Apparently I am, once again, an instrument of god

[wilomn]

Today I was the instrument of a god I have a hard time having faith in the existence of.

It’s not the first time I’ve been used in such fashion.


The Boardwalk at Venice Beach is an interesting place. There are people there from all over the world. Some are old, some are young, some alone, some in small groups. Tall and short and thin and fat and two U’s ugly and drop dead gorgeous, they’re all represented on the Venice Boardwalk.

Many are there to be looked at and more are there to look. Some of those both being looked at and looking are the vendors.
It is two of them, the vendors, of whom I write.

There really isn’t a better work to describe most of them. Vendors. They sell stuff. Out of the hundreds of people selling wares or crafts or artwork, probably 80% are just resellers, buying cheap tourist goods and selling them for just as much as they can only they do it off the sidewalk instead of in a building. There are rings and necklaces and body jewelry, hemp products, stickers, blown glass, drums, insence and rock turtles.

It’s part of the overall attraction of Venice Beach. Some of the stuff is pretty neat.

Those who create also run a gamut of types. From your homeless guy making caricatures out of scrap wire to the granola chicks twisting palm frond roses to the very brown, Mexican or Native American, man who is selling copper bracelets and peace sign necklaces, who is also keeping an aura of being connected to the earth in a deep and meaningful way wrapped closely around him.

Then there are the actual artists, those who create for visual pleasure. These images and or treasures are always for sale. It’s how most of these people pay their bills. For most it is something they must do, it is their life. But for some, it is just a paycheck.

Let’s take the Rastaman Vendor, selling rings among other things, and look at it from at least two points of view.

The first point of view is that of a girl, an intelligent fairly pretty young lady all of 15 and sure she’s knows most of the answers to life’s questions. Oddly this girl is extremely shy around strangers such as the Rastaman selling the rings she is interested in seeing. To see her with her friends you would be more inclined to think her not only a fearless leader but unceasingly chatty.

The Rastaman knows this and walks over smiling.

She sees his dreads first; short and tiny on his forehead, barely inches if that, to the three and four footers in the back. They are all liberally laced with grey strands, twisted and wrapped and wound into the knots he has made of his hair. It is not an unpleasant look.His forehead smooth but cheeks slightly wrinkled, both dark black, teeth large and white, his eyes brown, black and bloodshot. He wears a red yellow and green pullover to finish his look as a peaceful mellow honest Rastaman Merchant. It’s a look he has polished for years.

I saw a black man with a look that he had been polishing for years.
The girl was looking at a ring, silver if you believe the Rastaman, tin by all other appearances, that if he paid more than a dollar for he was robbed.

“Fifteen dollars just for you, solid silver, but only if you smile,’’ he says to the girl, looking at her directly in the face, failing to notice the cleavage she has been so kind as to make available, as a good salesman does. She has the ring on and her smile makes it obvious that she likes it.

Now me, I’m sort of a big ugly white guy, long hair, goatee, and kinda thick, the kind of guy that a skinny Rastaman like that would most likely not want to meet were my intentions towards him of a negative variety.

I knew that automatically. I think he knew it too.

He makes the offer and she looks at me and askes if I have six dollars she can borrow, low and quiet like so he can’t hear. Her so shy, it’s kind of cute. Reminds me of when she was 4 or 5 and would hide behind my leg when we were in new places or meeting new people.

I respond to the Rasta, sort of deep and just a tad louder than absolutely necessary,” How about five bucks and I’m the one to smile?” all the while looking him in the eye, smiling after a few seconds but not as I said it.
“How about ten,” he says to the girl, “it’s solid silver.”
She has nine dollars in her pocket. I know it and she knows it. “She has nine dollars. Let’s make it nine,” I say as the girl pulls out a small wad of money and hands a five and four ones to the Rasta and keeps the ring on her finger.

“That was some good bargaining,” the Rasta says to the girl, “your daddy teach you how to do that?” You could see that he was not used to being talked down that way.

