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Street Findings



When we see a destitute man hunched over a shopping cart or a stained woman in rags with the top of shoes on callused feet, do we feel a sympathetic sense of indignation? Do we feel compassion? If they did have shoes, could we stand inside them?

It was 1983, I was waiting in a friend's car while she ran into a nearby shop. Something from across the street caught my eye. It was somehow off key relative to the music of the city. I studied the stirrings of newspapers and plastic bags. A cough of exhaust from passing bus unveiled a vague shape of a woman amongst the pandemonium of torn magazines, Styrofoam cups, McDonalds burger wrappers, grocery bags and various other urban droppings.

Nearby, stood a granny pull-cart filled with still more bags.

She was shaped by the debris of her city, She appeared to be organizing and reorganizing various discarded plastic bottles and aluminum soda cans with genteel precision of a collector of fine crystal. Every so often, she'd abruptly stop and take out shinny gold tube of blood-red lipstick and frantically circle and re-circle her worn lips; rebelliously crossing their chafed boundaries.

I felt a sudden rush of self-consciousness wash over me. Why was I so entranced by her every demented move? What did she represent?

She reorganized her bags once more. This time, putting them at the base of a nearby telephone poll. My mind saw her in slow motion against the bustling city. With the grace of a ballerina, she stood fully erect; chin tilted upward and ever so slightly arching her back. She lifted the tattered, crochet hat from her head. Her long white hair cascaded down ward around her shoulders; all except for a few maverick strands that flew up with the city's breath. She smiled contentedly and closed her eyes as we both inhaled deeply. I could no longer tell where she ended and I began. She was a Goddess, as lovely as any fair maiden …unassuming.

Meanwhile, people obliviously walked by this grand lady as they talked on cellular phones, puffed on cigarettes, pushed baby strollers, pulled on dog leashes never coming close to eye contact with this woman.

I had to see her eyes. Why? From my back opera seat of a '82 Honda Civic, I observed the perplexing mystery that emanated from this untamed shrew of Wilshire Blvd.

I watched myself open the car door. I got out and just stood as she arranged her precious cargo.

At one point, nothing else existed but her and I ….all sounds distant, movement suspended. I became numb to the city. Cars peripherally crossed my path as I jaywalked across the boulevard. I took a five-dollar from the rear pocket of my blue jeans and seated myself beside her on the bus bench. I was now participant instead of the voyeur. Somehow, I knew that words had no place. In tandem with my curiosity was the fear. If she were to look into my eyes what would she see?

I pantomimed as I took her hand and placed the bill very deliberately into it. She faced my direction. With the hand that received my offering she replaced it into the hand that offered it as if she had done it five times a day; everyday. I look at her face to show her my insistence, when I saw her eyes. They were cool, not cold but cool, like watery mirrored circles reflecting all my motivations back at me. She smiled as if to signify that she was in no need.

She was regal. She was also blind. Yet, her eyes were brilliant and revealing. She was not burdened with visions of the city; of this reality. She would forever be the young maiden running gleefully from castle to castle over the countryside carefully holding up the hem of her gown to make way for her ambitious bare feet.



With my own closed eyes, I could see her in the distance with a tall pointed hat; chiffon spilling from its tiptop. How I envied her.

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