Monthly Archives: December 2002

Reflection: “Newsman”

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More found during the cleaning binge.

There’s an old man who sells newspapers from a little shelter downtown. He’s there every weekday during the 5 p.m. rush hour, shivering in the cold or sweating under the sun. His eyes are sunken; his cheeks are hollow. He looks neither healthy nor happy. Lonely, silent, melancholy.

At first he, half-sitting on the bench on which the newspapers are folded, would quietly wait for a passerby to buy a paper. When someone did (and this seemed rare), he would slowly hand him the paper, accept the coin, and quietly say, “Thank you.” But even a sale did not lift the burden from his slightly stooped shoulders, and his sad, withdrawn expression never changed.

Later, he seemed to realise that he had to compete with the more aggressive young newsboys, whose harsh cries of “Final Times-final Tribune” disturbed the already busy air. He too would say, “Tribune-Times,” but his voice was quiet and hesitant like a whisper, as though he did not think his new boldness would boost sales. He seemed to hold some small hope it would.

He is still there, in the same shelter. The same harassed, unhappy executives brush by him. The same gossiping, complaining secretaries still hurry past him. Few stop to buy the paper; fewer still exchange a kind word. None wonder about the old man: his past, his present, his future, his end. As for him, he still looks blankly past the parade passing by; still waits for the few who might purchase a paper.

Still waits.

Diane L. Schirf, 1980s (date unknown)

Dream: Painful half-loop

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Elton John was performing with a partner that turned out to be a skeleton. A hand used a computer tool to erase one of the skeleton’s lines.

Afterwards, I left the building, which seemed to be a church. Everyone else was leaving, too — in tiny boats. I didn’t remember coming in by boat, but I found a red one with plain oars that seemed familiar. Someone tried to give me a white one with white oars decorated with flowers, but we then realised the mistake and quickly exchanged back. Most people were sitting around in their tiny boats, doing nothing, I spotted a small channel between two boats, aggressively cleared it, and left. I got to the end of the course and realised the water had gotten very shallow that I could walk beyond the builiding’s grounds. Later, I returned and encountered one of my aunts, who did something unspeakable to me. Something else odd happened, maybe involving a fish.

Then I was in a certain town, in a store, when I spotted a certain person. I said hello, and to my surprise he somewhat grudgingly answered. I followed him to the front of the store where there were two girls who seemed very young. I took the older one to be his girlfriend. She seemed familiar. Her name was Robin, and she was very bright and outgoing, like a happy young girl.

There was a closed circuit, a half loop, made of curled wire like the curled barbed wire at prisons. His spirit and that of someone else were at each end. It was an experiment of some kind and started out benignly enough. But soon the other spirit grew very hot and came around and “burned” him. It would burn him and retreat to the other end of the half loop. I did something, perhaps with the boat that I still carried, that forced it to do it for shorter and shorter durations so that it would not be as painful for as long.

Dream: One night in Paris

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I arrived in Paris, although I don’t remember going there, and looked into my suitcase. There were no toiletries. Then I realised it was a small weekend case.

The bathroom was in several levels, which made it interesting enough to make me wish mine were like that.

I attended a forum or class with several other people, where nothing was resolved. I walked around during the discussion and discovered “Scott” was lying face down on a desk. I suggested adjournment, and the French leader concurred. An old woman in the back began speaking in French. Her vocabulary and grammar were impressive, but her accent was terrible.

At home or in the room (not sure if there was before or after or even part of another scenario), there was a bee buzzing around that my friend and I sprayed. It moved afterwards, stuck on a book, but it appeared to be quite dead. But days later it was flying around to our surprise and horror. It landed on me, and my friend sprayed it until I realised that I didn’t want to be covered with chemicals. The bee lived on.