Hollywood Blvd. 6:15 Across the street from Barnsdall Park. Bus Stop.

There's a Hispanic man, forty years old with mid-neck-length combed-back hair in a security uniform, sitting on a bench chanting out loud. He's staring out into the street. Next to him is an over flowing trashcan. Wrappers and cups and fries and straws and newspapers tumble by his feet with the wind from passing cars. His gaze is forward and locked, housed in an unshakable concentration. I'm on foot, passing through the space. Twenty feet out I start to get a faint gleam of the hum. I don't think much of it though, maybe it's a car radio or something. I get closer and can discriminate between the different pitches, but still don't know what it is. I pass by a homeless man digging through the trash on the near end of the stop. I continue forward and notice him sitting there. Only when I'm directly behind him do I realize it's him that's chanting. It's a person making the sounds. What the hell's this security guard doing chanting in public? This kind of behavior is reserved for crazies. It feels almost like a violation of social order - that a man that's put together, in a security uniform no less, is singing foreign hoolera in public. It's not wrong, but it's also not normal. Certainly, it's noteable. I stand there and stare at him. He doesn't look at me, just continues looking forward, chanting. He doesn't seem to care that I'm staring at him either. Actually, he doesn't seem to notice me at all and there's something about this that makes me want to stay longer. I close my eyes and let the chant hit my ears. It feels nice, like I'm being bathed in something. You don't need to know what something means in order to find peace in someone else's expression. He doesn't care what his blessings hit. I open my eyes and he's staring at me, expressionless, still going strong. Like I was a tree or something meaningless like a lamppost, he brings his eyes back to the street and continues. I realize I'm holding my breath. I release it and back away.