I sat silently on my second floor perch, peering at bits and pieces of city life.
From here I’ve watched: staggering drunks weave their path along the sidewalk; the solo rapper; a man brushing his teeth; raucous groups of teenagers; dedicated walkers carrying plastic bags and plugged into their ipods; the wheelchair couple racing each other; a man fall asleep at the bus stop; the older, native, chihuahua-bearing fellow with the walker.
You know, regular East Van pedestrian stuff.
Last night, it was two sets of neighbours, gorgeous couples crossing paths with a friendly hello at the door. I sensed a lightness in their steps.
One set into the cool crisp night, the other up the stairs to the cozy abode above.
I meant to say hello. I saw that they were safe and good, and that made me happy.
I’m surprised at how few people notice me: they don’t often look up. They don’t hear much above the steady stream of busses, cars, accidents, ambulances. And that’s okay.
For a street fairly pedestrian-free, I have seen a lot from here.
Sometimes, instead, I might be nestled in the darkness of the audience, watching mouths move, settling into the words and music and song and other bodily sounds bursting out and bouncing off walls. Revelling in that moment of creation.
Creepy? I don’t mean to be. I am still and quiet and observing. Not judging, or criticizing. Not about to swoop in, or down. Just sensing, absorbing, listening, letting your essence float over to me, gently.
I’m looking out at you, for you, into you. Silently, unintentionally intuiting your energy.
And when I catch your eye (if only for a moment) we might just engage, partially or fully.
Mostly, I’m glad to just sit, reflect and digest, reconstitute those thoughts into a new set of metaphors.
This is inspiration, evolution.
I’m not in any rush to hop on that stage: my truth (mostly) comes forth in subtler ways, from silent, sacred dream-spaces and shadowy places, where conversation flows and looks linger longer.
If you want to know this, please stop, listen, see.