Impatient would be Buddha seeks wisdom from the sweater-ed elder who goes on with his story despite the eager pushing of his listener. The elder’s white hair tied back, glasses in hand, displays treasured writings as he continues the story at a gentle pace. Crosslegged, Impatient Buddha, thin and swamped in a button down, leans forward, bearded chin in hand and jabs small assurances in youthful vocabulary “sweet, cool, awesome” and thinks up another question to ask the elder. The cranky artist, old, disdainful face seeks new experiences to prattle onto paper, his pen strokes straight, his wrinkles ragged. He contemplates existence, but not the big picture, simply Why is there a chair there? stares intently at each person Are you my creation? Will you be my salvation? Young Buddha gives up the pose attempts to impart gained knowledge to fortify the elders history, See what I know? As he relaxes in his confidence. The artist finally walks out for a smoke after turning the cigarette in his steady hands for an hour, perhaps waiting for a sign that came, just then.
Two cell phones command their owners Play with me! They call on them. One the businessman the worker intrigued by all the knowledge he surfs despite his labor, he turns his back from the window, and from the briefcase to the plugged in laptop that offers him amazement, engagement in online communities, posts to profiles, erases, reposts, he’s in that world, adulterous to his responsibilities, but just then the pulse hits straight into his brain, reminds him of his heart’s home, calls her on the phone, braces her with the news that the storm is on its way. She’s glad to hear from him but sends him on his way with muffled phone kisses. He puts the phone down and surfs away.
