The Medium Is The Message: I See Signs.

There was a homeless man at the station today — a sight that occurs with the kind of depressing regularity that implies so much else: that…

There was a homeless man at the station today — a sight that occurs with the kind of depressing regularity that implies so much else: that it doesn’t warrant attention; that it lacks meaning; that it has become so “mundane” that it has ceased to matter at all.

This is wrong.

This is wrong, but so are many things. Suspend your judgement — and your disbelief.

Please.

Just for a moment.

This matters, I promise.

He was sitting by the ramp down to the station, in the cold, holding a sign. And in some ways, it was as if it were a sign; and a part of me wishes that I had taken a picture, but that would’ve somehow objectified — and therefore glorified — what I had seen, what he had created, who he was and what he had made himself into, and I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to turn him — his art, his pain, his glory — into a spectacle of my own; something for my own amusement, mutated to fit the interests of a pathetic little blogpost, and thus demeaned in its own right as a medium for the mes…