Gesturing Man

I opened my notebook expecting to find a half-written piece on an idea I had, but unfortunately it turns out the piece was merely thought, not written; unfortunate as the idea of a piece, the mental image, is often or generally more amusing or enjoyable to me in the flash of its conception than the fleshing out in writing of the idea, which is more a matter of tedium, the realising, or attempt of realising, of something whose real pleasure has already been afforded me, and the writing a diluted expansion of this conceiving flash. Though not wishing to especially overstate the case, not that I am. Anyway, the idea...

A man, a creature, a madman, began appearing in the small park near the centre of the town. Who was he? Noone knew, noone cared. Why should they?
Anyway, he began appearing in the park, that is entering, and, somewhere near the fountain he would stand, and right arm crookedly raised, forefinger extended, completely self-absorbed, he would start making strange signs or squiggles in the air.
What was it- some kind of Tai Chi exercise? Admittedly it takes perhaps a degree of peculiarity of spirit to practice that in public with an easy mind, but 'madman, creature'? That's a bit excessive surely, a bit retrograde. But no, I don't think it was anything like Tai Chi.

So what was it then- some kind of performance art? Writing. At least this is what came to be generally agreed, particularly at first and then generally in the end. People were drawn to his 'performances', his finger even elegantly slicing the air in endless movement. Some found it hypnotic, calming- it quietened their minds. They made no attempt to decipher the movements, and to have done or tried to do so would have spoiled their pleasure. Others however did, one woman particularly. It became for her all-consuming, at least while engaged in the act, to gaze on and decipher, understand the gestures. To do so required the utmost absorption, hypnotic again but an intellectual consuming of self rather than a bypassing as in the more bovine viewers already mentioned, and through a halting progression she did seem to successfully lose herself in the writing, to understand its ever onwards flow of letters and words. Though this is all a little in the way of surmise for she refused outright, showed no interest, in speaking of the actual substance, the matter of the writing, and who knows, maybe it was all just inane gibberish, that is if it really was writing in the first place and not just gibberish in the absolute sense.

She was only the first of several, even many, who immersed themselves in this esoteric artform, if we could call it that- we have to call it something. They became almost a cult, but that's not really fair. Their ways seemed to part fully when the man would leave off and depart the park. They were merely joined in immersion in this one unusual activity. There were of course the occasional mockers of all this strangeness, usually either groups of lowly youths or alcoholic wrecks, but generally tolerance, even an almost fearful awed respect, in spite of the somewhat ridiculous nature of it all, was observed. Though jeering or no jeering, the man 'wrote' on oblivious.

I haven't been in the town for a while. I have no idea if it still goes on. I presume it does, not that my presumption has any real weight.