Skateboard Kid

A writer's the medium that translates the poetry of life into print. To be such a translator, the writer must be familiar with both languages. The language of the written word is easy to master. Anyone can do it with a little bit of effort. It is the language of Life that presents the difficulty. How does the writer learn this vague, chimerical language? It's by observing.
To observe is to practice an art form. Everyone is self centered, yet observing and recording what one sees is a very selfless act. So that is why to play the spectator, to step out of one's shoes and move into others, to acknowledge but not experience it is hard to achieve.

I guess that is why I have decided to write about Skateboard Kid: to practice this art.
Skateboard Kid is in the apartment parking lot with his skateboard very afternoon around four without fail. Most days, he wears a thin sweater with a collared shirt beneath. On windy days, his wavy black hair flops back and forth--sometimes blowing over his eyes, sometimes straining back. Jumping on his skateboard, he will halfheartedly attempt a trick, mess up, roll around the parking lot, try a trick, then mess up again. He has never gotten any better since the first day. There's no improvement, but he keeps trying. Everyday at four, I'll see him with his skateboard. Sometimes his hair will blow. Most times he'll wear a sweater.



(I feel hypocritical, writing about selflessness on a blog named Narcissistic Rantings.)