The girl smiled, pleased with her purchase, happy to be at the beach, glad to have been a part of something with her father even if she didn’t quite understand everything that had just happened, still having said almost nothing.

Was he truly a Rasta, living the life or was he a consummate salesman? Can he be both?
Now, the artist for whom I was an instrument of god.

The sun was behind her, setting into the Pacific Ocean. Making out the details of her face was almost impossible in the glare. When she stood up I saw that she was tall and black and shaped like a pear. I could see quite well the artwork that she had placed out for sale. Bright, geometric, pleasant to look at. Some of it was really good. Some of it was of not interest to me at all. I really have no interest in angels which she seemed to have a great affection for.

I looked over what she had created, painted or illustrated, whatever medium she worked in. I liked some of what I saw, liked it quite a bit. Some of it was damn fine.

I purchased a piece of the damn fine artwork, a print of some fish that was intricate, colourful, and eye capturing. Somehow my acquisition of this piece, whether because of the money exchanged between the artist and myself or because I simply had interest enough to be willing to pay, made me an instrument of the god she had been praying to.

She had asked for someone to come and give her reason to continue, reason to come back, renew her faith in herself and I have no clue what else.

Somehow, I got to be that someone.

Did I of my own volition and exercise of my free will see a picture I liked enough to buy and so purchase or was I influenced, by something whose very existence I am unsure of, to do something that reassured a believer in the existence of this thing whose existence I am not positive of, without knowing that I was being used?

If this god is real, can he just do that?

Before we concluded our transaction she said to me that we could go along our own paths and still both live in Harmony. It had a capital H when she said it.

Harmony is the name of the piece I purchased.

I'll try to post a picture of the piece I purchased, it's too big to scan.

[LadyOhh]

My friend, you are an artist of words, especially when you wax poetic

[starmom]

...Did I of my own volition and exercise of my free will see a picture I liked enough to buy and so purchase or was I influenced, by something whose very existence I am unsure of, to do something that reassured a believer in the existence of this thing whose existence I am not positive of, without knowing that I was being used?

If this god is real, can he just do that?

Before we concluded our transaction she said to me that we could go along our own paths and still both live in Harmony. It had a capital H when she said it.

Harmony is the name of the piece I purchased...

God is only a name and I would caution you to not get caught up in that particular semantic.

Call it Destiny. Call it Fate. Call it the Harmony of two people needing to meet to be able to fill the need of the other; the cycle of dharma and karma.

Wes, I like you; you're a neat guy. You're kind of loopy at times and that's cool too. You helped that woman today, but have no doubt that she, too, helped you. Pay attention to that.

[blackcrystal22]

God is only a name and I would caution you to not get caught up in that particular semantic.

Call it Destiny. Call it Fate. Call it the Harmony of two people needing to meet to be able to fill the need of the other; the cycle of dharma and karma.

Wes, I like you; you're a neat guy. You're kind of loopy at times and that's cool too. You helped that woman today, but have no doubt that she, too, helped you. Pay attention to that.

I agree completely with everything you said starmom.
Very cool story, and an awesome Fate of you two. :]

[Thor26]

WOW you are an amazing writer i felt like i was there watching you = ]

[MarkS]

The 60's must have been good for you dude... Sounds like she was a better salesman then your Bob Marley guy. I still want to see the piece though.

[wilomn]

I wonder myself Mark.

Here's the picture. It's not real good, but then I'm not much of a photographer.

[MarkS]

I do like it, it is quite nice.... Very geometrical. Granted it's not quite an Escher. But it's still very tribal and makes me feel organized for some reason....

[FloridaHogs]

Funny thing Wes, but the fish also has Christion symbolism that I will not get into here. I know what I believe because I have seen and experienced things that can only be because of my God. Can he orcastrate(sp?) to encourage His people, yes. Can He use people with unbelief....Yes.

[dsirkle]

Wes, I really enjoyed the short story and I like the fish picture alot. But I think that the Rasta dude was probably only intimidated by your roller skates and turban.