Vagabond

How I Became Homeless: Loyalty and Respect

2012-01-13T20:00:00.000-08:00

It is the stuff of Greek tragedies and great movies. It is the stuff we hope never happens to us in real life, for the end is very, very bad; and there is nothing to help it but to tear your eyes out at the sockets, wander aimlessly through the barren landscape of a life destroyed, and wish for death to come early. Revealing any part of a difficult truth seems to betray God and every hope of humankind. Friends scatter at the horror. There is nothing to say. Nothing left to do. The curtain falls, and we desperately want to laugh.

What lessons were intended in this time of my life and their meaning are still obscure to me, even if one can read simple answers in the outline. And that is the tragedy of it: it were as though Greek gods were moving people and situations around on a lark and making it all up as they went along. Only a god who does not share our humanity could think of such chaos and want to see it performed, lived out, as it were.

In the simplest terms, I met a man. He happened to have suffered in his life from alcoholism, but he also had a successful working wife who took care of him, that is to say, she paid for his court-ordered trips to rehab for DUIs. No one talks about this, but drinking and driving is great fun. In fact, I have tried it; and I can see how someone who likes alcohol better than I do might drink and drive with frequency. Perhaps more people do than we think.

Having had an excess of time to think about the circumstances under which I and this man met and all the attractions there were, I have come to think that life is ultimately fair, which does not mean that life will be painless. I no longer believe things add up, creating an abundance of good or bad karma, for instance. One may see the world in that way, with blinders on. One may see the world through any construct one wishes, and it will appear to be such.

What is fair about life is that we are all here more or less on the same footing. None of us is good, and few of us are categorically evil. No one knows what is coming in the next minute, hour, or day. None of us knows how we will act under every circumstance we come across, and we are certainly no one else's judge. There are many, many variables at all times and those variables are exponentially multiplied in interactions with other people.

Sometimes, we think we have a hold on reality and are setting our own course. We have, after all, a history: we have parents, went to school, have a job, and so on. We may have the illusion for a while that we even know ourselves. Yet, there are startling, uncomfortable discoveries that come with age: we have no idea, really, how we turn out the way we do. The sinuous threads of our lineage, culture, and personal history become harder to follow, like the crumbs in the forest that were to lead us out of darkness into the dawn, but now make a path more like a puzzle that sometimes has T-crossings, circles back on itself, or offers side trails that beckon but yield neither a way out nor any truth worth the time it took to travel them.

Simply stated, I no longer want to blame anyone for my perceived misfortune and misguided conduct because, while it is easy to do, it is dangerous. Even though someone else may be blameworthy (and we are all responsible because we are all here together), resentment is a millstone, an incredible poison. It is the golem of Jewish folklore that, created by its owner to defend and avenge, can become enormous and uncontrollable and come back one day to overpower and crush its maker.

Getting past the emotional hurdles of a difficult circumstance is daunting. It is traumatic, and sometimes scarring, to wrangle with resentment, grief, anger, and shame all at the same time. That is really the bigger story and, oddly, the only way out. The circumstances that led to the emotional hurt are long gone, so, in the end, one has to find the strategies to overcome oneself.

Forthright, once and for all, I will say here so that it is perfectly clear: I am finished with the story of the man who betrayed me. It is true that he lied, and that he is an inveterate liar has been substantiated a few times over by other women he has known whom I later came to know. The entire story has been replayed ad nauseum in many variations from several points of view. Finally, one must ask, "So what?"

Perhaps it is my existentialist tendencies, but it is also my ethics that have dictated this stance. Oddly, sometimes the truth is just not that important, especially given that truth can be static, freezing us in time, locking us in memory as someone we once were, but no longer are. Truth is the enemy of change unless truth changes and becomes a different truth. No truth should last too long.

Along with the devilment of truth, there is the insistence upon meaning. How interesting it is to come out of that Platonic trance that insists everything have meaning, that is, a logical relatedness we often refer to as progress or harmony. It is refreshing and strange to discover the parallel universe of "shit happens," "it doesn't mean anything," "it didn't matter," and "it is what it is." In fact, it is downright heartening since most people in the world actually live in that universe, not in the cozy, prepackaged trajectory of happy-endings with which certain classes in the western world are programmed (as I was). That universe is true, too, of course, until it isn't; and when it is no longer true, the fall is long and hard to reach an equilibrium, a relative security, and a new sense of perspective.

If one hangs on to truths, forgiveness of the unconditional kind is impossible. In fact, the point of all those lovely truths evaporates. For example, my former lover made mistakes, but he did not make his decisions in the first place because they were mistakes at the time. I have come to appreciate how much love, hope, and goodness went into a dream that did not work out as planned and how much courage it takes to dare to create anything, relationships with the opposite sex being particularly complex and often capricious. What beauty there is in a personal landscape that was shaped by dreams, whether or not they manifested quite as we imagined them.

Once we are beyond judging outcomes based on like or dislike and want or don't want, we are free to respect ourselves and others for choosing to live and love past the incompleteness, failure, and loss to which one must surrender. For the miracle is loving oneself not just when things turn out well and make us feel good, but when there are unforeseen outcomes which we consider mistakes. There is no celebration of uncertainty in our culture, the kind of uncertainty that is the proving ground for strength of character, and far too little respect for those among us who dare. Perhaps that would be a culture with a taste for tragedy, like that of the Greeks, which did not pretend there were perfect outcomes or that perfect outcomes do not change, like the static notions of Christian heaven.

Finally and most importantly, there is loyalty to one's life --- every part of it --- no matter how much of it your mother thinks was a mistake or, lacking your mother's example, what you have picked out and scourged as somehow unworthy of who you are. We are informed, created, by our experiences; it is best to fall in love with them.

Despite my good fortune in the past year (very good fortune, indeed, at a time when so many people do not have work or other financial means), I have managed to find fault with it rather than accept and appreciate the radical transformation this very good fortune has allowed. I am healing quickly from the vestiges of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am so far along in my healing that I notice a moment of anxiety now rather than only noting its occasional absence. I am aligning myself with the forces of positive change in this world and seeking out others like me who want to create more of it. I am learning, too, how to live in peace with ambiguity, uncertainty, and constant change.

Gone to Hell in a Handcart . . . or Just Decompressing

2012-01-12T02:05:00.000-08:00

It is common knowledge among my friends and family that I do not drink. I simply never acquired a taste for alcohol. Fine wines are entirely lost on me as I am disabled by a slow nose and humble palate that barely recognize the distinctions in bouquet such as hints of berry, soupcons of citrus, or smells of oak. I do not taste or smell pepper, butter, or grass in my wine; and even if I could, I would prefer those flavors alone to the overriding raw sensation of alcohol burning in my throat. The alcohol, of course, is the point; otherwise, everyone would just have soda.

All that changed in the late spring of 2011. I began to drink . . . a little. I would call it "tippling" in the way one might speak of Julia Child and her kitchen habits. Things got to me and not the small stuff. I was walled off by a complete inability to imagine a future, and I was suffocating from it.

By now, I had begun a comfortable job and was renting a condo in a decent part of town. I could not experience that as a miracle quite yet. Rather, I was slightly horrified at how much difference enough money can make and having a real roof over my head, that is, normalizing.

Port, the drink of sages, poets, and old women, was my tippling choice. I could bear drinking it as it was not too far from Mogen David and Boone's Farm, while having the cachet of foreign origin. For my palate, I preferred the caramel-colored, nutty-flavored, sweet viscosity of tawny port that derives from aging in wooden barrels. The Douro River valley in Portugal where port grapes are grown is the oldest appellation in the world, and porto derives its name from the village at the mouth of the river from which it is exported. Such distinctions make one feel comfortable.

The problem with port for me was that I could drink half a bottle at a time, and there was never any hangover the next day. Just enough sugar in my alcohol made it possible for me to get up as usual and go to work. However, I had cause to worry. While I do not have an addictive personality, one for whom habit becomes nearly unbreakable without really tough measures, one just never knows if there is a tipping point (on the proverbial scale, not the bottle) or where and with what it may lie if there is one. Port might prove to be my downfall; perhaps I was a latent alcoholic who only needed the "right" drink.

Weeks passed. I so enjoyed my evenings with the bottle. The mellow color in the small glass and thick sweetness on my tongue lent themselves to reverie. A month or so passed. It was so relaxing to read and write and talk to relatives by telephone after a few glasses of painlessness and nostalgia after which I simply passed out. Port seemed to calm my nerves so that I could slough off the pressures, anxieties, and intensity of my prior circumstance.

I decided it was a good thing and to let it alone.

Since I could not decide how much of a good thing port was, I had to trust myself. After all, I had stopped smoking cigarettes (and pot before that) and managed to diet successfully a few times in my life. I was a veteran of the ongoing war with transcendence that must be waged or none of us would work or go to school or do anything society regards as productive. We all must decide how much pleasure we can bear.

One day, I simply forgot about port. I do not know how I turned that corner. I cannot remember what was on my mind that seemed so easily to supplant my port habit. I continued to drink port, but with less and less frequency. Months later, I have a near-empty bottle in a kitchen cabinet that is gathering dust and no desire to finish it off. And there sits my lonely aperitif crystal.

