[Last modified: October, 28 2024 12:04 PM]
In a café sits a customer who has not moved in the last two weeks. This loyal patron haunts the doorway, perched at the table nearest to the entrance, visible to all who walk by.
A woman pushes a pram past a flock of pigeons, scrapping for food on the ground. Her gaze lingers on this static client – a life-size plastic skeleton clad in a scrappy black wig and a lei of autumnal leaves. His hand is raised, mouth agape in silent greeting. A pumpkin rests on the table in front of him, beside a coffee cup. The woman walks on.
I don’t know what I expect to see from those who walk past the skeleton. I think I hope for gasps, laughs and wry smiles, a break from the monotony of hurried city life. What I get are split glances, lingering looks, a bare bones acknowledgement forgotten by the next step.
Often a drifting eye finds me, staring, nursing an Americano at a nearby table. My eyes dart away quickly, hurriedly stopping to scribble in my notebook, with an unsettling feeling that it was I, not the skeleton, that was the spooky presence for this pedestrian.
A family wander past, the father’s eyes snagging on the patron for only a second. Caught, however, is their young boy, stood in the doorway, using a stick to rhythmically tap his own foot. As the family moves onwards, the child stands still, peering curiously at the assemblage of plastic bones before him. After a couple of moments the father returns, unceremoniously guiding the child onwards, away from the haunting.
Yet again, passer-by gazes move smoothly from the skeleton to me. I seem to be connected to this decoration now, our (un)inviting co-presence made conspicuous by my wide eyes, bright blue notebook, alertness. Too late, I look away, wondering how to look and yet not look, how to allow life to continue around me unobserved but noted. A woman holding a pumpkin walks past, a small smile appearing as she takes in the sight of another pumpkin, accompanied by the skeletal customer.
Rain starts to fall, forcing heads down, gazes averted to hurrying feet, spook-free pavement. With no more eyes to catch, I turn to my drawing, waving arm half unfinished, quotidian horror forever preserved in my shaky pen, my determination to see.
I found the physical act of taking notes and crafting my story to be inextricably intertwined. Actively taking fieldnotes forced me to reflect on observation itself, as I found that it made me more visible to people around me. As I read over my notes some days later, it was this feeling that stood out to me the most, both in my memories and in my notes, compelling me to try to reflect it in my writing exercise.