June 15th, 2009
In our new neighbourhood there are quite a few little paths and trails that we are discovering. This, of course is the result of having a baby that we roll around in front of us, for the first five or six months in her pram, and lately in her stroller (she refuses to lie down now; she wants to be sitting up and drinking in every little detail of the world that she can possibly set her eyes on). A couple of the paths we travel on our journey have short bridges over a creek in one case, and a ravine in another.
And it is on these bridges that we sometimes come across the Artist Woman. I don't feel qualified to make a judgement about her mental state, though I sense she sees the world differently from the most of us. But I sense in her demeanour and body language a desire to stay alone and separated from other people. She is defensive, and I am glad to leave her well enough alone. I hope to any deities there might be out there, that the asshole bullying teenagers of the world don't notice her defensiveness; it would make her an easy target for their torments. Age notwithstanding. Anyhow, whatever her mental difficulties with the world, I refuse to call here The Crazy Woman (though, I admit with some embarrassment, I did call her that initially).
I call her the Artist Woman because she sits on a little chair mid-span of the two aforementioned bridges and draws pictures and writes out little words and phrases in multi-coloured chalk on the handrails. Sometimes there are little fish, cats, mice, or other small creatures. Sometimes she writes "Spring" and "Laughter". She once wrote the word "Joy" four times with flourishes in three different colours. Oftentimes she embellishes empty spaces with curlicues or little flowers and leaves. Sometimes just lines with attractive curves and angles.
Her drawing, as I said, is always in chalk which makes it harmless, since it fades over time naturally, and is frequently washed away by the rain or snow. Maybe she plans on this so that she can come back and draw or write some more.
Another thing that she occasionally does is to go along the paths on either sides of the bridges and stack rocks up into cairns. Like the chalk drawing, the cairns are quite temporary, as children, animals, even the wind and rain will topple them—especially considering her tendency to stack them in improbably unstable configurations. Here are a couple of examples:
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I have really enjoyed randomly coming across these little impermanent works of art through the paths of our neighbourhood. Once, as I approached her scribbling away on a bridge, I wanted to tell the Artist Woman exactly this, but I just walked past her as though she weren't there: As I said above, I can just tell that she wants to be left alone. Ignoring her is clearly what she wants people to do. Besides, what am I hoping to accomplish by telling her such a thing? It isn't All About Me, is it? Best to leave her alone to her pastime and for me enjoy it quietly from a distance. But I really like it.
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