He's not crazy, I don't think.
Mar. 19th, 2011 02:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inkydinkThere is an old man with a beard and curly hair talking to himself while stealing tiny chili peppers from the bush outside my window. I asked him what he was doing, and he frowned, counted the little chili peppers in his palm, and said, "Eight." I asked him if he wanted any mangoes or starfruit or breadfruit because there's a ton of them in the yard having just fallen from the hot blustery wind, and he said no, that wasn't going to save us from destruction.
He is a taong-grasa (grease man), the generic term we have for those homeless bag people who are covered with grease and dirt and carry all their possessions around in big plastic grocery bags. I don't think he's homeless, though, he's a little too clean, and his hair seems to have been combed and cut recently (though maybe not today) and his shirt is white. Sort of.
I can't decide if he looks like my dad, back in the last days of Alzheimer's, when he would walk around the village finding treasures of thrown away flowers from the flower shops, broken toys to fix and random VHS tapes of classic films thrown away by people who don't know how to fix a stuck tangled tape, treasures for me that he would rummage around for in the grassy heaps all day, until some kindhearted tricycle driver who knew him from way back when ("Oh he's still the smartest man around, ma'am! I always love talking to him about books!") would convince him to take his tricycle home; or Jesus.
He just took three mangoes and said the world is ending but I would be emperor for the last fifteen minutes.
Not a bad deal for three mangoes.
He is a taong-grasa (grease man), the generic term we have for those homeless bag people who are covered with grease and dirt and carry all their possessions around in big plastic grocery bags. I don't think he's homeless, though, he's a little too clean, and his hair seems to have been combed and cut recently (though maybe not today) and his shirt is white. Sort of.
I can't decide if he looks like my dad, back in the last days of Alzheimer's, when he would walk around the village finding treasures of thrown away flowers from the flower shops, broken toys to fix and random VHS tapes of classic films thrown away by people who don't know how to fix a stuck tangled tape, treasures for me that he would rummage around for in the grassy heaps all day, until some kindhearted tricycle driver who knew him from way back when ("Oh he's still the smartest man around, ma'am! I always love talking to him about books!") would convince him to take his tricycle home; or Jesus.
He just took three mangoes and said the world is ending but I would be emperor for the last fifteen minutes.
Not a bad deal for three mangoes.