A woman with whom I shared a meditation class once told me something I did not want to hear at first because I thought it undermined everything I had ever learned about meditation. I spoke to her because I knew she had been practicing meditation for a very long time, and I thought she could help. I told her I was struggling and that I was seemingly getting nowhere with my practice. She asked me if I had tried a hot bubble bath or a little alcohol or both. I managed a quiet, "Ohhh . . ." while I struggled to hide my shock. She looked straight at me and said with a determination I rarely ever hear, "Whatever it takes."

The wider meaning to her statement is that our lives become the meditation once we go beyond mere practice. In life, as in practice, we cannot be certain what we will find along the way, but we will certainly be different at the end as we will be changed by it. We can have a bubble bath as meditation. We can eat pizza or have a milk shake. We can try anything to see where it leads. The truth is we do not know and cannot know until we get somewhere we like or do not like or that just ends by itself. It is a process, and not even meditation in the end, but trust of oneself and acceptance.

A Note to Readers

2011-08-15T12:18:00.000-07:00

As I read through old posts, I sometimes come across misspellings and other mistakes. I apologize that I cannot seem to find a way to edit a post without also republishing it. The better news is that I am writing, and there will be new posts soon!

Prozac Nation, Prozac Me

2011-02-26T14:50:00.000-08:00

Almost twenty million people in America take Prozac or another anti-depressant like it. Millions upon millions more people around the world take Prozac by a different trade name. Recent reports claim that users of the serotonin-specific reuptake inhibitor kind of anti-depressant, which Prozac is, can become more depressed, hostile, psychopathic, and even suicidal, the very condition anti-depressants hope to mediate. As a footnote, however, many people are happy with the results they are getting from Prozac; and that would include me.

While I am not a proponent of prescription-drug use and abhor the power of the pharmaceutical companies over our nation's health (or lack of it), I discovered Prozac on a desperate visit to the doctor. I was having both menstrual and menopausal symptoms, and nothing at the health-food store was working. I was sleepless, irritable, anxious, and frightened at the lack of control I had over my body. I was surprised at the sudden impulse to take off all my clothes anywhere --- while driving, in the supermarket, outdoors in the middle of the night.

I was having both hot and cold flashes that were most virulent in the evening, and I was not getting enough sleep: just as I would begin to fall asleep, my body would heat up so feverishly that I had to throw off all blankets and clothing and sometimes rush outdoors for cool air. Perhaps ten minutes would pass before my body cooled down, but then it would cool off to freezing and I would need to put clothing and covers back on again. This cycle went on all night until I managed to fall asleep from exhaustion. This hellish phenomenon of disturbed sleep night after night, along with days of disrupted work (I slept through the morning alarms) made me highly agitated. I was being driven mad.

As a last resort, I found myself in the doctor's office begging for a medication that would instantly remove the overwhelming, crazy-making myriad of flashes, moods, aches, and pains. I had always suffered from dysmenorrhea growing up and regularly missed school because of it. I might have been able to succeed at a career in my adult life had I not been forced to miss work 12-24 days out of the year. I was at wit's end on the day I met the doctor for an ultimate cure.

It was to my great surprise that the doctor recommended Prozac. I told him I thought I was, well, too smart to need a drug like that. However, he explained, besides its reputation as the "happy drug," Prozac was known to moderate and reduce the severity of both menstrual and menopausal symptoms. While I seldom ever see a male doctor these days and would not ordinarily have trusted the advice of one, I was too sick to worry about who took care of me on so short a notice. Besides, I was eager to feel better.

It was to my even greater surprise to witness the results after taking the lowest prescribed doses of Prozac: I became completely symptom-free. I was happy to feel better, of course, but I was not on a "high" courtesy of the "happy drug." Rather, any enhanced state of well-being was mostly attributable to being able to sleep again.

I stayed on Prozac for a couple of years until I changed my daily routine to include yoga, running, and a diet that eliminated sugar. After speaking with a chiropractor about possible long-term effects of Prozac, I weaned myself off and managed well without it until December of 2010.

One possible long-term effect of taking Prozac could be that the reuptake-inhibitor action that keeps serotonin levels concentrated in the brain could begin to malfunction. As the body normally regulates itself through opening and closing or starting and stopping processes, the reuptake inhibitor action keeps "valves" open that usually shut and then reopen and shut again and so on. The "valves," so to speak, have a chance to rest. Just like a gate that has been held open for a long time, its mechanism may rust in place, give up resistance, and no longer close properly. What that could mean to a Prozac user is hallucinations and sleeplessness, much like one experiences on recreational drugs, but without the capacity to "come down." The body and its "valves" fail to rest. Of course, this is theoretical, only a guess, but as I tend to prefer not taking drugs in the first place, I thought it was a good idea to give up Prozac for a while.

It was not until homelessness became unbearable, being plagued at night with horrific anxiety and severely depressed thoughts, that I again contemplated taking Prozac. I felt I could not go on much longer; I was beginning to break and had no clear vision of a future; and I still don't, but at that very time also my application for housing had been accepted. One follows every lead, like crumbs left in the forest, to find one's way out. Call it hope; I call it desperation.

Remarkably, I was just not excited about housing. I am not sure what I expected. I guess I thought I might jump up and down and pinch myself to make sure I was not dreaming. Reality looked just like it is, not a great deal of fun unless one can stir oneself up inside to a spiritual fervor and live once-removed from it all. Besides, it is a lot of work to ignore the slavery of being on the bottom of the economic pyramid and enriching the people at the top with every boring, miserably-paid hour I spend at work.

This failure to improve my sense of reality, my seeming lack of imagination, was also a clear sign. Here I had an opportunity to get out of my vehicle, and my reaction was "So what?" I knew I was going to have to push myself, but the energy for a new venture in living was simply not there. My clean diet, running, and yoga did not serve to give the extra boost I needed. Within a day, I was back in the doctor's office asking for Prozac in double the dose I used to take.

As things turned out, the housing deal with the City was not the whoop-de-do for which I might have hoped: the Housing Commission would only pay one-third of the rent based on my gross income calculated over a year. I am now living beyond my means and spending ever dollar of my hard-earned, meager savings to keep up.

Nonetheless, driving past one of my old haunts yesterday, I shuttered to recall eating cold food most of the time and using public restrooms where I could never quite feel comfortable. I had grown accustomed to constipation and having to take laxatives. I was not housed a full day before my constitution regularized, and I sleep as long as I want without fear, not having to move my vehicle at 4:00 a.m. to get to the public park when it opens to avoid the "regular" people and the police. Yes, that is worth the money alone.

Interestingly, and contrary to what I anticipated, Prozac does not take away one's thoughts: I am still depressed and my thinking is somewhat grim. What Prozac does remove is the emotional attachment to memories of loss and pain. I remember, but I am not fixated. I am not brooding and obsessed. I have problems, but they do not possess me. That is the miracle of Prozac.

Yet, I make this report with regret. I am sorry I am not strong enough to live without a drug, any kind of drug, for that matter. I am sorry for all of us who are living in a state of overwhelm. We live in such a troubled world, and none of us is immune to the pain of economic downturn, social and financial immobility, loss of housing, and all the repercussions that ripple out from these phenomena that gradually erode a peaceful existence right down to the smallest joy. It is a daily triumph to notice a clear blue sky, early-spring birds singing, and the humble sweetness of love between two people. It is in these small gifts that I am nourished and get through another day.

Christmas 2010 *

2011-02-13T20:30:00.000-08:00

This was the year of the black hole of the heart.

While years past were challenging, 2010 felt impossible. It has been the worst year of my life. There is now less than a week to go; and if we are lucky in 2011, we are all the closer to the end of the world. I say this in kindness given the problems we have on the planet that are not going away soon enough: we are losing species at a phenomenal rate, and the lose of other species does not, in turn, bode well for our human prospects. The corporation, a behemoth of destruction, is sorely in need of a legal definition that places greater stricture on its behavior. Capitalist greed may need no further comment than what Michael Moore has already said.

The degradation of my personal inner life, however, is all I really have with which to work. That may sound like a retreat or a little too Buddhistic, but homelessness does cast one's life in its legimitate light of powerlessness over anything in the vast Otherness we confront every day. Of course, there are demands on us all from the Outside. One homeless friend constantly reminds me that I am here to work.

Now that is really ugly and demeaning because I grew up in the once-prosperous middle class from which I might make anything of myself, go anywhere, and do anything in a world of endless possibilities; but my friend's comment stinks to high heaven of Truth. There is no religion, either, that does not command we have something to do and contribute; and that is fair enough.

However, our world recently metamorphosed in a way few of us yet understand. The world is both larger and smaller at the same time. The Emerging Economies are quickly surpassing the First World in financial prospects, though our stock market is as high in volume as it ever was, despite record numbers of homeless and jobless people. Technology is produced in many parts of the world and creates a common language through the internet while access to simple necessities such as food is dwindling. (Food free of genetically-modified organisms may soon be a thing of the past.) The Good is great and the Bad is horror beyond the scope of imagination.

Driven nearly mad by my circumstance, I determined to get out as soon as possible. The nightmare of overwhelming grief that was waking me consistently out of almost every sleep had me thinking about the storage space to which I have access. The renter who lends me space there built in a heavy dowel overhead to hold clothing, quite a reach, but sturdy nonetheless. How easy it would be to buy rope, though I would have to consult the internet on making a noose and the details of how the deed is carried out most effectively.

