Not everyone is considered Homeless. Not everyone may be going through some difficulties. You see a Homeless man on a busy street corner begging for change and on the other side, standing waiting for a cab, a working man, flagging for his ride to work. Not everyone takes the same road of life so to speak. Not everyone must hurt to get somewhere. We all have something to do whether it is to feed a family, to make ends meet, to fill a desire, no matter what it is there is something out there in the world that keeps us going.
Life is what you make of it, whether it is good or bad, happy or sad. We all end up somewhere. Where? Now that’s difficult to predict. Neither you nor I can see the future unless it’s handed down from Above to give us a glimpse of what is to come. “Nothing is for free” have you heard of that expression? Somewhere down the line we all get to pay for something. It may not be what we would like it to be but somewhere it has found us and its asking for its due. Do we wait for the knock from the door to see what is behind it? Or do we allow it to come in and take its course? Don’t be conned, life is very limited. I’ve written a short script called “Time of Limitation.” I hope you enjoy it.
*I'm sorry about the long delay of my script but it's up for viewing now. Thank you and I hope you enjoy it.http://docs.google.com/View?docID=dc8cwq2f_1cctgt9dq&revision=_latest
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Unnoticed
Sometimes places can engulf us. Making it seem we are not alone, that there are others out in the world, which also are fixed in a place, a time, where they may not be counted in a specific group or a member of…
Have you walked down a crowded street, so crowded that you know that if a family member come to look for you, it would be very difficult fishing you out among the crowd. People circling you, walking this way and that way, zooming by you—some curses you as if you were on wheels—to get out of the way. And they, trying their best to get to their own destinations, have no time to fool with you; so can you imagine your family perspective fishing you out would be an impossible feat, right? But what if you had no family or no friend, that isn’t looking for you? You are in this crowd, by yourself, you probably can stand on a corner and no one would lift an eyelid your way.
To be unnoticed can be a hurtful thing, especially if you have something to say, you can feel it in your chest, your bones. You just want to let it out of your system—there’s something that concerns you but no one stops to listen or even lift an eyelid to see you standing on that lone corner of a sidewalk being passed-by unnoticed.
There are millions and millions of people who like this, are unnoticed. You could be walking down a street and you see a guy lying down on a cold ground, in filthy clothing, disheveled hair, and worn out shoes, asleep; the only thing supporting him is yesterday’s newspaper. The only thing descent for him to lie upon between the ground and himself to try to keep what little left ‘clean’—‘I guess he never lost respect of, let us see who is in today’s obituary—could be a playing thought for him. He probably had a life just like the rest of the people in the crowd. The working class, who storm down busy sidewalks just to get to their 9 to 5’s, this homeless man, can say ‘I once had that.’ Of course he did but somehow something happened along the way changed things. Leeching, drawing this man to a world he now knows as the streets. And here he lay sleeping away where once help was a skip away and now is forever gone, just like his years. And people now pass him unnoticed. However this is one example. What if there were families going on in life unnoticed. Children suffering the fate as this poor man. There are many. I have written a story called “Unnoticed.” I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Unnoticed by Lavel Wideman
A mother swiftly walks, carrying heavy bags of food, carefully propping them in her boney arms, making sure they don’t fall to the wayside, as her children toddle behind her—hand in hand—they follow eagerly anticipating the goodies that awaits them once they reach home. Only enough food to last a few days—no more, no less, will probably last with effort.
They live in the projects, ‘the concrete jungle’ as some would say. They live in the projects—apartment 38-B to be exact. In a big city, with big people who happens to have little bitty hearts. Doors shut from anyone from begging.
Their apartment is not so big, not too small either, with few furniture humbly displayed throughout the small one bedroom unit. With long curtains draping the window, as plastic seals the cracks from cold air from seeping in, while they cannot look out for the sake of being unnoticed.
A faucet drips constantly echoing through the hallway; mother tried to get the super to fix the problem, where only cold water comes through, as hot water comes in sparingly. No one answers her call and so they must bathe unnoticed.
