Compass Man; Cowboy Haircut

 

I talked to a homeless man whose story reminded me of a compass spinning around the globe out of control. He had a cowboy haircut. In jumps and dives, he told one story of going to Iraq, coming home a broken man, making mistakes. His meth-cracked teeth told another story. I asked if he was sober. He stopped his stuttering story and asked what I meant. He denied any addictions. The denial signaled a new level of trying to sell the victimized broken man story. He ramped up the pressure when he asked if he could be baptized. He threw in a story of a girlfriend who belonged to our church. In the true sense of any good country music song, the girl left him high and dry this week.

His desperation left me exhausted. The compassion in me was extinguished by this lies. I found myself wondering what had happened to me. Once home, I did some thinking. I came to an understanding. I was physically and emotionally numb. My senses had become overloaded and stuffed. I was swollen with thoughts that needed to be flung out into the world and exercised. I needed to write. I was created to write. Writing keeps me grounded and safe. When I don’t write I become talkative and dangerous. Too talkative. Scary because words spoken easily become little darts and arrows.  When I am exhausted I sling words around carelessly.  Writing makes me careful, measured.

I am writing to prevent myself from becoming like the man with the spinning compass. I’m writing because when I write the ideas grow into a power I could never generate.

---