I knew I was in trouble.

After one particularly bad night, I was confronted by a co-worker the next day with whether or not I believed in God because she needed to tell someone what had happened to her. She outlined a quite miraculous event in which desperate prayer had saved her from immediate disaster. It was a beautiful story. I cried because that story had just saved me from the deadly plot I had been hatching all morning. I have not since had the same degree of compulsion or decisiveness.

Within a day or so, I received a notice that I had been accepted into the Homeless Prevention and Rapid Re-housing Program and was expected to find a place to live within its guidelines in a month's time. It was numbing, and I cannot account for the feelings of ambivalence that notice evoked in me, like a joke that is no longer funny and will not elicit even a smile. I had been through hoop after hoop of fire searching for programs by internet and telephone, filling out program paperwork, interviewing with program managers and case workers, and enduring administrative delays. I was one of thousands of worthy people who needed help, even if, like me, they all felt alone in the world and as though a mountain were going to drop on them.

There is a tremendous sense of dread that comes with homelessness, and it is not entirely in one's own mind. The behavior of the police toward the homeless is a huge factor as they have the authority to make sure a homeless person can never get up again. It is simply too much power over another person's life. (I have detailed here at Vagabond several incidences of police disregard and destruction over the months I have been writing.)

Meanwhile, the general public is convinced that homeless people are dangerous, and one of the lowest accusations is that homeless men are rapists. I do not particularly like homeless men because the ones I have met seldom bathe and smell badly; but these are the most offensive things I have ever encountered. Many do not eat or do not eat well, nor do they get sufficient rest sleeping on the ground; and many drink or do drugs that rather serve to suppress normal desire. The reality is that these men would not have the strength to chase or nab a woman and would not be capable of the physical act of rape. They tend to sleep or lie about whenever they can. Many like to read books or listen to the radio. Some visit the local library to use the internet. Homeless men are far from being anyone's worst dream.

Nonetheless, the mythology of the homeless perpetuates ugly stereotypes that keep them from receiving the compassion and real services they need for support if they are ever to get off the street. The mythology also keeps the police busy when there is apparently nothing else for them to do. For example, rookie cops are often broken in with the harassment of a homeless person, waking him up, shaking him down, handcuffing him, putting him in the police car, and driving him to jail where he stays several nights before being let out because there is no reason to hold him. And this is routine.

The good cop/bad cop game is played out, too. The police have their own version of homeless prevention, called the Homeless Outreach Team (HOT). I have placed several phone calls to this group in the hopes of learning what they do and what they might be able to do for me, as I have left no stone unturned. My calls were never answered, despite assurances by beat police that the Team would respond. I have seen the HOT van parked here and there and have seen it pass by on the street, but I cannot tell you after all this time what HOT does or is supposed to be doing.

Perhaps the worse blow to any homeless person is losing all your friends, as that will eventually happen. No one can bear to hear homeless stories every time they phone to inquire about you, and few housed people have the kind of economic security that seemed to be the right of every American just a few years ago. The crushing weight of the homeless person's fears, depression, isolation, and hopelessness take a toll on even the best of friends. There is little left in common in fact as one's homeless life is an unshared bare-bones existence.

As for family, few people can tolerate the expectations engendered by this institution under normal conditions, much less the judgments and sense of failure evoked by a straightforward admission of the truth of one's situation. I would have considered the noose sooner than I did. It is not easy, all the same, sugar-coating one's life for family consumption. So far as anyone knows, we are all just fine, and all the usual normative assumptions, that is, that we all have a place to live and eat reasonably well and so on, hold true.

That homelessness is an unshared life is perhaps the most tragic outcome. Many people have a fictionalized version of homelessness in mind, as I did when I first decided to live in my truck. We were not hopping trains with Woody Guthrie; and far from sitting around the campfire at night, we scattered each to our own hidey-holes, places where the police were not likely to find us. We could not congregate for fear of calling attention to ourselves; and it is against the law to sleep in one's vehicle, even to nap in broad daylight. Just like prison camp interns, the homeless have a near-complete isolation from the rest of the world and little sense of home. The reality of being constantly watched by police, because they guard the streets in their cars round the clock, cut off most avenues of fellowship.

Of course, my life is different now; and without any conscious effort, I am dissociating from homelessness. I have little desire to go back and visit the homeless people I knew, not because I now eschew that kind of life, but because we could not manage to build that commonality like neighbors in the usual sense would do. As much as we had in common, it would never translate into lasting friendships.

And what would I say? I am not yet sure my life is better, and those I now meet in a more normative setting are far from better people. The homeless are honest, unspoiled, and realistic, not out of virtue, but because their poverty and status as non-citizens makes them so.

The terror of homelessness must run deep in the human psyche. There may be collective memories spanning centuries of losing our homes to marauders and war parties that reached our villages. Whatever the case, as a society, we seem to need to turn our backs on the homeless and deny with every fiber of our being the reality that we have no right or guarantee to a place to live. There is no inalienable right to a home in the Constitution of the United States, a nation missing an essential building block, built without a foundation, when seen in this light. In God We Trust takes on new meaning here as the only home we possess we owe only to an inner spiritual sense that there is a better world somewhere beyond this one.

We are all fundamentally homeless, dependent upon the mercy of someone higher up on the food chain who employs us. Our human culture is pyramidal, that is, many people supporting a few at the top, no matter whether the country is capitalist or communist. What we learn from the symbolism of the pyramids in Egypt or in Mexico is that the pyramid as a structure is unstable. All lost cultures modeled on the pyramid now lie in ruins; and there may be no end to the exploitation of people and other living things until this structure is consigned to the past.

Our hopes lie in the circle of life.

* Note: Writing was begun on December 26, 2010, and completed on February 13, 2011.

That Which Cannot Be Taken

2010-07-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

"Only that which cannot be taken away by death is real. Everything else is unreal, it is made of the same stuff dreams are made of." -- Osho

A friend asked me to elucidate this statement as it pertains to my life. As my readers know, I have fallen a considerable distance from faith (also hope and love). I have been grasping at straws, and that is just how elusive my efforts have seemed at saving myself from being awakened every morning with a dark heaviness in my chest, a near inability to breathe, and a mind clogged of any vision beyond my nose. It is only with forcing myself to get up, dress, roll up my bedding, and start the engine that I come out of the bog.

That morning slough happens every day now, and it is a painful reminder that I no longer want the life I am constrained to live. Belief that tomorrow could be different requires a leap of faith for which I am no longer equipped. That kind of faith is a pole vault or a climb up Mt. Everest. What I have had to do, at least, to make myself more comfortable physically is dial down the sensation and shut off my mind, meditational skills I learned long ago.

What remains is me being, me in my beingness and nothing else. I am not relating temporally where there is so much energetic investment and anxiety, nor am I connected spacially where I experience confinement. I am existing outside time and space: I am here but unattached, here but free of judgments. I am bound only to the moment and the barest of daily routines.

I am not talking about the be-here-now mantra I never understood unless, in fact, I now understand it as I never before could. That mantra seemed to imply a spurious break with the past and future in exchange for a romp in an irresponsible moment. One's past and future, like a prison term, are still there the next day. No wonder so many hippies turned out to be investment bankers.

What I am referring to here is shutting out the suppositions, assumptions, theories, what-ifs, as-ifs, and the futurism and nostalgia that perpetuate these states of mind. I am getting empty so that I can see again, if there is any path at all to follow. I am just here, and I do not pretend to know why. Maybe answers will come. Maybe not. I suspect there is no reason to be here, though I would still like to be more comfortable, that is, not living in my truck any longer.

So far so good with these new practices. I really have no choice given the deadly, suffocating heaviness I experience every day. At least, the emotional pain subsides; and I keep it that way, rejecting any thoughts that lead to uncomfortable feelings. I am not ignoring my feelings, but being discriminate as I have walked the way of those difficult feelings before and know those well-worn paths to be unnecessary and unprofitable. I am staying open to new experiences.

All that is left is the living soul experiencing.

One question I am beginning to ask is, "What am I not seeing?" I ask this question particularly in response to running out of money, which, as I reported in a previous post, causes me tremendous fear, even if I do recognize the damage it has done to our society. Nothing changes the need for it, but I am beginning to look for ways around it. Most recently, I cannot pay the cell phone and internet broadband bill. I panicked. I phoned a friend to see if he could pay the bill this month for me, but he is also hard up and goes without broadband.

So, I figure I, too, can go without broadband, though it means driving to places where there is a wi-fi presence that allows me to connect from the street while online in the truck. Of course, there are also cafes and coffee houses where I can plug in as well. Anyway, that was how I used to do it, and I got spoiled. Any convenience is very welcome and usually saves gasoline.

Minus broadband internet, I may be able to keep the phone on, and my best friends are going to appreciate that. Nonetheless, there is someone who would be willing to take calls for me in the interim if I cannot find at least $50 today. And so it goes.

