The photo had become famous, Pulitzer prize and all. The man. The headlines. It was just so perfect. A time and place in our nation’s history, memorialized by a simple photo. Everyone loved it. Yet that man, on that day, was just turning pages. He didn’t even know how to read. If you had asked him, you would have known that. It would have been so simple. But you didn’t, did you? You just let that photo be what you wanted it to be, didn’t you? You never knew the true story, the one I haven’t told you yet. You never even wondered. (See more Street Shorts here.)
There are turbo force air circulators now, of course. And oscillating whole-room quiet fans, with remote controls. Wireless. Kid-safe. Controllable by smart phones. By mere thought. By God himself. There are better, newer models, in other words. It was time to get rid of these, he told me. I should have known he’d be getting rid of me next. I should have known. Instead I just ordered the new ones through Amazon Prime and was so happy with their same-day delivery. I even wrote a positive review. I said I was a fan. (See more Street Shorts here.)
“Is that Smokey the Frickin Bear on that window?” he almost said out loud while lying on all his worldy possessions right there on Edgewood Avenue. On the edge. The rant in his head continued. “What the hell is Smokey the Frickin’ Bear doing on that window? Are they trying to say the barbecue is so smokin’ they need Smokey the Frickin’ Bear? And these people make money and I don’t?” And then he fell asleep, somehow proud of himself. Somehow certain he still had it. His essence. His edge. (See more Street Shorts here.)
I’m trying not to take myself too seriously. Seriously.
Darn. This couch was so pretty when it was covered with pastels. So sad to find it like this today. Was hesitant to even show you it because, you know, the curse and all. But I guess if The New York Times can print that word on its front page (as it did this week for the first time ever), I can share this photo. (See my Couch photo series here, and my entire book of overlapping flash inspired by a found couch here.)
Black, white, male, female, young, old . . . the convergence is happening. We are starting to work together. Finally. Kiss, kiss.
Our youth are paving the road to tolerance.
His name was Jonathan. He had that man-bun thing going on. He wore surgical gloves. He took me under his wing for a solid hour. I’ll tell you that story on my other blog.
Chemicals. Playground. I thought we’d be beyond this by now. I thought more parents would care.
One fish, two fish, I have a new wish. To keep things simple in a complicated world.