nice read Tom, thanks. I've called the state that your bench man had 'the eye of the storm'. The closer you get to the eye the faster the pace, until you reach the centre, where it's still and from which you can comfortably watch the rats race.
You have reminded me of a similar person (though younger when I met him). I suspected he was homeless, yet he wore a single golf glove and an antique watch with multiple faces that did not have the correct time. Like a toddler, I was drawn to him, and like an American, I sat down on the bench and struck up a conversation with him. When I asked him his name, he replied Jonathan Swift. What parents would name their child after a famous writer, or was he winding me up? "What do you do?" He said with a straight face, "I keep asteroids from hitting the Earth." Oxford is full of brilliant eccentrics, maybe it was a secret research project. After a pause, I replied, "You seem to be doing a good job." After that, I would always flash a big smile when I passed his bench or stop to exchange a few words. He introduced me to things like pinhole glasses and fractals. On the day I returned from Glastonbury, my shoes were completely ruined by mud. When I stopped to greet Jonathan, he insisted on buying me a new pair of trainers and a package of Flying Fox socks. Every encounter with him turned out in an unexpected way, sometimes he forgot who I was and thought he had not met me. I could never anticipate what he would say. One day he invited me to tea at his house. He was not homeless after all...he lived alone in a large Victorian house in Headington and had a garden filled with exotic plants. He was quite awkward though and I ended up making the tea. He said that no one had ever been to tea with him. On the day that I was leaving Oxford, he kissed me good-bye. He tried to write his address but could not. Later, at home in Summertown, I stood in the kitchen, bracing myself against the counter and crying harder than I ever had in my life because I realized that it would be impossible to have a romantic relationship with him. He most likely would always be alone in his beautiful and singular world.
Reminds me of Eckhart Tolle's story of how he used to live on park benches. Although I don't think he drank or smoke lol
Great observation - solitude and loneliness are not the samething. Going to check out Rumblefish also :-) thanks.
Really enjoyed this one, Tom. Turn the common into the captivating.
nice read Tom, thanks. I've called the state that your bench man had 'the eye of the storm'. The closer you get to the eye the faster the pace, until you reach the centre, where it's still and from which you can comfortably watch the rats race.
I can imagine how the hypothetical conversation would go:
"So, how did you end up here?"
"Oh, I wrote newsletters about modern culture. Actually, I have a Discord server that you might be interested in..."
You have reminded me of a similar person (though younger when I met him). I suspected he was homeless, yet he wore a single golf glove and an antique watch with multiple faces that did not have the correct time. Like a toddler, I was drawn to him, and like an American, I sat down on the bench and struck up a conversation with him. When I asked him his name, he replied Jonathan Swift. What parents would name their child after a famous writer, or was he winding me up? "What do you do?" He said with a straight face, "I keep asteroids from hitting the Earth." Oxford is full of brilliant eccentrics, maybe it was a secret research project. After a pause, I replied, "You seem to be doing a good job." After that, I would always flash a big smile when I passed his bench or stop to exchange a few words. He introduced me to things like pinhole glasses and fractals. On the day I returned from Glastonbury, my shoes were completely ruined by mud. When I stopped to greet Jonathan, he insisted on buying me a new pair of trainers and a package of Flying Fox socks. Every encounter with him turned out in an unexpected way, sometimes he forgot who I was and thought he had not met me. I could never anticipate what he would say. One day he invited me to tea at his house. He was not homeless after all...he lived alone in a large Victorian house in Headington and had a garden filled with exotic plants. He was quite awkward though and I ended up making the tea. He said that no one had ever been to tea with him. On the day that I was leaving Oxford, he kissed me good-bye. He tried to write his address but could not. Later, at home in Summertown, I stood in the kitchen, bracing myself against the counter and crying harder than I ever had in my life because I realized that it would be impossible to have a romantic relationship with him. He most likely would always be alone in his beautiful and singular world.