Allowing myself comforts, however small, is becoming a new habit. Yesterday, I had ice cream sandwiches, raspberry with small chocolate bits between two chocolate cookies. Four in all. (I still have Food Stamps!) As a concession, I did not eat lunch or dinner. I was quite full, anyway. I am also sleeping more as a way of worrying less. Worry is tiresome, and I can feel those fine lines around my mouth sagging with every sorrowful thought. I am afraid my mouth will fix in a permanent frown. Hence, I remember to smile, sometimes at nothing. I seem to have created, magically, more time in a day by not worrying. The day seems to race to a close with an excess of concerns and fears in the mind, and my vanity just will not allow me to consider aging in any serious, graceful way quite yet.

Remarkably, despite my mother, despite the life-long agony of feeling motherless, I want to go home and fantasize about being in the house and surroundings of my childhood. I allow it. No good fighting the sense of joy I have sitting for breakfast at the antique table in Mother's light-filled kitchen as the sun tops the huge oaks in the backyard: 10:00 a.m. From now in summer, the heat will pour on thick as a down blanket and all but smother every living thing. Bathing is futile, for as soon as one dries off, the sweat is on again.

There is no use doing much of anything. The old people used to sit on their porches and shell peas or shuck corn in this weather. The slightest breeze would knock together the delicate glass pieces of the Chinese wind chime hung in the corner, the sound wondrously like the tinkling of water. It seems anyone with a porch had one of those once-cheap wind chimes comprising two or three tiers of glass inscribed with Chinese characters held together with paper glued to red string and gathered at the top by a ring. The chimes were available for sale at the dime store for two bucks fifty. Some years later, I bought one in Chinatown and had to spend $35.

If one can only get through the muggy afternoons, the early evenings bring the sweet smell of grasses and wild honeysuckle. Ground fog rises up and sits gently over the neighboring fields like a dewy cloth to relieve the brow of fever. The air is humid, misty, fragrant. The oppression is lifting as night falls and the tender winking lights of the fireflies fill the trees and shrubs as if to rival the display of stars overhead.

There is only one healthful time to eat in the midwestern summer, and that is in early morning, though one is tempted to eat, and hungry, when the sun goes down. But one is also tired at the end of the day, enervated, sapped by any human effort. If there were ever a place to drink a lot of water, it is here. The cool evening air is delicious, stirring musings on life and love and their inevitabilities as one begins to drift to sleep.

But my mind wanders, relaxed in these peaceful thoughts.

That which cannot be taken away by death is what has remained in the heart long after the passing of people, places, and things, which can be evoked again and again and which are met once more in lifetime after lifetime. The heart, connected to the permanent atom of myself, is what transform all experience into light.

Still, I do wish I could go home again.

A Letter to a Friend

2010-07-02T09:35:00.000-07:00

Hi Leslie,

I am writing to apologize for my reaction to your comment yesterday.

Perhaps your friend is right. Perhaps, no matter what, I should call on my mother and siblings. Maybe your friend's comment was a nudge at a distance.

Nonetheless, I want to repeat here for the record that I did take umbrage at your friend's comment, to paraphrase, that were she in my position and homeless, she would go to her family to live. You told me your friend is in her 50's, and I thought that comment was rather glib, uninformed, and maybe unrealistic given her age.

I cannot rule out that her relations with her family may be much better than mine; but it is no secret that family are often the hardest people with whom to maintain relations, just karmic fact for most of us. Family always have higher expectations for us than for anyone else, so my apparent failure being homeless would sting them. I would be surprised if this were not the case with her family as well. I wondered how much thought your friend had given this matter.

Personally, I also have my pride and have not given up on making it on my own despite the odds. Of course, given my circumstance, I have had to think of everything. When I have thought I did not, I phoned friends to ask for their ideas. So it did seem patronizing that your friend would think a homeless person who was formerly middle-class and educated would not think about every avenue of escape.

Please bear in mind that I am attempting to raise your awareness and your friend's. That is the purpose of my blog, to help dispel all the assumptions we tend to make about a situation that we do not share with another human being. There are, of course, middle-class assumptions that simply do not hold in a homeless setting. Where you would typically shun an alcoholic person, for example, I now tend to overlook the addiction. I told you how one alcoholic was the first person to greet me when I first started living in my truck. He made me laugh, and I dearly needed laughter at that time as I was laden with grief.

I also tend to ignore addiction among the homeless for another reason. Addiction may be the reason why some people become homeless, but it is not exactly the reason why they stay homeless. Among the wealthy, there are plenty of alcoholics and drug abusers. The difference is that they can hide what they do because they can afford it. It is a class issue, not a drug issue. Lack of money is what separates a poor user from a rich one.

Here in the United States, we think we are an exception to the rest of the world. It is known as American exceptionalism ---- the reason we do not protest all that much or start riots over money like they do in Europe. The Europeans have not forgotten that there is an ongoing class war, no matter how large their middle class. They know that if the European elites decide to fart in their direction, there goes the middle class; their goes funding for education, health care, worker safety nets, jobs --- the whole enchilada. We would do well here in the United States to remember that there are very powerful people who can shut down the entire game if they want to. And, those elites need to know that we will do ugly things to keep them in check as well, like rioting and other things that scare the Bejesus out of them.

Surely you remember the Kent State shootings. It was appalling to see footage of the National Guard shooting live ammunition at students, not unlike Tiananmen Square some decades later. It was quite surreal to me given the high-flown rhetoric of the greatness of our country with which I had grown up. It just did not seem possible, yet it happened, and someone gave the order and that order came from higher up. (As a note here, restitution has still not been made to the families whose children died at Kent State 50 years ago. Here is a recent report: http://origin.wkyc.com/news/local/news_article.aspx?storyid=135890&catid=45 ).

I recall thinking that the elites were real tired of the bratty children of the veterans of WWII skipping college classes to protest the Vietnam War. We were not grateful enough and did not appreciate the virtually universal education they had acceded to give to the generations of the World War II vets; and it was not long before it was taken away. Subsequent cohorts have had to go into debt for a mere undergraduate degree or forgo a higher education altogether.

So, yes, I spend considerable time thinking about my situation and that of others.

I only wish I could have listened more patiently to you yesterday.

Thank you for your help, always.

Kerry Echo

All About Money

2010-06-29T14:09:00.001-07:00

It is harder than you think to stand around all day and ask people for money.

I tried it recently.

Having considerable experience in sales and fundraising, I thought I could do a more creative job of panhandling than the homeless folk out at the intersections. I did not want to look homeless or sad. I did not want to appeal to pity. No, I wanted to fundraise, so I took my cause to the Embarcadero and stood amid the seaside restaurants, ships at dock, the jewelry and tie-dye vendors, and pedi-cabs.

It was a wonderful idea: I would give away free hugs and offer people the opportunity to give money to someone less fortunate, meaning me. My sign read, "Free Hugs & Donations to the Homeless." I was dressed well, but casually. I wore makeup and made sure my nail polish was fresh. I smiled and asked passers-by in a friendly tone if they needed a hug. I even got into a rhythm I could ride for a while.

Frankly, I had to stay "up" and to do whatever it took to get there. While I know the impact sugar has on my body and keep its consumption to a minimum, on that day, before driving downtown to start a new occupation as panhandler, I ate a few cookies. I even thought the "sugar high" would empower me, and maybe it did, at least, for the time it took to get to the Embarcadero.

Once there, I just could not get out of the truck. I would inch a little toward the door, but then clutch the steering wheel and pray. Finally, I phoned a friend: I asked him to help me get out of the truck so that I could do this thing. He coached me out of the vehicle and along the promenade until I found an amicable young vendor whom I asked about sharing her piece of the sidewalk. I felt better now. I had made a friend.

So that was my start. I spoke to as many people as I could, and there was still a little sugar in my blood. My sales spiels went like this: "Do you need a hug today?!", "Hi, hugs are free!", or "Would you like a hug?" I collected $14 for my efforts in close to three hours, but it was a Thursday. That money equaled the time and kindness of nine people and paid for my gas and the parking meters. I made $3.

Not much, you think, but any money will spend.

Nonetheless, it took a lot of energy to keep from crashing, from giving in to a sense of vulnerability that made me anxious, best described as feeling as though my brain were seeping out of my skull and making me slightly light-headed. I suppose it is also known as fear, but I could not understand why, with so much fundraising experience, I would react so severely to doing something so benign.

After all, I was deflecting the harshest judgments that might come from the public by posing, not as homeless, but as an agent on behalf. I was even giving something in exchange for a donation. Moreover, I am not intimated by rejection, being ignored, or what other people think, at least, not usually; but, for some reason, I was not in top form, and I was scared.

On my way home, that is, back to my spot on the Bay, it occurred to me that I was asking a lot of people. If a person heard me at all as opposed to ignoring me, there were numerous little calculations that went on in his mind, just as there are in my head when someone makes a request of money from me. Even family is funny about money.

When my father was alive, he would give me money at times because he figured I could use it. However, if I asked for money, he seemed to need to think about it. One day on a visit to my parents' house, I expressed the need for a vehicle and wondered if they could help with a down payment. Of course, my father would think about it. As soon as he left the room, however, my mother launched into a surprising, scalding lecture I will call, "Your Father/My Husband."

In it, my mother outlined her concerns for my father as a wife. I could understand what she said, but she was also pulling rank, and her position, of course, was more important than mine. While family relations certainly intersect, I never imagined any of them to run at cross purposes or to invalidate another. Naively, I suppose, I thought they coexisted. However, in so many words, my requests for money were working my father to death; and he needed to retire. My father (and his money) belonged to her, and I needed to . . . well, get lost. I never felt more motherless. Worse than that, the ground of my existence fell away, and I was as far from earth as a lost kite. I seemed to float, disembodied, for days.

