Picture of the Blues

A busker was playing the blues in Chinatown. Making a living from the loonies tossed into a worn leather case on the sidewalk attended to by pigeons, tourists and the elderly. His long strands of grey hair falling over his shoulder paid a testament to the years of sorrow in his gravely voice. Framed by the bright red of apothecaries and yellow banners of Chinatown he was blue. Haunting chords made their way slowly, lowly from the weathered amplifier through the mystical world of unintelligible writing above dried healing roots. The ghost of his song was not supposed to be there, but neither was I. The low wail of his electric guitar spoke to me as a stranger in a strange land: described my loneliness as only the blues can.

I stopped behind him without making a sound like so many pickpockets working the busy corner of Hastings and Main. Stopped to steal the moment and he stopped playing and the air felt dead. The silence weighed upon me; heavy and oppressive. "You could at least ask me if you are going to take a picture. I could understand if I were a tree or something, but I am a man. A human being. I don't want any money. I just want you to ask. I am going to have to say something about this on my website."

For some reason I thought that the spiritual communion I felt with his guitar entitled me to capture his image without his permission; like his presence was somehow converted into public domain by the power his music. I quickly apologized and erased the picture from my digital camera leaving nothing but my words and my memory to describe the scene for posterity. Or my version of posterity.