Graffiti on a Wall

Filed Under: Storytelling, Literature.

Observation - graffiti on a wall - casting an imaginary shadow - August 4th, 2001.

“live like the animals,
just take what you need,

don’t drown like humans,
in products of greed.”

The wisdom transposed into this short poem clings to shaded walls exposed to a sheer typhoon of words and phrases. Every day of our lives we are bombarded by a “sacred truth” - only to find that we have come no closer to the meaning in which we seek. Taking such a prospect to heart, I glance away, keeping the thought tucked safely away in a nearby corner of my memory.

Suddenly, a stream of images catch me off guard - percolating in my mind, they lead me about face, towards a distant figure speaking into a megaphone. There stands a sightly sight - the visiting governor - stopping at a local park to share his visions regarding the upcoming election. He hides behind a podium amongst a thicket of oak. Before him stand a small crowd of spectators - listening intently to his rhetoric. He speaks about dollar signs orbiting our very hearts. The oaks seem to lean over his stance - branches arched high - ready to engulf his voice as a tidal wave so carelessly engulfs everything in its path.

These politicians may rise so far above us all, yet, as I peer closer, I can see the bar-code imprinted in this particular individual’s skin. He believes it gives him power. In actuality, it appears to burn his skin as a rash would. Does he realize this? He must, but cannot come to terms with the simple fact. Alas, I must also realize the difficulty of jumping out of one’s own skin.

A tiny bead of sweat runs down his forehead, caught in the outcropping of wrinkles around his right eye. As he speaks louder, his eyes loses fixation upon the crowd. He hesitates for a moment, then rubs the bead of sweat away, gaining assurance of himself before he continues. The crowd notices his hesitation.

I wonder what they are thinking.

I look back to the shaded wall upon which the graffiti has been so thoughtfully scrawled. I walk to it as a small child would curiously approach the spectacle of a wild animal. So “wild” - as that which is alienated from our great society, and looked upon as unwanted and inferior. To the child, however, such a sight is a new world of wonder. So perhaps these are wild words - wild like the winds of life, carrying all the children of Mother Earth towards their destinies.

I reach over to touch the fresh paint of those alienating words, yet am pulled away by the governor’s ideological grasp. He speaks like a machine - a never ending dominance of words with which an invisible foe sets sail towards the glow of our dying souls. How I wish I could raid his great pirate ship and let justice be served; to stand tall and let the truth be told. He hesitates once more as his eyebrows arch upward. Both his eyes lazily drift towards his right side. He squints. I follow his stare to the seashore by which many have gathered to enjoy the day. The crowd hangs on his awkward silence. He clears his throat.

This man is beautiful, like the wisdom imprinted upon that shaded wall. He is fulfilling his destiny, unlocking the very potentiality of the path upon which he marches with such blind confidence. However, I can see that his eyes have much larger dreams. I tune his words out and begin to walk towards the beach.

In the distance a lone poet strums a jazzy tune on his guitar. I throw him my loose change and he bows his hat. I see the man every day, and every day he wears a black hat atop a black silky shirt with a pair of suit pants. He has style and assurance much like that of the governor, but when he plays his melody, his eyes always follow his directionality. He stops playing for a moment, lifting his head toward the clear skies. He then takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, resuming the melody of the guitar. I approach cautiously, then ask him where I can find my friend Vigue. Still intent upon the melody, he points his nose towards the pier, nodding slightly to acknowledge Vigue’s whereabouts. I complement his suit.

Vigue is standing next to an old abandoned boathouse. I walk forth to greet him. He hands me his can of spray paint. Light glistens from above, where a small crack in the roof of the boathouse has let the sun stream in, posing its own wisdom upon a clean section of wall. Some occurrences are meant to be, and this may be an omen to such an occurrence. The sun doesn’t have to clear its throat, as with all things which sail upon the winds of life. Vigue points to the sun-lit spot on the wall, giving me the honor to express myself. I hesitate for a moment, but remember to simply let the sunlight guide my words.

“it takes more than words on a wall…”

I step back and look upward as floating particles of paint swirl around the path of sun. I then hand the can to Vigue and walk back to the beach. The corner of my eye catches the sight of the governor, daubing his forehead with a soaked handkerchief. As I pass by, I say hello. He reciprocates the cultural script, then comments on the beautiful day. He pauses for a moment; his voice loosens; he looks toward my direction and smoothly repeats, “beautiful.” His eyes project thoughts in all directions. He seems to enjoy the chance to jump out of his skin.

I walk over to the lone poet, sit down and pull from behind a tree a pair of bongo drums. How I love the serenity of playing music - like the sunlight guiding my words, the rhythms guide my spirit away from this typhoon of words.

At that point, the governor, still carrying his handkerchief, throws us a couple of dollars. The poet bows his hat, I look into his eyes, shining brightly. He smiles and walks onward. That man was indeed quite beautiful, his eyes spoke of salvation. I have always been in awe before the sight of someone who has just jumped out of their skin. They become lifted so high into the air by the winds of life.

The prophet, like the one clinging to that shaded wall becomes stirred within us every so often. I close my eyes, keeping the rythmn, holding tenaciously onto the moment.

Published: 6 years, 11 months ago