I was killed, but I wasn't dead.

Many years ago, I read a book by a man named Norman O. Brown called, "Love's Body." These days, I would tend to agree with detractors that his analysis is too extreme and so reductionistic as to lack substance, but much of his understanding of culture and neuroses, like Freud's, is undeniable. Money, for example, is a stand-in for love and carries a hefty, symbolic load. Money, like love, gets twisted, its exchanges and relationships tortuous; but there is more to it.

My mother's diatribe might have been a simple equation, as much about her need for love and security as it was about money. However, apart from the emotional complexities, the fact of the matter is that we cannot spend love. Love has no economic power. Love will not pay the rent, buy food, or put gas in the truck. As romantic as I tend to be, I am forced to acknowledge the overwhelming power of money; and I don't like it.

Money has come to have an obscene, inordinate importance in my life. It gets more attention than anything or anyone else. I am absorbed in joh hunting in order to get money. I am preoccupied daily with husbanding what little I have left of it, which determines where I go and what I can do. My life is completely circumscribed by money, and there is not one problem I have that could not be cured by having more of it, sad to say.

Money is the life blood of our culture. We need it. We have to have it. When I ask those people on the promenade at the Embarcadero for money, I am asking them to give up what they also need. I could easier ask for oxygen from their lungs or for them to open a vein because money is dearer, more volatile, and more critical to our daily lives. I am asking them to give up some of their means of survival to me.

How did we come to this?

We are in a shameful place. We must admit that money is more important than love and far more real than God. We have to admit that we are neurotic about money, even if we hate what it does to us and feel that we cannot change it. We have to admit to a sickness around money that destroys our relationships to other people. We have given to money the place that God, love, and other people should have in our lives.

We each also need to admit our basic poverty. Nearly all of us has to work or find a government program to support us. I don't know anyone who is a scion of one of the wealthy, powerful, and controlling families on the planet --- and neither do you. The gist here is that you are potentially as poor as I am, and you can as easily lose your footing. It only takes one wrong step, but you will not know it is a misstep until the money starts to run out;that is how it goes.

Let us start, at least, with being honest, and then let's talk about what else we might do besides basing most everything of any importance on the exchange of money. To prove to yourself the necessity of such an examination, do an exercise of listing the accidents and tragedies in your life that might have been avoided with more money and think of what kind of alternative might have been prophylactic. For example, had you been living in closer proximity to dear friends, say, or in a communal setting where there are more occasions for fellow-feeling than what living as an isolated monad in an urban high-rise apartment (or as a nuclear family in a suburb) can provide, you might still have _____.

We can dream a little and imagine the doctor or veterinarian living next door who would accept a few dozen eggs for a house call. Perhaps you would enjoy living like the Amish (except you are not Amish, but you get the idea) among people with whom you could entrust your life and whose friendship and deeds not only help you along, but inform your character. You become a better person by association.

Finally, if this little drill does not convince you that you want and need an alternative to the money culture, take a drive to a spot where the homeless panhandle and remember that these people were not always where you see them today. Take a moment to notice your thoughts about them --- and the fear.

The Social Services Maze

2010-06-27T17:29:00.000-07:00

It is easy to ignore the homeless people at the traffic intersections; or maybe you find the homeless cause compelling, but wonder why these people are not using the myriad social services that are purportedly set up to aid them. The short answer is there aren't any.

I know you were not prepared for that answer. You were led to believe there would be something known as "rapid re-housing" under the new Obama Administration. Those monies were apparently only given to those who were losing their houses, to urban development companies buying up more (to be used as) low-income properties, or to other non-profits in the housing game to pay salaries. All in all, I call this feeding at the public trough. This is not a kind assessment, and there may be good people involved all around. Still, these new monies are getting to the homeless very indirectly or not at all.

And the homeless are not all alike.

Homelessness has a new face: besides the families with children who could not stay in their homes, there are people who lost jobs and the unemployment benefits have run out; and there are many women, young and old, who have failed to make enough money in their lives or to marry well. The old face of homelessness is more like that of my friend, Bob, who is an alcoholic.

Nonetheless, even for the most targeted homeless, those families with children who lost their homes in recent years, rapid re-housing requires some money. The federal government through various local agencies will pay a portion of rent or mortgage, but not all. Someone has to have a job, and jobs are in short supply. For the ever-growing numbers of homeless people, there will be no place to live but in their vehicles. They will learn what it is like to be run off from one parking lot to the next because even as the police force dwindles in this poor economy, it still serves a public more frightened of homelessness than burglaries or murders.

Of course, there are the shelters.

The shelters in this town turn out to be just one, one big intake center. Perhaps long ago it was a model of social service efforts, but that had to be some time before the Reagan era with its mission to roll back socialism and to take away from the taxpaying public any of the benefits that could cushion a fall in case one lost his economic footing. Back in the money-mongering 80's, we didn't worry about that.

Now that anyone in the erstwhile middle or working class can slip into poverty, that big shelter is noticably inadequate for such a person, that is for the requirements of normative housing. Noticing my look of amazed shock as I stood in the lobby, a seeming-sane resident of this shelter called my attention to the fact that the windows and doors are not barred; but since all of the apartments in which I ever lived in the nicest neighborhoods of Chicago, Manhattan, and San Francisco had bars on windows and triple latches on the doors, that meant only one thing: the crazies were on the inside.

As one approaches the large central-city shelter, the numbers of people thicken. Street scenes can have their appeal; a mere weekend can feel like a holiday among people who obviously have nothing to do but loll, chat, and sip lattes. Yet, here on Market Street, the friendliness is too eager, and the ogling and flip remarks, to be expected, make me wish I were wearing a burka. There is a lot of chatter, but upon closer view, it is coming from individuals who are talking to themselves and just wandering about. What really begins to bother me, though, is the subtle degree of quirk, which is scary even if it is hard to describe. Perhaps it is just the look on someone's face or the way someone turned the straw in a cup. Then it hits me: I am in bedlam.

All the same, I go through the paces. Given that money is running out, I have to give this endeavor of seeking shelter my best effort. After all, the truck in which I live requires money for gas, a kind of rent it imposes, you might say; and the cell phone and internet bills have to be paid. We are already at $500 a month for these few basics. Anyway, I needed to find out what services now existed since I last looked (when George W. Bush was in office) as there seemed to be more promise with the new Administration, and I wanted to be sure I was not just holding my nose in the air.

At the reception desk, I ask about becoming a resident and am referred to a window outside and around the corner. The area is crowded with almost thirty people waiting to get inside for a few minutes in the shower. I am at the Day Center for non-resident homeless. Just as I step up to the window, an agitated, wild-eyed woman who cannot wait her turn flits from one side of me to the other. The worker asks me if I can wait a moment while she takes care of the woman whom she calls by name: she turns out to be a resident.

Despair and the impulse to vomit surge up. I can feel my nerve ends.

The worker invites me through the double doors and into her office. The interruptions by residents continue, but our business is simple and brief. She takes my photo, and I am given a number. They are both on an orange plastic card that I will wear, like the other residents, on a cord around my neck if I get in.

The next step is to see a case manager, and I am told to go to another, smaller center just up the street approximately three blocks away. The worker asks me if I think I would like someone to accompany me. She has an earnest, worried look, and I cannot imagine what that means. "Oh, no, I'm fine," I say and, confirming the location with her again, I set out walking.

Turning the corner from Market onto 17th Street, I step into another world. I might be in Haiti amid refugees. This is a one-way street, and there are people three and four deep lining the sidewalks with their grocery carts, bicycles, boxes, and stacks of stuff. People are crossing the road here and there, going back and forth from the Day Center. There are radios playing, ladies chatting as though they had just hung out their laundry, people sitting around on sofas and old chairs, some lying down or sleeping, and a group sitting around a card game. Despite what appear to be attempts to normalize an obviously inhuman situation, I am feeling the desperation just beneath my skin. Fear floats up just below consciousness, the kind that usually nauseates me.

The numbers of people grow greater the closer I get to the Day Center. In the courtyard and approaching the building itself, people lying in blankets or on mattresses are wall-to-wall. Maybe this is where the sick can rest. Inside the building, there are rows of connected plastic seats that look very much like any other government aid office. The seats are mostly filled with men, but they do not seem to be waiting for anything or anyone. Those numbered, government office windows are missing. Instead, there is a large reception area with several people behind the counter, and I am next in line.

It seems that people are just here because there is no other place to go. Having nothing in particular to do, most of them do nothing. I feel sick and scared. My nerve ends are burning, and I am very uncomfortable with this degree of fear; but I need to see the case worker.

Ms. Alma is a small-built, spirited, genial black woman. Her skin is deeply black, and her face has the kind of wrinkles that are earned. She has the aura of someone who marched in the South with Dr. King and committed her life to serving others as so many of her generation did. As I take a seat in her office, I notice the prayer plaques on the walls and angel figurines covering every available surface, rows and clusters of them on the window sill, on top of shelves, and on file cabinets. There are over a hundred, and they dominate the room. I am not surprised. The weird swamp of humanity that has washed up on her shore are her wards, and who could know what to do for them, save God and the heavenly host. Where I am concerned, anything that can keep the heebie-jeebies away is welcome.

