The
man beside me at the Windsor Bus Terminal held the peculiarity of his
arrival as a badge of circumstances bested. His once manicured beard
was torn, greatcoat soiled and bloody. His notebook, normally devoted
to drawings and annotations of the various contortions his body would
assume during meditation, now had a scrawled entry about the shadowy
stranger who had waylaid him halfway across the green space of the
former Grace Hospital site. I had moved away from the odour he
exuded, his violent appearance, when he occupied the seat next to me.
Perhaps he was more disturbing to me since his station reflected my
own, only fallen on a disturbing series of events. In spite of this,
he turned to me and held up a page. It depicted a man, naked but
without genitalia, with one arm twisted behind his back and the other
held like a crane's head in front. The heels pressed together, toes
pointed perpendicular to the forward facing torso.
"This
is the stance that saved me. I suggest you memorize it, young man."
And
I found I did.
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