Bill

05.27.2013, Monday, Memorial Day

Logan Square

Bill

“Do you mind if I paint your portrait?” “I would be flattered.” That’s how we started our conversation. “I am a poet,” he explained, and a notebook with the handwritten lines landed on my laps. I started reading. Mostly bible references, stuff I already know. It somehow made sense to him, not to me. “Thank you,” I said and started squeezing paint on the pallet.  Even before any meaningful image appeared, by-passers stopped to compliment.  “We are just starting here,” I said modestly. Bill asked, “Was it you another day painting Don sleeping on the bench at the Love park?” “Yes,” I said. “Did he know that you were painting him?”  “Yes,” I said, “I always ask permission. Where were you?” “I was in the crowd. There was a big crowd,” he said. “What did you think?” “I thought it all was beautiful. Like real life.” He paused  and asked, “Why did you choose me?” It made me think  There was a bearded old man sleeping on the bench at the beginning of the alley; I didn’t fancy waking him up. There was an obviously homeless guy sitting at the very end of the alley; he might be responsive or not. And then there was Bill in the middle, and he might not be homeless. “You are handsome, that’s why.” “Thank you,” he sighed. “Why do you write what is in the Bible?” I asked.  “I don’t know; it comes to my mind. I think about Hebrews. I study Hebrew. My mother is a minister; she went to Israel with her ministry. She wants to be a Hebrew, too. I was here celebrating 50 years of Israel. It is good to feel like you are a part of something. “ "A feeling of belonging?" I asked. "Yes," he sight. “I am more interested in your own experiences than in what's in the Bible,” I challenged. “My own experiences? I should have died many times. I don’t know why I am still alive. I was hit by car, stabbed with knife, shut, but I didn’t die. I was on drugs; I am clean now, homeless. I live; so there must be a reason. What’s the reason? I have to find it.” He became very thoughtful again, then continued, “You paint, it makes sense. You have a purpose. Your painting is a purpose.”  I smiled, “Painting doesn’t make any sense. No one wants my paintings.” “But you paint anyway, because you have a talent. Is that how you feel? You feel like you must paint, because you have a talent, don’t you? Your painting keeps you going. I write poetry all the time. I have a laptop. Here is my flesh-drive. Thanks god for my flash-drive!” I was fixed on his mouth; it moved and changed expressions; his teeth shining then disappearing behind full lips making it hard to tell whether he was smiling or lamenting. “I would feel better if I had my morning coffee,” he said. “I will clean up and take you out for coffee.” He was embarrassed, “It’s not what I meant!” “I know. We will go to Le Colombe.” “I don’t know this place.” It’s at Rittenhouse. The best coffee in town.” “You know what I think, “said Bill as we walked to the car, “when you were painting me, you concentrated on me, but when I write poetry, I concentrate on myself…” There was a line at Le Colombe. “Do you have a pen?” He asked. “Here.”  “Where do you want to sit?” “Why don’t you take a table for us while I wait in line.” “He sat down on the first available chair and took out his notebook. When I put mugs of Americano in front of him, he didn’t raise his head; he was writing.  “I put some milk and sugar in your coffee,” I said. “I usually don’t use sugar,” he said, “but it’s ok.” “I put very little…” He showed me his page:

“It is at this time that my life is worth something shining above the horizon.

When water and color come together there is always life in the moment.

I pray for another day closer to the purpose when it will all come to the surface.

The world eludes me over time under the thumb of oppression

fighting time trying to live.

It is the breath of life that keeps me right.

The tightness of living free is what it is like being me.

In time many colors will fade, made by man since the dawn of time.

The echoes of the years past come into light

feeling of despair caring for those who once cared for others.

We are lovers of ourselves.

The demand must stop atop the loneliest tree

seeing all I see this is what it is like being me.”

William Underwood

“It is beautiful,” I said, but he shook his head “I even don’t know what it means! If you like it explain it to me!” “You want me to explain it to you?” I was buying time. He jerked impatiently, “So, now I put you on the hot seat?” I had to speak, so I said,

“People are forms within forms, within forms; it goes down one never knows how deep. Most people like to create new forms to make them look better, to protect themselves from others, but mostly to cover that deep disturbing void, which doesn’t have bottom. You are different; you listen to the voices from that void, and open yourself to it. I am like that, too, so there, on the very deep level all people connect, and I can connect to you through your poem. I hear that voice, too.”