Posted: January 28, 2009 in Uncategorized

Elegantly swept back white hair lying gracefully on his head, the butler enters carrying a silver platter. The tap tap tap of his polished shoes echo on the marble floor, stopping to set down my food and then pivoting to leave, tap tap taps fading into the distance.
I absent-mindedly pick at the food, my eyes locked to the blank canvas, a creamy white expanse that desperately needs to be filled with color, any color, any color better than no color at all.
Movement catches my eye and my head slowly turns to face the window.
Outside it’s a warm summer evening, a world apart from the air conditioned palace that I gaze out of now.
Outside I see a young man, his ragged clothing betraying his social standing. Let the audience note that my house has the wonderful view of a freeway overpass so that the cars flashing back and forth below can inspire me further, both bright and dark colors transcending their way onto an empty canvas, moving into a work of art.
The youth holds a black spray can and he slowly shakes it back and forth as he stares at his own canvas, a rough and slate gray piece, the side of the divider between the overpass and oblivion down to the cars that flash back and forth.
I notice the belt strapped around his waist with several other cans attached to it, all the colors of the rainbow ready for him to use. Basic, really.
I stand here with my palette of paints, tubes of color ranging from the azure of Paul Newman’s eyes to the precise shade of one verdant scale on the back of a komodo dragon. My brushes, with their sable hair and and lacquered handles.
The scruffy boy has several belts looped loosely over him as well as around his waist, all with ragged leather catches holding spray cans of various colors. Dull and dented, oxidized metal obscuring their true qualities. Pathetic when compared with the luxuries that I have, but admirable in the sport he participates in.
How brave this child must be, standing unwaveringly over certain death speeding below him, to make his mark on society in any way that he can. An incredible testament to the spirit of people, to the will of human society; this boy is a god, painting his message over a sea of speeding constructs of subjects that quake in the light of his glory.
Nevertheless, the adult in me, attempting to quash such creativity over my awe, realizes it’s a Wednesday; this child should be in school.
Perhaps he should. Yet at the same time, he piques my curiosity. I call to the butler, voice distracted and quiet.
“Do you see that boy?” I ask. He nods stiffly.
“Bring him here.”


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