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Everyday He Writes The Book

"Smile, make a pot of chamomile tea, pretend there's an orange hanging above your head, point at it and laugh". That was what an old man who lived under a bridge near my school once told me. He was wise and had white hair covering his face, it hanged like necklaces from his neck. It was a work of art. There was more artistic integrity on that old man's face than most modern art bullshit that exists nowadays, don't even get me started with all that psycho babble. Let's just fucking say I could be doing some art with some random girl's face as a blank canvas tonight and call it a modern day Jackson Pollock or some re-imagination of his earlier works.

The old man looked like what I would have imagined Chewbacca would look like if the Chinese came up with Star Wars. Spewing words of sage and wisdom only a few could comprehend, and I was lucky enough to understand him. An orange magically appears over my head whenever my girlfriend starts talking about how a guy was flirting with her in the office, or whenever my mother tells me to buck up because I'm no longer a teenager. Boys would bring bags of little rocks to throw at him after school when the sun goes down, while he meditated under the bridge, never moving a muscle. A Zen master if there ever was one.

A force field protected him from the bullshit that's being regurgitated on our heads every second of every hour, everyday for the rest of our lives. The Zen master didn't even bother picking out rocks that got stuck in his glorious beard. He would get up from a meditation position and start dancing, like Fred Astaire high on acid, it was spectacular. Everyday I would observe him from afar. I would be seated on a wooden bench with Elvis Costello's 'Everyday I Write The Book' playing in my heart, and with a sandwich in my right hand I would say, "What a fucking legend" . I would then stand up and give him a thumbs up as a form of salutation because Mister White is pretty fucking awesome.
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Copyright © © 2012 Ab Syahid All Rights Reserved

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