Meanderings

No two people think alike. We each have our own unique processes of thought.

My thought processes can be compared to a meandering river that picks up the sediment (ideas) from an outer curve, carries it, and deposits it further downstream. As the ideas get carried along, more ideas join the flow. Sometimes these ideas collect and become isolated from the mainstream, becoming their own entities, such as oxbow lakes, and developing their own ecosystems.

Often, all it takes is one word to spark a meander, which sometimes will gush like a torrent or trickle like a lazy stream.

And often, the meander will sprout tributaries.

Anyhow, one of my meanders was triggered by a word used by my friend Bob — loverly (or how he spells it, “loVerly”).

Immediately my thought stream transported me to  My Fair Lady (which I’ve never seen, by the way), where Eliza Doolittle sang:

“All I want is a room somewhere

Far away from the cold night air
With one enormous chair
Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?”

While Eliza, a Cockney flower girl, was not homeless, the opening verse “...a room somewhere far away from the cold night air...” made me think about the homeless.

Until I moved to Houston four and a half years ago, the homeless were just a concept that I was just dimly aware of. It was only when I started my train operator training, where every early morning I had to walk six blocks from the park and ride bus stop to the Red Line train platform at Preston, did I have my first in-your-face encounter with the homeless.

It was the first time I saw someone sleeping on the sidewalk — in the middle of the freaking sidewalk. 

There was a human-like form underneath a bedsheet. Never having seen a homeless person in such a vulnerable state I didn’t know what to do. I paused briefly to check for any signs of life, not daring to get too close. And when I saw a twitch, presumably from a foot, I moved along.

Needless to say, this encounter shook me to the core and left me rattled for the rest of the day. Little did I know back then that I would be seeing such sights almost every day while at work, and that I would develop a certain sense of awareness about the homeless that would occasionally give way to thought and something for my Muse to ponder.

Not all homeless people are alike. Each has a different story.

When I was having my on-the-job training in operating a train, my line instructor told me a story about a homeless man that he (or someone he knew) encountered in California. (For the sake of flow, let’s say it was my line instructor who had the encounter.)

Anyhow, when OJ was in Cali, he was approached by a homeless man seeking to bum a cigarette. In the exchange, OJ noticed that the homeless fellow was rather articulate. Further conversation revealed that the articulate homeless gent was once a physician who lost his entire family in an auto accident. 

Apparently the pain of such a devastating loss, and probably the additional burden of survivor’s guilt, was enough to plunge the doctor over the edge such that he abandoned everything — his medical practice, his home, his [most likely] luxury car, and most of all, his identity. 

Without his wife and kids, his life no longer had any meaning. Nor was it worth living.

Was this self-annihilation was some sort of penance he believed he should be serving? Or did he lack the intestinal fortitude to hasten his reunion with his family in the afterlife? The bottom line was that he joined the ranks of the homeless.

I would like to think the doctor eventually found redemption either through cobbling together the shards of his previous life or rising from the ashes in flames like a phoenix.

Maybe he cared for the other homeless and gained a reputation on the streets as a healer. Or maybe he returned to practicing medicine and devoted his career to treating the homeless and disenfranchised.

However, if I were to write the story of his redemption, this is what I would include:

During a particularly crappy day at panhandling and getting roughed up he happened to look up and spy a familiar face. It was his face — his face on a mural on a building.

Maybe it was the vibrant, nontraditional colors of the mural that caught his attention. Maybe it was the golden hour sunlight shining on the mural that mesmerized him.

Whatever it was, it caused something to stir within him and course through his body like electricity.

During that split second, something catalyzed, causing him to know immediately that the trajectory of his life had changed.

A new journey was about to begin.

But where this journey took him is not something that I would know as I don’t feel confident that I have what it takes to spin a good story, especially one about someone I’ve never met.

However, the story that I am most familiar with is my own. And even that is constantly changing like a meandering river.

Just before I first moved to this area, I got hooked on a new artistic trajectory — drawing portraits. Even though I’ve been drawing my entire life, I had always shied away from portraiture because, basically, I thought I sucked at it.

But I had this really cool leather-bound book with handmade pages that I picked up during my visit to Houston in June 2014. And I was determined to actually do something with this notebook, instead of letting it fall to the same fate as that many other notebooks and sketchbooks that I bought — to have them languish in my studio (or wherever else I decided to stash them).

Because the very rough tooth of the paper would not work well with colored pencils, I decided to use Sharpies markers. The first few pages were covered with random scrawls. I was getting a feel for the paper.

My first “serious” piece was the Houston skyline. In my going through divorce proceedings, I made plans to move out of Lubbock. The intent was to move to Houston, where my daughter lived. 

But do you know how hard it is to find a place to live and a job 500 miles away? 

My house may have already been packed up — which, by the way, I literally did singlehandedly as I had my right arm in a sling from rotator cuff surgery in May. I was all set to move. And I had a real estate agent looking for rental homes in Houston.

It was a frustrating process. 

And somewhere along the line, I decided on doing a bit of sympathetic magick, of the artsy persuasion, in order to manifest my making it to Houston.

The thing with Sharpies is that they have a very limited palette. As such, I had to make some creative decisions about how I was going to color the skyline.

As I was creating my piece, I could feel the energy building with each stroke of color I laid down and with each “Oh my Lord! Oh my fucking Lord!” that I uttered throughout the process.

No casting circles or lighting candles for me. I did my magick through art. My drawing was my spell. And my intent was manifested some four or five months later.

In the meantime, I took a liking towards working with the Sharpies markers. I started experimenting with portraits — first with a stylized self portrait, and then followed by portraits of those near to me and close to my heart — namely my neighbor Jory and my daughter Ariana.

Remember that I mentioned that Sharpies markers have a limited palette that required creative decision making on my part?

Well, creative decisions were made for skin tones and hair color, which is why my people had orange or purple skin tone and hair color that was blue, pink, green, or purple. And oh yeah, I didn’t include white or black in my drawings. White was replaced by yellow, while black was replaced with the darkest blue that I could muster (which would involve layering a navy blue with a dark violet).

Anyhow, I found my new creative groove, and it felt awesome riding that wave. With each portrait I drew, I amazed myself with the results. “Wow! I did this?!”

My style was evolving. It was getting tighter and more refined. 

And the greatest compliment that I received was when my friend Marja told me, “You’re not just drawing people, you’re drawing their energies!”

Yes! It was all about the energy.

And the subjects that interested me the most were not the perfect or the beautiful. It was the characters and their emotional expressions.

When I started working for METRO as a train operator, I would see so many different characters that I wanted to draw. And it would frustrate the crap out of me that I could not take pictures of the characters I saw while I was operating the train through downtown and the ‘hood.

In the meantime, my brain was pinging with ideas and creative goals. One of those goals was to humanize the homeless through my Sharpies portraits — and not just Sharpies portraits, but also oil paintings, ceramic mosaics, and perhaps even big-ass murals on the sides of buildings.

What if people saw not the homeless, many of whom challenge our compassion, but their energy?

And what if the homeless saw that energy within themselves?

Art can be a tool for healing and maybe even redemption.

I may not know how many people I am able to heal through art. But I do know that one of those people is me.