With little else to say or do,
the mind will flounder and shudder,
while one must wonder who,
if any,
can still make their heart flutter.
with little else to do or say,
and a hint that is only an impression,
the mind is but a ground to play,
endless games of obsession.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The War Time Storyteller
The foreigner contemplates his moves carefully, peaking round corners and down narrow alleys. He cannot possibly know where he is, nor where he is going. Somewhere in the distance, a crowd of gathered locals looks on, clearly surprised at his bravado. He goes places where they cannot, where they dare not. Constantly glancing upwards, he hears sounds of unknown distance and feels tremors that rock the earth beneath his feet.
Rarely a quiet night passes for the war correspondent. His curious gaze watches from the battlefield as the skies above a city are unnaturally lit. He can be seen talking to an old rambling woman, taking notes as both his fate and hers is decided elsewhere, or posing behind the smoky, blackened corridor of a building taking photographs of its remains. His is a risky business.
Obviously well-fed, healthy and in stark contrast to everything around him, he resembles a fresh spot on a very dirty canvas. Clearly alien, his once clean-shaven complexion is replaced by unkempt stubble, the product of more than a night on the field. What were once designer jeans are now riddled with dried mud from laying on the ground in fear. He carries a state-of-the-art camera, though it is no longer in the best shape, a tiny, battered briefcase and cheap sunglasses that hardly shield the eyes.
He is surrounded by chaos with no available refuge; sent to the most dangerous places on earth, the war correspondent lives in a constant, almost suicidal search for truth and answers. He picks his way through mine-riddled streets of hardly familiar cities in search of those who may not wish to be found. Soldiers surround him, patrolling lawless streets in armed, hungry bands. In all this confusion he must find a source. Not a moment’s peace passes without the unseen, unpredictable interruption of high pitch whistles that are incoming missiles, or the all-encompassing crash of nearby buildings in collapse. There is nowhere to hide except the streets, where in constant movement he seeks out potential sources or tracks down old ones.
While most people flock away from the violence of war, this character must be drawn to it like a moth to the flame. He is never at home there, more often than not standing out in his Western clothes and manners, insisting on shaking hands with strangers, smoking all kinds of cigarettes and generally asking too many questions.
Many will not speak to him; he must charm the words out of them. The locals are not sure who this stranger is, they peer suspiciously from a distance though they are always near. Some confer with him openly, in broken English or with their hands and eyes, explaining their misery to this outsider who listens. He eventually becomes their window to the world; hope that perhaps someone cares. He probes and prods, though at times he waits for a mother’s tears to dry before inquiring about her dead daughter, or helps a child to his feet before moving on. There are times when he seems a mad warrior advancing steadily into the fray. They watch him hopefully, not knowing when their very own storyteller shall return, if ever.
Rarely a quiet night passes for the war correspondent. His curious gaze watches from the battlefield as the skies above a city are unnaturally lit. He can be seen talking to an old rambling woman, taking notes as both his fate and hers is decided elsewhere, or posing behind the smoky, blackened corridor of a building taking photographs of its remains. His is a risky business.
Obviously well-fed, healthy and in stark contrast to everything around him, he resembles a fresh spot on a very dirty canvas. Clearly alien, his once clean-shaven complexion is replaced by unkempt stubble, the product of more than a night on the field. What were once designer jeans are now riddled with dried mud from laying on the ground in fear. He carries a state-of-the-art camera, though it is no longer in the best shape, a tiny, battered briefcase and cheap sunglasses that hardly shield the eyes.
He is surrounded by chaos with no available refuge; sent to the most dangerous places on earth, the war correspondent lives in a constant, almost suicidal search for truth and answers. He picks his way through mine-riddled streets of hardly familiar cities in search of those who may not wish to be found. Soldiers surround him, patrolling lawless streets in armed, hungry bands. In all this confusion he must find a source. Not a moment’s peace passes without the unseen, unpredictable interruption of high pitch whistles that are incoming missiles, or the all-encompassing crash of nearby buildings in collapse. There is nowhere to hide except the streets, where in constant movement he seeks out potential sources or tracks down old ones.
While most people flock away from the violence of war, this character must be drawn to it like a moth to the flame. He is never at home there, more often than not standing out in his Western clothes and manners, insisting on shaking hands with strangers, smoking all kinds of cigarettes and generally asking too many questions.
Many will not speak to him; he must charm the words out of them. The locals are not sure who this stranger is, they peer suspiciously from a distance though they are always near. Some confer with him openly, in broken English or with their hands and eyes, explaining their misery to this outsider who listens. He eventually becomes their window to the world; hope that perhaps someone cares. He probes and prods, though at times he waits for a mother’s tears to dry before inquiring about her dead daughter, or helps a child to his feet before moving on. There are times when he seems a mad warrior advancing steadily into the fray. They watch him hopefully, not knowing when their very own storyteller shall return, if ever.
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