However, Ms. Alma informs me that I must show up and check in at the Day Center every Monday morning at 6:00 a.m. for the next six weeks in order to be elegible for residency in the shelter; but there is an exception if I am working: in that case, Ms. Alma will check me in by phone when she gets to work at 7:30.

I admit I lied about working. I was not sure I could stay in my right mind ever seeing this place again. Somehow, though, I blew it, or they are just quick to knock people off the rolls. In the first two weeks, Ms. Alma took my calls, but then she said she was going to be out of the office; I would have to come down to the Day Center. At least, I think that is what she meant, but my mind fogged over and I persisted in calling. I explained to whoever answered that I was checking in by phone because I worked. Yet, by the fourth Monday, I was told they had no record of me and that I would have to come in and start all over again --- all that just to get a regular bed at night, one of the bunk beds in a cubicle in a room full of cubicles. Of course, I could still use the emergency shelter overnight and hang out by day on 17th Street, at the sad American version of our very own Third World.

No, I have not been back to the Day Center. I am concerned about the effect on my health and sanity; but just as critical, I wonder how I could manage working a full-time job and waking up and coming home to the shelter. They say one gets to graduate from the shelter after four to six weeks and is placed in the community. I am not sure I could last that long, and I am already out of time.

Over two years ago, I was told not to bother with the shelters, as they are exactly what was described to me then --- not a place for people who only want a hand up and who are not looking to join the permanently incarcerated. There were two or three special programs for women run independently of the shelter system which I phoned. There was one for women working (or seeking work) for which I qualified, but the waiting list to get in was three years. I figured I would be employed long before then and out of what I believed to be a temporary situation of living in my truck.

To see if anything had changed, I contacted this organization again and, this time, managed to get an interview with the Director which seemed to go well until she told me I needed to meet with a case worker: the appointment would be a month away. Well, I thought, let's not get in a hurry over homeless people. I did not feel encouraged to wait that long, but I did.

The case worker appeared to be right out of school, that is, close to 40 years younger than I, but she had been trained well to listen as though she understood or had had my experiences. It became fairly clear through the course of the interview that I was not a good match for this program, either. I balked at not being able to see the space in which I would be living. I resorted to questions: could she tell me if the room were about the size of her office? Could she approximate the square footage? Were there closets? But it was like a game of charades.

The case worker had no answers at all except to say that the room would be small, of course. Exasperated, finally, I asked her if she had any photos of the room. She looked at me as though I had sprouted another head. In a surprised tone, she said no one had ever asked her that question, perhaps a clue to the type of women with whom I would be living.

Sight unseen, I was supposed to determine what I could fit into a tiny shared space. As the room would be in a downtown five-story building, I was already trying to imagine the logistics of parking my truck and hauling my belongings out of it and onto a busy city street and the kind of time it would take to arrange those belongings (carefully, I presumed, given the roommate) in an unfamiliar place. Just thinking about it made me tired.

I was further stunned to learn that I might be rooming with a smoker, even if she were not allowed to smoke in the space we shared. I imagined the stale odor of cigarette smoke permeating everything in a space about the size of a large closet. I would have a bunk, and there would be a desk --- one desk. I wondered how much room was left to walk in and if I would be bumping into my roommate at every turn. I wondered if I would ever again be able to sort through my personal papers, as I had always used a desk as a place to think, as a way of laying out my life, externalizing it in order to see it and manage it better. A desk top was sacred space for a sacred act.

The coup de grace at the end of this interview was to learn that I would not be getting housed that day or that week. The case worker would refer my situation to her staff for consideration; and if they moved ahead, I would have housing in their program in 8 weeks. It would be September. I gasped. My heart shrank. I was supposed to phone the case worker in two days, though I was not sure why. It was probably a test, one of those nonsensical check-ins. Consequently, I forgot. I phoned the following day, though, and left a message. I have not heard back.

Giving up when there is little hope is a hallmark of homelessness. It is an honest response. One does not get blood from a turnip. Water does not spout from a rock, and only Arthur can remove the sword from the stone. The services that I need --- and that you would need, too ---do not exist. Social services is a maze of false starts and a convoluted means of wasting other people's time, good will, and life-force energy. It survives on antiquated Victorian notions of social work in which I am not a taxpaying equal, but a beggar. Rather than rely solely upon prayer and miracles, we should sooner consider an overhaul of a system badly in need of repair.

How I Became Homeless, Part II

2010-06-20T10:05:00.000-07:00

Some of my blog followers were displeased with my last post because it questioned a few of the usually unquestionable, foundational Judeo-Christian notions of our Western world. The pillars among them -- hope, faith, and love ---the objects of my philippic, begged for a response because of the obvious heresy; and I was inviting it, even though I admit I was also making an attempt at wry humor. Still, my anfractuous life and bouts of pessimism leave me no alternative but to question everything, including what we consider to be the most sacrosanct of our heritage.

We seem to be at the ultimate cultural nadir represented so utterly and graphically by the Deepwater Horizon explosion and oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico. Our weak social, political, and economic underpinnings are showing and presenting us with the most critical challenge we have ever faced in Western history, which is to change the paradigm or die. Personally, I do not believe we will change, at least, not in time; and time is not only of the essence, but an unrecognized commodity of the first order that the cultural powers have chosen to ignore.

When we speak of paradigm shift, it involves much more than just getting into spiritual alignment. Changing Ages, as it were, that is moving out of the Christian Age and into an as-yet unnamed "new" Age, happens at the root, dislodging it or cutting it off. It is not too soon to grieve the loss, as it will be great and no doubt plummet us all into an abyss much deeper than the darkness that befell what remained of the Holy Roman Empire. I think how remote, for example, Greek history seems to us from our current place in time.

God was Zeus to the Greeks, and they had many, many sub-gods, not just a Jesus as the Christans have, but perhaps more on the order of the Hindu divinities. Of course, this is oversimplifying. My point here is just how hard it has always been for me to imagine the Greeks (or Romans) worshipping these silly and often cruel characters to whom they built temples, prayed, enacted rituals, and offered other forms of homage. But, then, their gods were not promising an afterlife, but mirroring the world as it was and still is. Perhaps their gods made living in the world more comprehensible. The Greeks were not trying to escape reality, but trying to get along with it; and it was made more bearable by gods that shared it.

We cannot believe that the Greeks did not also have hope, faith, and love which we like to credit to our culture and religion. We cannot believe --- even without internet, automobiles, and other accessories of our world (I hesitate to say modern) ---that the Greeks were not the same as all people of all times, having the same human needs. We cannot make the judgment that their religion was primitive and that Jesus is a better man-God, for it is getting harder by the day to see what progress humankind has made over the centuries.

At the distance of another 2000 years, Christianity and other religions of our time are going to look just as curious as the pantheon of Greece or Rome do today. Christmas will transmogrify or disappear. Perhaps some ritual event that was originially meant to save us from the great oil-bleeding hole in the Gulf will replace it, accompanied by a beautifully-obscure text about the end time that will mystify the next earth inhabitants.

Truly, we cannot keep this up.

Our present culture is not based in the earth realities of the connectedness of all life forms, but on creating merit for an afterlife, what the entire capitalist system really is and all the other life-eating, socio-economic, top-down structures, including communist regimes that themselves await the dawning of the perfect society. The similarities between cultural structures on this planet are more alike than not. All depend upon control of the masses through fear and enslavement, though self-enslavement in the service of fear in not uncommon. Nature as the ultimate display of freedom must be snuffed out; and all life forms, man or beast, that will not submit or cannot be used or made to fit are doomed to war, killed outright, consigned to museums, or shipped to zoos.

How I Became Homeless

2010-06-13T22:00:00.000-07:00

I cannot say this is going to be definitive. The whole truth is far too damning, and there is still a lot of blame and hurt and grief over losses. How I became homeless, exactly, has been too much for me to bear, so much of the story is probably best saved for the social workers and therapists.

However, I can tell you the driving forces behind the evils of poverty and homelessness --- faith, hope, and love. Yes, indeed, these were the very ingredients it took to end up in my situation. While you are picking up your jaw, let me say that by far the worst of these three is hope. One cannot have any at all without running enormous risks with one's very life.

Do not hope. You may wish it, but do not hope for anything. There is just no way to know what is going to happen in life without doing yourself the added damage of trying to make it happen, whatever it may be that you have idly constructed as the perfect life. No, you probably do not want it to happen. What will happen is bad enough. That it is a proverbial sleeping dog around which one should tiptoe.

Hope leads to despair of the pure and utter variety. Spare yourself of it. Whenever you find yourself hopeful, look around: it is probably just a sunny day and the temperature is just right. Leave it alone. Do not impart to this natural phenomenon any meaning of hope for your life. And the hope you are feeling is, upon examination, just a feeling based upon . . . nothing at all. There is no reason for it. You do not have what you want and are truly never closer to anything you want until you actually have it. Any feeling or impulse to which you might ascribe the word hope means only that you do not have that it you seek.

Let's review. You are no closer to getting what you want by hoping for it or feeling hope about it. Any feeling or impulse to which you might ascribe the word hope means only that you do not have that it you seek. Only the actual possession of that thing is real. Hope represents a state of unreality, and one should positively avoid it.