Time is spent. Dust gathers in crooks and corners of empty cupboards with cans tucked in the back, all arranged in order. Spiders make webs, spinning their homes, laying eggs, feeding off the flies that swoon in the air, sticking to tapes made to trap them.
Breakfast was little, so was lunch, and dinner. Welfare says they must cut back and no one can split the bill, and so the family must tighten their belts as their stomachs growl of rage, inch by inch. There’s nothing to fill them for the groceries are all gone and now the cupboards bare. Tears fall and mouths sag, they fall unnoticed.
Flies increase. There maggots have found themselves away from the room, where the taint of miasma, the smell of something putrid fills the air, they build. And now the water bugs have found themselves up from the drains, where water drips constantly, they are visible in corners of floors.
Today someone knocks at the door, it’s the super, he finally came. The door squeaks open and a smell of death protrudes, making someone very sick with fear, he moves to search for the little family: mother, son, daughter. His heart beats quickly for in the little corner of their bedroom, this small family, he sees little Son is cuddled underneath one arm, and little Daughter under the other as Mother sits in the middle, all bowed, as in prayer, quietly still. You see, they have died; it’s been weeks, no one cared for they died unnoticed.
Have you walked down a crowded street, so crowded that you know that if a family member come to look for you, it would be very difficult fishing you out among the crowd. People circling you, walking this way and that way, zooming by you—some curses you as if you were on wheels—to get out of the way. And they, trying their best to get to their own destinations, have no time to fool with you; so can you imagine your family perspective fishing you out would be an impossible feat, right? But what if you had no family or no friend, that isn’t looking for you? You are in this crowd, by yourself, you probably can stand on a corner and no one would lift an eyelid your way.
To be unnoticed can be a hurtful thing, especially if you have something to say, you can feel it in your chest, your bones. You just want to let it out of your system—there’s something that concerns you but no one stops to listen or even lift an eyelid to see you standing on that lone corner of a sidewalk being passed-by unnoticed.
There are millions and millions of people who like this, are unnoticed. You could be walking down a street and you see a guy lying down on a cold ground, in filthy clothing, disheveled hair, and worn out shoes, asleep; the only thing supporting him is yesterday’s newspaper. The only thing descent for him to lie upon between the ground and himself to try to keep what little left ‘clean’—‘I guess he never lost respect of, let us see who is in today’s obituary—could be a playing thought for him. He probably had a life just like the rest of the people in the crowd. The working class, who storm down busy sidewalks just to get to their 9 to 5’s, this homeless man, can say ‘I once had that.’ Of course he did but somehow something happened along the way changed things. Leeching, drawing this man to a world he now knows as the streets. And here he lay sleeping away where once help was a skip away and now is forever gone, just like his years. And people now pass him unnoticed. However this is one example. What if there were families going on in life unnoticed. Children suffering the fate as this poor man. There are many. I have written a story called “Unnoticed.” I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Unnoticed by Lavel Wideman
A mother swiftly walks, carrying heavy bags of food, carefully propping them in her boney arms, making sure they don’t fall to the wayside, as her children toddle behind her—hand in hand—they follow eagerly anticipating the goodies that awaits them once they reach home. Only enough food to last a few days—no more, no less, will probably last with effort.
They live in the projects, ‘the concrete jungle’ as some would say. They live in the projects—apartment 38-B to be exact. In a big city, with big people who happens to have little bitty hearts. Doors shut from anyone from begging.
Their apartment is not so big, not too small either, with few furniture humbly displayed throughout the small one bedroom unit. With long curtains draping the window, as plastic seals the cracks from cold air from seeping in, while they cannot look out for the sake of being unnoticed.
A faucet drips constantly echoing through the hallway; mother tried to get the super to fix the problem, where only cold water comes through, as hot water comes in sparingly. No one answers her call and so they must bathe unnoticed.
Time is spent. Dust gathers in crooks and corners of empty cupboards with cans tucked in the back, all arranged in order. Spiders make webs, spinning their homes, laying eggs, feeding off the flies that swoon in the air, sticking to tapes made to trap them.
