the holding room
There is a block of decrepit, crumbling brownstones about a block from where I live that face Wellesley St. E. and the Food Basics at the base of the St. James Town towers.
Some are private residences, there is a hair salon, and a doctor's office. Since last fall, the first floor apartment in one of the brownstones is alight with mystery.
There is a protruding cornered window on the face of it. There are no curtains, so the window, when lit, reveals a bare room, except for a desk or table at the window. A single lamp on the table.
In a neighbourhood where people are poor, but hardworking, where people come from all corners of the world and try to make first, tentative steps in Canada, it is a question mark.
One night last fall I passed it and the previously dark building was starkly lit and a young black man sat staring out the window into the darkness outside. He looked with unseeing eyes, expressionless, straight ahead and unmoving, and apparently totally oblivious that all passersby could see directly in. It was troubling. Besides the lamp on the desk, there was a single picture frame that faced him. I thought, perhaps he is mentally ill, but how can he live like that. He didn't seem equipped to function.
He was there for several days. Whenever I passed, his look was unchanging, passive and unnerving. Perhaps he is listening to something?
Then he was gone, and another black man was there. Still no curtains, but this man stood in the middle of the room and was similarly caught up in his own world. The room was unheated, for he, like the first man, wore outdoor clothing. One time I passed and he was standing at the westward window. Perhaps he is praying? But Mecca is east, is it not?
A few days later, I saw that window had been cracked, as if someone threw a rock at it from outside. Since then, the men stay away from the windows, and are more often on a chair along a corner wall.
Since the fall, there always seems to be a black man, alone, in the room. They seem to be from their 20s to mid-40s. They appear to be poor. Shortly after the first man, a cheap tape recorder appeared on the table. Then, a book. Now there are several books on the table, a picture frame with its back to the street that holds several photos.
Even when I come home from work at 2 a.m. the light is on and a man sits inside, lost in his thoughts.
A religious retreat? A terrorist training camp? Who are they? Now, my guess is they are men who have gone through terrors as refugees, and this is a religious, healing retreat. It is my guess, only.
Some day they will get curtains, and it will all be hidden from view.
Some are private residences, there is a hair salon, and a doctor's office. Since last fall, the first floor apartment in one of the brownstones is alight with mystery.
There is a protruding cornered window on the face of it. There are no curtains, so the window, when lit, reveals a bare room, except for a desk or table at the window. A single lamp on the table.
In a neighbourhood where people are poor, but hardworking, where people come from all corners of the world and try to make first, tentative steps in Canada, it is a question mark.
One night last fall I passed it and the previously dark building was starkly lit and a young black man sat staring out the window into the darkness outside. He looked with unseeing eyes, expressionless, straight ahead and unmoving, and apparently totally oblivious that all passersby could see directly in. It was troubling. Besides the lamp on the desk, there was a single picture frame that faced him. I thought, perhaps he is mentally ill, but how can he live like that. He didn't seem equipped to function.
He was there for several days. Whenever I passed, his look was unchanging, passive and unnerving. Perhaps he is listening to something?
Then he was gone, and another black man was there. Still no curtains, but this man stood in the middle of the room and was similarly caught up in his own world. The room was unheated, for he, like the first man, wore outdoor clothing. One time I passed and he was standing at the westward window. Perhaps he is praying? But Mecca is east, is it not?
A few days later, I saw that window had been cracked, as if someone threw a rock at it from outside. Since then, the men stay away from the windows, and are more often on a chair along a corner wall.
Since the fall, there always seems to be a black man, alone, in the room. They seem to be from their 20s to mid-40s. They appear to be poor. Shortly after the first man, a cheap tape recorder appeared on the table. Then, a book. Now there are several books on the table, a picture frame with its back to the street that holds several photos.
Even when I come home from work at 2 a.m. the light is on and a man sits inside, lost in his thoughts.
A religious retreat? A terrorist training camp? Who are they? Now, my guess is they are men who have gone through terrors as refugees, and this is a religious, healing retreat. It is my guess, only.
Some day they will get curtains, and it will all be hidden from view.
posted by Kathy O'Brien at 1:05 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home