Tough

Stomp. Feeling tough today. This Japanese World War II jacket is emblazoned with dragons, tigers, and eagles. Empowering as I slip into its satiny depths.   Warm, light, I could sleep in this if I had only a bench in the park. I wear it over a black dotted Swiss circle skirt over old crinolines fluffing out, feminine. My head wrap? A navy wool swimsuit bottom by Janzen, the white belt buckled snugly to keep it in place. Shades and heavy boots and stomping through the city streets. GROWL.

 

I see:

An old man shuffling down the road, the cuffs of khakis dragging in the dust, suspenders holding them up over a bone butt. Wearing a bow tie above the grey white shirt covered in sweat stains, an ill fitting cowboy hat and maroon bedroom slippers completed his outfit.

Nodding, grinning, and saluting every passerby he was known as Ol'Jac he had walked main street for twenty seven years but no one knew his real name or where he slept at night. He had regular stops. Mornings he visited the donut Hole and was given a bag of yesterday's doughnuts and a cup of steaming black coffee. This he consumed sitting on the steps of Central Bank before it opened at ten. Later he took the dirt path to Uppy's service station where he stood hands in pockets listening to gossip from customers, nodding and saluting when spoken to. But it was in the park that he got excited. Sitting on a green bench under a leafy maple tree he watched the collage students moving between classes, crossing the green, riding bicycles with coats flying, and strolling with arms full of books or messenger bags slung across their chest. Every day he would see some cleverly put together young person daring convention, defying gravity, wearing a painters palette. Jac noted every detail often scribbling in a ragged notebook he kept in a back pocket.  Stub of a pencil he sharpened with his old boy scout knife that hung on a chain stuffed in a front pocket.

I will stuff a small notebook and a stub of a pencil in my pocket. I will sketch what I see.