Faith is an even more nebulous state than hope. Try not to find yourself there, despite any early-childhood Christian education. Though I myself have always loved Hebrews 11:1, "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," I have been tested and I live to tell you that if you cannot see it, then the chances of a reality with it are pretty slim. Like I said, it may just be the sunlight's effect on cold skin. You may also have a penchant, like I do, for obscure, confounding, convoluted thinking expressed in a simple elegant way.

And, finally, the greatest destroyer of that I Corinthians big three is Love. I am not disputing that one may be wrongheaded about love in the first place, and Love may be the big it you want and need, as it was for me a few years ago. I was not delusional: rather, I had hope and faith; then love followed. Love is what propels one to make the leap, to do the deed, to take the actions. Love is the binder if faith and hope have set your mind dancing.

Looking back at all the New Age spiritual claptrap I imbibed before leaping with everything I owned into a pact with a man I barely knew, it will not surprise you at all that I now firmly believe in arranged marriages. More than that, one should just move to one of those countries where marriages are arranged; and if you should still believe in reincarnation, then get yourself born there.

The thing with men and women boils down to the simple-minded, and it has very little meaning by the time one hits age 50 in any case. The male/female relationship hardly warrants the fuss of a wedding at age 20 or any other. Truly, to dignify yin and yang in any meaningful way, it has to be arranged from childbirth, or well before. It must be the union of two families all the way back to the beginning of time, and it must have the earthly consequence of producing genetically-sound children, peace in the home and community, and adding to the material comfort of each family. Other than that, what is the use?

It just so happens I was a single woman at or nearing 50 when it occurred to me that I could be happier and more complete somehow after an entire lifetime unmarried if I only had the right yang. I searched for a few years with increasing disappointment such that by the time I met what I thought was the right yang for the rest of my life, I was too addlepated to make any decision of the force and consequence this would have. The bases of my choice of that particular yang are now almost imperceivably shrouded by the magnitude of stupidity it took to end up where I am now. I must have had reasons, but the more I think about it, the more I think menopause is a dangerous hormonal state.

And then there were the other factors of having never married, being childless, being somewhat lost due to not having married and being childless, not being a career type despite a solid education, and so on. Furthermore, being married, having children, and keeping house were the unfulfilled dreams that became fodder for the spiritual gristmills of hope, faith, and love. Now let's throw my mother into the mix.

My mother's one great burden, her cross surely to the end of her life, is that she never forgave her father. She still has not forgiven him, and that has perhaps been the most salient feature of my relationship to my mother as I will explain. I believe my grandfather loved my grandmother. I prefer to start from that premise as there is no evidence to the contrary.

This much is known: my grandmother died of hemorrhaging, presumedly from an attempted back-alley abortion. My Aunt Donna, the eldest of my mother's siblings, recalls removing bloody sheets from her mother's bed. There is no mention of an attending doctor, just my grandmother taken to bed and bleeding. It has been expressly verboten to tell this story. My Great Aunt Alice, my maternal grandfather's sister, would never permit discussion of it and would, if not deny the story, actively suppress it with a stern, rhetorical, "Who told you that!"

My grandmother, Maxine, left five young children. My mother was in the middle and was age 9 at her mother's death. These children were subsequently shuttled back and forth, between and among, grandparents and aunts and uncles in no particular way of doing it, though considerable guilt and shame surrounding my grandmother's untimely death had to contribute to efforts to keep the little five out of the orphanage.

Knowing something about men at my late age, I imagine my grandfather ran. He ran in every way a man can run and as far as he could without utterly denying he had children and family. I believe he did the best he could even as he carried the burden of complicity in an act that killed his wife.

For one thing, my grandfather stayed in the Navy, not that there is much information from anyone about what this man did after my grandmother's death. The mortification over the way Maxine died had to have crippled any relationship with the remaining relatives who were reared, mind you, by Victorians. It is said that my maternal great-grandparents never spoke of their son-in-law because they were good Christians, so the reasoning goes. That may well have been, but the tragedy of the death of their only child might have stunned them into a silent, everlasting grief.

Thus, my grandfather stayed far away and out to sea apparently much of the time. It was, of course, his job or duty to do so, but I feel certain he could not meet the gaze of any family member ever again. There was nothing about which to talk or laugh, even less to do together lest the memory of his wife, their child and his children's mother, invaded the pleasure of what company can afford. He was rendered alone, an Ahab, a Cain, a marked man who no longer had a place or position --- at least, not on land.

As far as I know, my grandfather never spoke to anyone about my grandmother or the incident that led to her death, even in his senior years or upon his death bed. Furthermore, no one felt sorry for him. Indeed, he was disliked. My mother was among those who despised him, and this is understandable in the context of my grandfather's remarriages, each time to a woman as indisposed to taking care of someone else's five children as the last.

One can only imagine the havoc that five motherless children could bring to a household and how much love a second wife must have, not just for the man she married, but for children in general. In each case, the new wife had children of her own who were at the top of the pecking order and who remained the natural favorites. The idea of blended families, commonplace today, with its assumption of parity for all parties involved, was not yet in the cultural stream.

But things were much worse for these children than just being Cinderellas who got all the hand-me-downs. My grandfather took as his second wife a woman who was mentally disturbed, who acted upon these children in cruel and brutal ways. The stories told of this stepmother are lurid. They are simply too distressing for my purposes here, but suffice it to say, any one of these five children might have died at her hands.

How long the five children stayed with this stepmother, or any stepmother, has never been given in exact terms. No story has been told exactly, and one senses that much of the worst history has never been told. Information about the childhood of the five has always been spotty, indistinct, dreamlike, as though still rendered through children's eyes.

Indeed, difficult times are hard to talk about for anyone, and these five children -- my aunts, uncle, and mother -- had no one to tell about their nightmarish existence. For one thing, their father was never around, understandably; and the speculation on his remarriages was that he was keen to provide a house and a mother to his children, even if it were done rather haplessly. He seemed to have felt the need so pressing that he married the nearest, most available woman who also had children and a house of her own. Secondly, it was a different era, before the science of studying childhood for clues to adult behavior and social dysfunction was established. Unlike our current era, it was unheard of to cart kids off to their therapists, or soccer games or ballet classes, for that matter. Children, per se, did not receive special attention.

My mother, one of the those later much-researched middle children (already out of place, insecure, lacking direction, relationship-averse, and prone to aloneness), was also known to be the cleverest of the five. In an actual home where these traits might have be nurtured, my mother might have become an Erma Bombeck or a famous comedienne; but her natural talents and eccentricities along with a lack of motivation to peer too deeply into anything conspired to make her terribly fearful, reclusive as an adult, and a witch to her own children.

Let's just say she needed a good home much more than any of the other five to make her personality and place in the world work for her and others, especially for the children she bore. Her childhood trauma went deep underground, unexamined, to become part of a shadow self of which she was barely conscious. Consequently, she seemed at times to channel the worst of those evil stepmothers perhaps in some unconscious effort to purge herself of them.

That is not all, of course: it would be the case that the maternal grandmother who tended to the rearing of the five small children early on was considered to be odd. She was not unloving, they say, but she had a stern manner and lacked affection or, at least, failed to show it. However, to small children, failure to show affection is, indeed, unloving. It is this great grandmother whom my mother is said to be most like. Where personality formation is concerned, the cards seemed to be stacked against her.

As my mother's first-born, I venture to say she prayed for someone to save her. I think that was the intention behind my conception; I was to be her personal messiah and make the cosmos right whatever that may have looked like before her mother, my grandmother, died. One cannot know these things for sure this side of the veil, but it seems a great deal of unconscious material is imparted in the womb on many levels. Imagine. A fetus as part of the mother's body is probably able to hear every thought, whether spoken or not, as an impulse that runs electrically through the body tissues as well as creating various chemical changes. We come to identity with that material, as it is also part of our body, no matter that we eventually become separate.

But not entirely, it seems.

I have wondered about my life with its many mistakes. I have wondered if I derived my tendency toward disaster from my mother's childhood experiences. I have wondered, too, at how I never managed to find a man like my own father, but, rather, found men more like my mother's. Certainly, not all the men I have known fall into that category, but few relationships lasted very long and the one exception never fulfilled its potential.

I did not intend to make you sad. I just wanted to explore my homelessness from the less obvious angles of inheritance. Sometimes the facts of a matter are not enough to gain insight, and the deeper story needs review. However, it is also true that even having more of the puzzle pieces may not solve it. Maybe the story gets more interesting, but it can also become more tedious for all the effort to tease out the truth. I may have nothing here at all.

This evening, I have myself. I consider all the loneliness in this quiet place on a Sunday evening.

On Becoming Housed

2010-05-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

Part of my endeavor while homeless has been to discern how it happens to seemingly different types of people and why they remain homeless. Of course, I know what happened to me, but what became problematic is how much I enjoy certain aspects of homelessness; and there seemed to be something to learn about myself here. Still, the desire to get out of this situation and never return to it has been cause enough for introspection and a deterrent to jumping at an easy fix, assuming there were such a thing.

A young, well-meaning Palestinian man, by the way, who hangs around the middle-eastern garage is always telling me to get a new vehicle. He practically shouts it every time he sees me. This fellow thinks I am really stupid to drive an old ugly, rusted-out, repair-prone vehicle. I laugh for lack of any easy way to explain my experience.

