Isa: When $2.35 flutters onto my woolen scarf at 11:57 A.M., I know
exactly who it is. For the past two weeks, my benefactor walks by this
street corner on his way to work, and stops to hear me play. It’s the
change from his coffee, a five dollar bill is all he’s ever had to pay for
it. I figure he brings five dollar bills in anticipation of seeing me. In
fact, over these past two weeks, he’s given me quite a little sum of money,
and a nice chunk of time.
Not bothering to look up from my xylophone, I smile and watch his feet walk over to the low wall on which I’m sitting, in the small patio outside the Faring Community College.
I lessen the volume of my drumming. A light melody comes from the wooden slats, beaten on rhythmically by my felt-tipped sticks. I’m in a good mood today, though it’s a wonder when you’ll find differently. Besides, who wants to part with their money with a depressed performer, when they can easily cross the street and give it to someone who thanks them? Maybe my philosophy’s a little screwy, but I figure that I’m making money the best way I know how, and if I can help brighten the area a bit, what’s the big deal?
I’m tapping out a soft song full of trilling scales and Rasta beats, while my companion settles down beside me. He rummages about in his bag for a few moments, muttering, while I patiently wait for the camera to emerge.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------
Michael: I’m coming to see Isobelia again. God, what a beautiful name. Just like herself, though she’s nothing as elegant or refined as Isobelia-the-name. I’ve been coming to hear her everyday for the past two weeks...yet I’m startled to see a new person awaiting me every time.
The first time that I encountered her, I was on my way over to Merry Jane’s Cafe, at the corner of Crest Street and the beginning of Reed Park, when I hear this light drumming, a xylophone, but stranger somehow. Heading east into the college campus, and away from Reed Park, I turn the corner into the Faring patio and see her. She’s slight and thin, sitting cross-legged against an ivy-covered wall, filled with tiny lavender flowers. Her hair, light brown with rusty red highlights, is bunched up in a bun, wild coiling curls like copper trailing down across her shoulders. I can’t see her face, looking down intently at her instrument, but her slim fingers are milk chocolate colored, light and smooth. She’s sitting amongst her bags and canvas packs, on a woven blanket that’s seen the sun everyday since it was made. Dressed in a motley assortment of clothing and styles, it fits her perfectly, though would seem ridiculous on anyone else. She’s young, from what I see, a couple of years younger than my twenty-nine, but carrying that intensity that almost every street performer seems to cultivate.
She’s pounding out her rhythms on an old, rain-warped xylophone, her hair swinging wildly as she dips and nods her head to the beat. The xylophone, I note as I sit at a cafe table across the patio, is small and shabby, about knee-high and made of some cheap, lightwood. The slats are dented and worn, causing the player to strike them more vigorously to get the volume desired, and making the sound produced quite original. Less of the general Caribbean sound and more of a rock ‘n’ roll...if it’s possible on a xylophone. I’m watching her, gazing idly around the plaza, nodding my head to her music, and drinking in the day full of sun. I sigh, complacent to sit here for hours, listening to a woman’s siren song encased in a xylophone box.
I’m feeling better, I suppose better than I have in months. The article on street people I’m assigned to write for the newspaper doesn’t weigh so heavily on me, and not much seems to matter. In a life like mine, relaxation is something I choose to cherish wisely. But it’s strange...it takes too much time for me to unwind, so that it gets to a point where I can’t do it, because I’m getting nervous that I’m wasting time that I desperately need, in order to work on yet another task. Yet just sitting here...even though I know that I have important deeds to accomplish, they just don’t weigh as heavily, I’m thinking about them objectively. It’s nice really.
And then she gives one final bang on her instrument, ending the set. The world comes crashing down around me yet again.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
Isa: I’m sighing, but I’m not giving up for today. Only one o’clock in the afternoon, the after school traffic hasn’t even started yet. Still, there are some people left in this city, and I’m planning on doing them a service. Besides, the tourists haven’t had a chance to drive in on this beautiful Friday afternoon. Time to head into the college complex, building three, History and Humanities. Room twenty-four, floor one. I’ll check up on Marcus, then head back out, maybe to the Park. There’s always some busker there, could run into anyone from Merry Jane. Time to fly, pack it up.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------
Michael: I can’t believe I just spent over an hour simply sitting there like a log listening to some busker! At this rate I’ll never get anything productive done today. And she’s leaving just like that? Without a thank you to the audience, or asking for a bit of change? The best thing I can do is give her the change leftover from my coffee. Standing, and letting the blood flow back into my legs, I realize that I’m the only audience member left. An empty, sun swept plaza, red brick growing warmer in the still and humid day. Without her music, it seems hotter...and lonelier. I hurry to collect my camera bag, then rush across the patio to catch the performer.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---
Isa: My blanket’s wrapped tightly around my xylo and stowed inside my large satchel, along with a thick atlas, a bundle of papers that Marcus requested, and a small picnic lunch for us. With all of the weight, I overbalance as I heave the bag onto my shoulders, and plunk straight onto my rear end. I laugh and groan simultaneously, but I see a young Asian man hurrying towards me with an amused albeit worried grin on his face. He chuckles and extends a hand in my direction. Taking the helping hand, I drag myself to standing, nearly toppling the man with the weight of my bag.
