Mumbles the Man

It's quiet on the train in the mornings. . .at least at the time I get on. Waiting outside in the darkness in the poorly lit yellow lighting for the MAX you are wide awake. Then you step onto the platform into the warm oasis that awaits. I think the difference in temperature is what lulls most people asleep. Some people close their eyes and rest their heads up against the glass holding onto the hand loops for support. Those lucky enough to get a seat turn into bobble heads. With every jolting turn the train makes and every abrupt stop their bodies move and swoosh around. If I didn't know any better I would  think they were weightless. The only things that break up the silence are the shuffling of bags and feet as they enter and exit the train, and the occasional page turn of a newspaper. It gives me a headache to watch someone read in the mornings. I think about my ideal reading scenarios and none of them include reading right after waking up, in dim light, and on a moving vehicle. I caught an earlier train today and there was plenty of seating. The seating arrangement is weird and there are two platforms. One upper platform that is really just two raised rows of two seats separated by an aisle. This makes me think of Noah's ark. At the front of these rows is another row of seats about 5 seats wide that face the opposite direction of the seats before them and have their backs facing the front of the train structure. I never sit in these seats because everyone appears to be watching you. A man who I assume is homeless, but in Portland you can never be sure, boards the train and sits in those seats. He stretched his legs across three open seats and puts his back to the wall of the train. The only things in his possession are his backpack and his guitar. He has long, stringy hair and he looks worn, like he got on the train without a destination. He puts he fingers of one hand over his head and at first I think he is going to sleep, but then I realize that he is not. He keeps grabbing his hat and putting on his head. I guess it doesn't feel just right so he frustratingly takes it off and puts it back on again. This action happens over and over again and the passengers in front of him can hear him mumbling under his breath. I have no idea what he was mumbling, but I would like to think it's words of encouragement or motivation. The mumbling frightens several men in the front rows and most of them move. Surprisingly only a few women and one asleep young male are left within the vicinity of the mumbling man. I am left pondering why that is. Maybe it is the nurturing instinct of women to be close to people who need saving, or maybe this particular group of women just don't care. I am in the group of having an invested interest in insanity and as I look around at the others I think I am the only one in this group. I continue to watch the man in front of me as the invisible cables that are holding him together begin to snap one by one setting him into a flurry of tears. The tears clean the dirt off his cheeks as he continues to smush the hat back on his head and then take it off again. He begins to push and pull his guitar case and manipulate his body at different angles. It seemed as if he thought that moving his body instead of the hat would make the hat fit correctly. Then he gave up. He put his head down and the strings of his hair covered his eyes and his nose gently touching lips like yarn. He let the hat rest loosely on the top of his head and stayed really still. I copied his motions so that I could better understand what he was saying with his body. This is probably the first time I have been still in a while and I began to think inwardly. My focus shifted from the man to my own unrest. I began to realize that I am part of every person that changed their seat. I come to the conclusion that lately I have been predictable. I get up and I do the same routine every day. Predictability equals stability and stability equals comfort. The people that moved away, moved because this man was unpredictable and that made them uncomfortable. It was like a light turned on inside of me and I immediately wanted to book a flight to Europe or Hike to New Mexico. Like the man on the train I immediately wanted to outwardly project my frustrations and mumble words of encouragement to myself. The man got off at the next stop and I got off shortly after. While walking the couple blocks to work I asked myself: is that man crazy because he looks on the outside how he feels on the inside or am I crazy because I don't.

Crocheting the Madness

I stepped onto the blue line Max train platform as I normally do. It's usually packed with people trying to search with their hands and feet for any place to hold to while the train jerks and jumps about. Today it was fairly empty. To my surprise there was even an empty seat. I quickly grabbed it and tried to cover up the sign that said " Senior and Disability Seating." I would've given my seat up had a senior or disabled person sauntered over. . .maybe. For now, however it was mine. My eyes darted around trying not to land on any certain person. I have a tendency to stare, so I have learned to use my peripheral vision. Of all the interesting people around the train, the most interesting person was sitting right across from me. I looked at her while she crocheted. She looked plain almost invisible. Her white nondescript 80's company shirt was a bit too small and her belly peeked under it resting onto her lap. Her blue jeans were faded and I concentrated hard on her face because I thought she could've been one of the many nameless people that show up on missing bulletins. She put her big "bag lady bag" onto the seat next to her to indicate the seat was taken. It wasn't taken by a person though she just wanted to be alone. She was crocheting a scarf and while crocheting itself is not all that captivating she was doing it in such a way that caught my attention. She seemed angry when she handled the thread. As she was yanking the yarn forward, then back, then under I thought of my grandmother. I remember when I was 8 and she used to make me sit by her chair and crochet the beginning chains of the yarn for her so that I could learn. Her hands were delicate and she held the yarn with purpose, but also with a sense of freedom. She allowed the yarn to move through her fingers effortlessly and each stitch was just as perfect as the one before it. As I watched the woman across from me I couldn't help but anticipate the yarn snagging and getting tangled on her, but it never did. She tugged on it as if she were at war with something. I assumed that her loops would be uneven, but when I caught a glance at her stitching the scarf was even. It was as well done as one you would buy in the store. She was fast and masculine and had a hard stare at people entering and exiting the train. The irony in all this anger is that her scarf looked happy and peaceful. To me it was symbolic of tranquility through violence; that sometimes you have to fight with yourself, wear yourself down, and chastise your demons in order for you to fully understand what joy feels like. You have to go through hell to understand even the simplest of joys like crocheting a scarf . . .or wearing one.

The observation

I started this blog because I like to form acute observations of people and write about them. I ride this transit system called the MAX line in Portland,Oregon and observe the most interesting people. These people are so interesting in fact that I decided that I should write about them. I should document the little nuances in excepts and essays and forever immortalize them for digital review in my online Max diary.