He sat on a bench. He left everyone else behind. He became still, centered himself, eliminated distractions, and was quiet and sat there for as long as he could stand it. Ten years before then, on a beach in southern India north of Goa, he had tried the same thing. And both times the results were the same mainly because he was looking for results.
This was exactly what he had been doing most of his life, an orientation he had followed. Exactly, he thought in terms of results and became extremely frustrated when nothing came. He changed settings, and his mind went back to the beach in India, to watching sunsets that were so spectacular there. Both times, in both places, he wanted to write something truly original, something read long after his death. But no ideas came. Blank. And he didn’t want to wait for something to come. He hadn’t brought along any paper or a pen or a pencil, and maybe he had anticipated nothing would come out of his brain. If he had written something, what would it have been about? About sitting on a beach or a bench, perhaps. If he had waited long enough…
The story could’ve been about sitting on a bench in a park…in Vienna…waiting and wondering, penniless and waiting, wondering if he would come back. In his story, in Vienna, he was no longer focused on himself; he however was writing about something he knew about…penniless and feeling abandoned in Vienna. In Vienna and penniless, he had left his wife (and in this case with a gibbon) on a park bench, while he searched the city for a place for them to live.
DESTITUTE IN VIENNA (okay WIEN)
Americans Find Themselves Destitute after a US Telegraph Strike Leaves Them Penniless
Good night, Randy Ford