The crusted mud on her face… no wait, in her face, as it actually was ingrained into the crocodile flesh of her cheeks surrounding the chapped, crimson lips coated in saliva. That sounds right.
Describing the face of a homeless person is difficult, you have to capture the utter hopelessness that is radiated from it. It’s capturing the nights of sleeping outside in the cold with the blankets infested with bugs on you. It’s grabbing the sunburnt skin that never sees an SPF, touches a shower once a month (if lucky), and all of the other hardships that you can see contained in a person’s face. To somehow describe the mental deficiencies of a person in a way that is sympathetic, yet not pitying, respectful and mourning while also being delicate and empathic.
I know that I probably can’t do it. The reality of the situation is that every single high school, college, and past “auteur” has tried, failed, and gotten a fucking blue ribbon for it. It’s impossible to put into the words the sheer amount of despair that you see when someone is staring at a piece of paper for twenty minutes, as if the entire world is contained therein, but when you see it, it’s just a flyer for a rave. A flyer for a party where over-privileged kids can pump themselves full of stupid and treat the rest of the world like it doesn’t exist. But for at least twenty minutes, there was an escape from sleeping underneath the US101 overpass. It wasn’t a world of shopping carts and cardboard signs. A world where they sell plasma or other fluids for food for fear of starving. And that’s all that mattered.
And that’s that.
justinª