Wednesday, May 17

Good times Seattle

“They says, You’re gonna’ go ta’ Nam’ ta’ fight the enemy and librate’ them farms, but all I did was kill the innocent and watch my buddies die.”

The Pain of an Old Man

The haggard, old, bearded man sang these words as he sat on a blue milk crate and accompanied himself with his beaten up guitar, all the while imploring the hundreds of tourists for one simple dollar or splash of change with his bloodshot and watery eyes. The old man’s voice was hoarse, dry, and piercing. His throat told the tale of countless cigarettes dragged and pulled in feeble attempts to replace his horrible memories. This strange man could have been Santa Claus except for his dirty clothes and long, greasy braided hair. As this man continued to sing, his musical memoirs and solitary stature reminded me of a jukebox, a jukebox that survived wars and strife tucked away in the back of some bar. Here was a man who stood firm through the passing of time, emerging with the scars of age.
The man’s mournful croon created an atmosphere worsened by the rich ocean saltiness emitting from the multitudes of fresh caught fish. The odorous presence of death spread up and down the market where the old man sat on his crate and reminisced about old times. As I walked on I suddenly needed to escape all the noise, the noise of the market and the noise of the man. These various sounds stretched out cold, steely tentacles that groped about through the air. I ran to escape. As I ran, I turned a corner and dashed towards a patio covered in rich fiery sunlight. As I moved to face my enemy, I saw that the tentacles had vaporized. Once safe, I turned and beheld a view so spectacular, I understood how I was rescued.
The sun, rising over the white painted mountains, glistening like a burning orb, was warming and giving life to everything. Here, face-to-face, with the glory of creation and its Creator, no evil could live. This was redemption. Here was power in front of which nothing evil could stand. As I left the balcony and returned along the way I had run, the poor old man with his beaten up guitar and songs of pain were no more to be found. He was set free.

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