries that consume. Somehow Marc and the Contemplative man have found a way to overcome that. They discovered a balance between need and the occupations of the mind. While simplistic on their surface their blank expressions might conceal a brilliance lost inside an endless loop of reflection. I am convinced in live that all those truly brilliant in thought or creativity walk a line between sanity and insanity. Perhaps these men simply stepped over the line and lost their balance.
At the very least I have found new respect for the Contemplative man and sometimes wish I could view the world in such a consuming way. In his very essence, the Contemplative man has become one with his mind. Isn't this what we should all strive for?
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