“Thanks a bunch,â€
Not bothering to look up from my xylophone, I smile and watch his feet walk over to the low wall on which I’m sitting, in the small patio outside the Faring Community College.
I lessen the volume of my drumming. A light melody comes from the wooden slats, beaten on rhythmically by my felt-tipped sticks. I’m in a good mood today, though it’s a wonder when you’ll find differently. Besides, who wants to part with their money with a depressed performer, when they can easily cross the street and give it to someone who thanks them? Maybe my philosophy’s a little screwy, but I figure that I’m making money the best way I know how, and if I can help brighten the area a bit, what’s the big deal?
I’m tapping out a soft song full of trilling scales and Rasta beats, while my companion settles down beside me. He rummages about in his bag for a few moments, muttering, while I patiently wait for the camera to emerge.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------
Michael: I’m coming to see Isobelia again. God, what a beautiful name. Just like herself, though she’s nothing as elegant or refined as Isobelia-the-name. I’ve been coming to hear her everyday for the past two weeks...yet I’m startled to see a new person awaiting me every time.
The first time that I encountered her, I was on my way over to Merry Jane’s Cafe, at the corner of Crest Street and the beginning of Reed Park, when I hear this light drumming, a xylophone, but stranger somehow. Heading east into the college campus, and away from Reed Park, I turn the corner into the Faring patio and see her. She’s slight and thin, sitting cross-legged against an ivy-covered wall, filled with tiny lavender flowers. Her hair, light brown with rusty red highlights, is bunched up in a bun, wild coiling curls like copper trailing down across her shoulders. I can’t see her face, looking down intently at her instrument, but her slim fingers are milk chocolate colored, light and smooth. She’s sitting amongst her bags and canvas packs, on a woven blanket that’s seen the sun everyday since it was made. Dressed in a motley assortment of clothing and styles, it fits her perfectly, though would seem ridiculous on anyone else. She’s young, from what I see, a couple of years younger than my twenty-nine, but carrying that intensity that almost every street performer seems to cultivate.
She’s pounding out her rhythms on an old, rain-warped xylophone, her hair swinging wildly as she dips and nods her head to the beat. The xylophone, I note as I sit at a cafe table across the patio, is small and shabby, about knee-high and made of some cheap, lightwood. The slats are dented and worn, causing the player to strike them more vigorously to get the volume desired, and making the sound produced quite original. Less of the general Caribbean sound and more of a rock ‘n’ roll...if it’s possible on a xylophone. I’m watching her, gazing idly around the plaza, nodding my head to her music, and drinking in the day full of sun. I sigh, complacent to sit here for hours, listening to a woman’s siren song encased in a xylophone box.
I’m feeling better, I suppose better than I have in months. The article on street people I’m assigned to write for the newspaper doesn’t weigh so heavily on me, and not much seems to matter. In a life like mine, relaxation is something I choose to cherish wisely. But it’s strange...it takes too much time for me to unwind, so that it gets to a point where I can’t do it, because I’m getting nervous that I’m wasting time that I desperately need, in order to work on yet another task. Yet just sitting here...even though I know that I have important deeds to accomplish, they just don’t weigh as heavily, I’m thinking about them objectively. It’s nice really.
And then she gives one final bang on her instrument, ending the set. The world comes crashing down around me yet again.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
Isa: I’m sighing, but I’m not giving up for today. Only one o’clock in the afternoon, the after school traffic hasn’t even started yet. Still, there are some people left in this city, and I’m planning on doing them a service. Besides, the tourists haven’t had a chance to drive in on this beautiful Friday afternoon. Time to head into the college complex, building three, History and Humanities. Room twenty-four, floor one. I’ll check up on Marcus, then head back out, maybe to the Park. There’s always some busker there, could run into anyone from Merry Jane. Time to fly, pack it up.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------
Michael: I can’t believe I just spent over an hour simply sitting there like a log listening to some busker! At this rate I’ll never get anything productive done today. And she’s leaving just like that? Without a thank you to the audience, or asking for a bit of change? The best thing I can do is give her the change leftover from my coffee. Standing, and letting the blood flow back into my legs, I realize that I’m the only audience member left. An empty, sun swept plaza, red brick growing warmer in the still and humid day. Without her music, it seems hotter...and lonelier. I hurry to collect my camera bag, then rush across the patio to catch the performer.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---
Isa: My blanket’s wrapped tightly around my xylo and stowed inside my large satchel, along with a thick atlas, a bundle of papers that Marcus requested, and a small picnic lunch for us. With all of the weight, I overbalance as I heave the bag onto my shoulders, and plunk straight onto my rear end. I laugh and groan simultaneously, but I see a young Asian man hurrying towards me with an amused albeit worried grin on his face. He chuckles and extends a hand in my direction. Taking the helping hand, I drag myself to standing, nearly toppling the man with the weight of my bag.
“Thanks a bunch,â€