I don’t know who he is. I know that he is Czech, but all certainties fade beyond this point. I remember him. He inspired a character and an as-yet unfinished tale. I know the character he inspires. I can pronounce that characters name and tell you of his world—a place far, far away, but not as far as any fairytale. The story, when it is written, will be a normal tale for me: something dark, something brooding, something in which humanity reveals itself as an onion might—in layers. The character, as I’m likely to write him, will have nothing to do with this stranger, and yet it will be this particular stranger who serves as his genesis. That happens with me. I’ll see a face, a body; I’ll hear a voice, or snippets of a conversation in some language I scarcely understand. And a story will unravel. The characters in such stories never bear a resemblance to their inspiration, and yet their inspiration is an intrinsic part of what those characters become. And so I can say, I don’t know this person, but I remember the day. I’d gone in search of something to make me love Prague again; I’d grown bored with my adoptive city. I was tired of the old buildings, the grinding hum of trams, and the indolence of summer. It was hot on that day, exceedingly so, and I’d decided that I wanted to see Prague’s rakish and eccentric metronome. It is a strange thing that stands where once a Communist monument dominated Prague’s odd heights. Everyone who visits Prague learns of “The Metronome.” You can see it from The Castle, from Charles Bridge, from Old Town Square, if you know where to look. You may even see this stranger, if time and circumstance are in the correct (and improbable) alignment. Now, in the depths of a Chicago winter, I look through photos I’ve taken—photos I’ve emailed to friends and have since rediscovered. They are unexpected treasures. Their number is small, but each image is potent. And because of this picture, I remember heat and sweat, and the silence of strange insects. I remember the whining hum of the metronome as its up-thrust pendulum swung back and forth, forth and back, marking the strangely slow heartbeat of so lively a city. This person remains a stranger, but I’m fascinated by what I saw on the day that I pointed a cheap digital camera in his direction. He wasn’t my target, though we wandered around one another in strange and complex circles. I was interested in the sky behind him, and the graffiti he scarcely noticed. I wanted to capture something of the metronome, without revealing it, and so, with a camera that has died (and remains in Prague) I snapped this image. I’d tweaked it—changed it, and posted another version. This is the original, and for those of you who might recall a character named Ōmas, and the wall upon which he sat, you may now see the source of that image and fragmentary story. Ōmas will receive a fuller telling. His world calls to me as Moscow and Prague call, and well…I’m interested in seeing what happens to him. Until then, I have this image, and because of a stranger and an unrelated fictional character, I’ve decided to post this here. If interested, feel free to check out Ōmas on the Ancient Wall As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you're having a great week!