I just found this, we had to write a paper on paradigms.

Melanie Moors

Larance

English 101

1 September 2005

Paradigm

Dingy hands pounded away at leather stretched over wood. Smudged face held cracked lips that opened and closed with each deep resonating sound. Notes that twang and pound away pieces of hearts of persons standing close enough to hear, but refusing to see. Typical tattoo green illustrates age of man tanned and weathered. Preaching as he sings, each note a syllable of wisdom, something so deep that passerby used excuse of his state of poverty to dismiss words of insight. Grimy knotted locks of hair swung with rhythm of remarkable beat. Sitting in sand with the sea breeze filling his voice with salty roughness, his appearance matches that of his temporary home.

Why did he choose to settle here? His feet have known so many roads, so many tracks, so many beaches and yards and lots. This man has no home, no food, no car, and no telephone. For as much he lacks monetarily he makes up with heart. As dingy as his hands and home can get the clear clean beat rings true to ears even if eyes cannot bear to watch. His knowledge is so vast, and he chooses to sit in paucity on the hot sand with holes in his shirt and rips in his shorts. His home is a sleeping bag over a bench, complete with gum stuck to seat and obscenities carved into the back. It shames the crowd. His bucket placed in front of him holds a battered sign that reads, “I would prefer food.” His only friends are those who have been given a similar fate, but not by choice. “Case Poverty” as Dr. Galbraith is quoted in Dwight Macdonald’s 1963 article in the New Yorker, where this type of poverty is “related to characteristics of individuals so afflicted

as mental deficiency, bad health, inability to adapt to modern life…alcohol and insufficient education.” (Ferman 7). He does not posses any of the above stated causes of poverty. Unlike his comrades in homelessness, he chose this path.

He has not lost his wits like so many of the other transients that grace the sidewalks. He very much knows everything that is going on. The year is 1971, and He is pushing 50. His grasp on the times, his awareness of the present, past and future far surpasses his peers and juniors. He is well aware of the fact that most of the people here share is views on the War. He conscious that this is the most people he can easily make an impression on. He would not be welcome in the hip coffee shop across the way. He would not be paid any attention if he sat anywhere but here, where the itinerant seem to roam free. He spits out truths with the audacity to call out to the women and men strolling by. Reluctantly they listen, but they cannot watch. People come here to witness free speech of the outcast. Even if his place of residence has no mailbox attached, his roof is an awning and his bed has been transformed from seating accommodations, this is where he is needed; this is where he will be heard.

His paradigm on his world is completely shifted compared to the other people walking by. They have turned luxuries into necessities and by creating a bigger want, creating a bigger void needing to be filled with materialistic objects. They go home to color TV’s, he watches the people go by, he paints pictures of the sun setting over the ocean on a clear day. They drive automobiles to the store and to parks, his legs are lean and his feet constantly soiled from travel on foot. They eat dinner on coffee tables in spotless living rooms. He sits in a circle of dirt and eats fruit out of his hands. Theirs world is a home as big as possible, with seven feet tall refrigerators, telephones, neighbors, and lawns. His is a world of simplicity, a drum, dirt and a sleeping bag. He is

completely satisfied with his habitat of sticky afternoons, halitosis, windy nights and sunny days. Dirt and grime fill his every pore, stuck in his hair, and will never be washed out of age-old clothes.

Tonight, he will lay his head down for a welcomed rest this evening on his bench, he will be content with smelling of weeks old body odor. He will be comfortable with the sand in his shorts and sleeping bag, His cracks in his lips will ache and his hands will throb with a day of music. He will be happy with where he is, not asking for anything more than to wake up to his pile of sand, his bucket, his drum, and his audience.