Artist in residence

February 26, 2015 - Another nice and surprising moment, a la the fishermen asking me to help them move their boat: When I got back from the ETU this afternoon, I went over to pick up my clothes at the laundry tent. There was a bit of a line, and as I waited, I noticed a notebook open on the table inside. I was casually looking at what was written in it, noticing a heading there, some lines there, when it dawned on me that what I was looking at was a play. And, indeed, there they were – character names followed by text; stage directions. The tent was being manned by one of the many semi-anonymous (to me - !) staff members here at the tent camp – people you see from time to time but whom you know nothing about, and whom you can’t even speak with easily due to the language barrier. This guy, like most of the laundry tent staff, had often seemed a bit abrupt and unhelpful, so that I’ve developed a mixture of mild anxiety and mild irritation every time I have to go up there. Anyway, when I got to the window I asked him, “Are you writing a play?” And he said “Yes.” And gave me my laundry. No less abrupt, no more helpful, and I still know nothing about him – but suddenly, a whole inner life opened up for a second. Not just a surly guy whom I don’t talk to – but a surly guy I don’t talk to who is writing a play. 

It’s kind of embarrassing that this sudden bursting forth of three dimensions – or of color, like in the Wizard of Oz – should have surprised and pleased me so much (I am beginning to realize that this blog is revealing more about my character than perhaps I would have chosen to show!). But I frequently don’t pay enough attention to the individuals around me, and less and less the more the distances – social, economic, linguistic, cultural – grow. It’s good to be brought up short.