Breakfast was little, so was lunch, and dinner. Welfare says they must cut back and no one can split the bill, and so the family must tighten their belts as their stomachs growl of rage, inch by inch. There’s nothing to fill them for the groceries are all gone and now the cupboards bare. Tears fall and mouths sag, they fall unnoticed.
Flies increase. There maggots have found themselves away from the room, where the taint of miasma, the smell of something putrid fills the air, they build. And now the water bugs have found themselves up from the drains, where water drips constantly, they are visible in corners of floors.
Today someone knocks at the door, it’s the super, he finally came. The door squeaks open and a smell of death protrudes, making someone very sick with fear, he moves to search for the little family: mother, son, daughter. His heart beats quickly for in the little corner of their bedroom, this small family, he sees little Son is cuddled underneath one arm, and little Daughter under the other as Mother sits in the middle, all bowed, as in prayer, quietly still. You see, they have died; it’s been weeks, no one cared for they died unnoticed.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Bags
Bags are used to carry things in. For some it may be food; for some it may be clothes but for those who are less fortunate it may be something of value. It may be all that they have. The Homeless, with them, carry bags which are there memories of long ago, of what they have lost along the way. They are now walking homes, carrying along with them items of what they used to have in their shelves, in their dresser draws, in their cabinets. Some may carry pictures of their love ones, of a family no more, where ghost tread softly through an alley. What they once lost are now in their bags: duffle, back- packs, purses. To the Homeless bags are like their own life. If they bleed, their bags bleed. If they were stolen may God have mercy… For these bags were with them through the struggle, through the pain, wandering these lonely streets, searching for a home to put them in. Will they find it?
I remember walking Manhattan streets, bustling with cars and people. Everything seems to zoom in one speeded accord. When walking the streets of Manhattan in New York City you tend to look at certain characters. You can’t miss them. They are everywhere. The Homeless seems to make permanent fixtures among the sidewalks. You’ll see a few lying on benches; a few panhandling, a few breaking the law. When living on the streets you’ll find ways of keeping face no matter what it is.
Sometimes I tend to notice those who are far off. They don’t want to be seen; they just mind their own business and go on their way. I’ll notice a Bag Lady toddling away with her many bags. You knew she was from the streets by her clothes that she wore and even by her overhauled shopping cart. One knew she didn’t have a home. You can see her memories all in her bags that she carries. And one by one she counts them. Making sure everything is there, fixed in her memory. Here’s a little poem I made called The Bag Lady, I hope you’ll enjoy.
There once was a bag lady
That went up the street.
In her hands she carried
With her three bags, repeat.
It was told she was a murderess
Who was not very neat.
For in those bags was
Her ex-husband’s meat.
First bag carried his
Head and feet.
The second bag his body
Parts in shred, it seeped.
The third was the axe
She sought and did seek.
But it was the memory of it all
Is what she adored and did keep.
I remember walking Manhattan streets, bustling with cars and people. Everything seems to zoom in one speeded accord. When walking the streets of Manhattan in New York City you tend to look at certain characters. You can’t miss them. They are everywhere. The Homeless seems to make permanent fixtures among the sidewalks. You’ll see a few lying on benches; a few panhandling, a few breaking the law. When living on the streets you’ll find ways of keeping face no matter what it is.
Sometimes I tend to notice those who are far off. They don’t want to be seen; they just mind their own business and go on their way. I’ll notice a Bag Lady toddling away with her many bags. You knew she was from the streets by her clothes that she wore and even by her overhauled shopping cart. One knew she didn’t have a home. You can see her memories all in her bags that she carries. And one by one she counts them. Making sure everything is there, fixed in her memory. Here’s a little poem I made called The Bag Lady, I hope you’ll enjoy.
There once was a bag lady
That went up the street.
In her hands she carried
With her three bags, repeat.
It was told she was a murderess
Who was not very neat.
For in those bags was
Her ex-husband’s meat.
First bag carried his
Head and feet.
The second bag his body
Parts in shred, it seeped.
The third was the axe
She sought and did seek.
But it was the memory of it all
Is what she adored and did keep.
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