Certainly, the cost of housing is a chief constraint for those living in the rough, even while fewer and fewer people in general these days have choices about where and with whom they live. (A fair number of single adults at my workplace live with family, for example.) Even sharing an apartment here, unless one really does not care where one lives, starts at $500, though the $800-1000 range is more common. Cheaper arrangements are available as one gets further away from the coast, but then one has to account for a longer commute to work and the gradual debilitating effect of a constant sense of risk in living in run-down neighborhoods. Still, one might think being homeless is utterly out of the question and that one must be housed at any cost.

Housing at any cost usually means the shelter for those who are homeless. Perhaps I mentioned before that shelters are located in places where few people want to live, such as downtown, and are often too far away from the workplace. On several occasions, I have contemplated what shelter life might be like, just in case that were to become an unavoidable last resort. I tried to imagine walking to the train, catching the train to the bus, bussing to the general vicinity of work, and then walking the three or four blocks to get to the door. The entire circuit would take an hour or more each way.

There are other reasons why someone like myself would avoid the shelters, the lack of privacy, the threat of theft, and the strange assortment of denizens there to mention a few. There are just as good reasons to avoid being housed. I cannot stand a dark or ugly place to live. I cannot tolerate poorly-educated, ill-bred, or loud people for any length of time. That eliminates just about anyone with whom I might share a house at my income level.

Recently, a non-profit agency offered me a room in a house owned by a wheelchair-bound, disabled woman. She suffered brain injury and paralysis of the lower body from a plane crash that killed the pilot, her lover and fiance. That was thirty years ago. She was a family-practice physician, had two children, and might have remarried. I was to help this lady get organized and tend to her elderly mother who was losing her hearing and showing early signs of dementia. Her live-in caregiver and boyfriend was a high-functioning autistic person.

Let us call her Suzie. She drove that wheelchair like her house was the Autobahn. I had to jump out of the way more than a few times. She insisted that I eat soy products since these were staples in her household. As intelligent as she was, she could not seem to grasp my fear and aversion to genetically-modified foods of which soy is only one. The fact that I am a normal-functioning human being on two healthy, yoga-practicing, running legs who can really get things done in half the time it takes most anyone else earned me the regular comment that I am "hyper."

Of course, she was not a bad person, just very bossy and quite aggressive. I might have been able to manage her personality, except that my recent history of post-traumatic stress disorder, homelessness, and now being not-quite-housed, but somewhere in-between, just made me feel anxious after an eight-hour work day. I wanted to come home to . . . well, nothing. Maybe some classical music. Even though I had planned to be out of my truck by Easter, as that would mark two years, I was having second thoughts.

It was Easter Sunday. I had escaped for the day to the beach to hear the ocean, to find a point of peace inside, to rid myself of the anxiety that going home to Suzie evoked. The constriction in my chest that would start as soon as I got into the cab of my truck after work, or anytime I drove "home," had completely subsided by early evening; and I knew I would be homeless again, back in my truck, within days. It was not ideal, but keeping my sanity had become a priority. Anything I could do to stay in tune and out of anxiety was the route I would take, and that had become a habit with me.

And so it passed.

Now, interestingly, and parallel to the theme of eschewing anything that turned up the internal pressure, I realized there were just too many real advantages to being homeless over being housed. This is not the best news for me or anyone else. I had, as it were, gone native.

I had missed the cold outdoor showers, the privacy of my truck, the anonymity of parking lots, and the way I could wind down after work, even though at times the loneliness could be crushing. Yet, somehow, I needed that mental and emotional freedom. Puzzled by my new discovery and looking for a way to justify it, I decided to ask my homeless compatriots why they were homeless and whether or not they had that same urge to freedom.

You might guess the answers. Chris, for example, whom I met one unhappy night so lonely I was raining tears, told me flat out that he does not like being told what to do by anyone no matter who they are or what their business. Cynthia, on the other hand, can take people selectively and on her own terms. Her cat, though, does not like people at all (herself excepted, of course). This is not the widest cross-section of homeless humanity, but you get the point. Not being bothered is at a premium out here. Not having to explain or excuse oneself. Not having to fit into another person's version of reality.

The freedom we all deeply want and need.

The Denouement

2010-05-14T17:40:00.001-07:00

This is it.

The entire episode, fantasy, dream, nightmare, interregnum, hiatus, crazy phase, and vacation in my truck is coming to an end. It is coming to an end because there is nothing else and nowhere else for this course to take. It will end. How badly we cannot yet know.

The truck is expensive. It eats an enormous dollar-amount of gasoline each day it is on the road while I seek food, a bathroom, or get to a job interview. Yes, I lost my last job. I asked for a day off every week to take care of personal business, but that is not all: I asked for a raise. The answer came a week later when the HR guy asked to speak to me in private and then handed me a notice of termination.

Of course, somehow I knew this employer was not paying me well enough to get out of the truck; but having a job to go to every day gave me a community and a social life in spite of the fact that I used up my meager savings and was not able again to save any money while there. I make too many mistakes trying to stay sane.

So, same day, with my walking papers in hand, I went down the corridor to another business I knew was hiring. Today was my third stab at an interview. Again, the owner/manager was too busy to see me. Not that he does not know who I am. I have seen this man and his employees on trips to the restroom and in the restroom enough times to know them all by name. I was invited innumerable times to come over and visit because they could use someone like me. They were making money --- good money. I could be part of it.

Why did I not go? Why did I not go before I was fired from my current job?

I got attached.

I came to love the very things about this job that I often hated: that funky, not-altogether-clean feeling of the place; the gangsta-rapper sales managers who made it a boiler room; the men and women who had been to jail and were now making good by working for someone who would hire them; the fact that my employer was a black man who had been to prison and whose mom and dad, step-mother, full and half-brothers, and a host of personal friends and neighbors worked for him; and that slightly out-of-place feeling engendered by it all. I fit, and I didn't fit.

There was a warmth there, though, that is hard to describe to another person unless, like me, they have had a fascination with black people and their derivative American culture. Sales meetings were more like coming to Jesus at a church revival. We would stop work regularly to sing. Stepmom, whom I called Reverend Mother, hummed praise songs all day, and she was amused and delighted by that title. I told her if the Hindus could have living female saints whom they revered, then there was no reason we could not have one in our very midst. The name stuck, and she returned the favor often by taking me aside in private, by the hand, and leading me in prayer. She even offered me a vial of her own brand of healing oil that had been blessed.

Mom, that is, Pop's first wife and mother of the boss also had her version of holy oil. Now Mom was about as far from Reverend Mother as another woman could get. She cracked colorful jokes most of the day and was on the phone selling with the rest of us. She was pure funk and very, very loud. She had been an alcoholic, needed and loved attention, and used her status and her son's position all the time to make sure she got what she wanted. She could be unpleasant. She could be funny. She was inspired one day by such a long round of lusty, rowdy jokes and laughter of which I was definitely a part to hand me sub rosa a vial of what she said was a very potent oil and motioned the place to dab it for best effect.

But that is all over.

I do not regret it. I was completely financially ripped off. Not that the place is an utter scam, but clearly the arcane pay structure left so much to the imagination one would be hard pressed to think of another way not to pay employees. Someone set their genius to it. It finally hit me, though, that I had run through my savings, borrowed money I could not repay, and borrowed yet more all because I was only making around $320 a week.

After paying for gas and food and paying down the repair bill on the truck, I could buy a little makeup, do the laundry, or purchase facial tissue and that was that until next week. I lived from one paycheck to the next even while I strove to meet the promise of making a $1000 per week. Like I said, it took a while for me to come to the conclusion that there were not enough hours in the week to reach income anywhere close to that $1000. Like I said, I make too many mistakes.

Still, having fallen too far from the solid middle class, I enjoyed this job and have to acknowledge the grimness of my starting point. It was part of what it took to get by. Even if regret is a waste of time, I have wasted so much time anyway, which brings me to how I do not know, most of the time, what I am doing. I wish I had better judgement, but I do not. I wish I had a handle on consequences, but I do not have that, either. Lastly, in this string of connected thoughts, I come to being so lost in this world that I might as well not be here for all the meaning I fail to contribute or impart. This is not a pretty truth, but I am aware that much of my truth is no longer attractive.

I can now come to Jesus with everybody else.

Notes at the Living End

2010-03-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

As a way of cleaning house, I make some admissions.

First of all, surviving homelessness is not an art. That is simply and ridiculously untrue, even though I made that argument upon the vigorous belief in the benign, albeit false, premise that I am of special birth as a Midwesterner and that too much suffering has no reason to visit anyone from that part of the world.

I thought that I --- derived from the Land of Lincoln and well-educated --- I, among the millions and millions of other people across the globe who live in favelas, ghettos, squatter settlements, tent cities, non-profit shelters, and refugee camps, would be spared the ignominy, social isolation, and dire poverty engendered by homelessness.

Now thoroughly chastised by experience, I can report to you that there is nothing that can make homelessness anything other than it is: a nightmare existence. There is no loneliness like it. It is the dark of dark. One should rather be dead, and I cannot make this any nicer for you.

Poverty is not so painful in itself, though it eliminates most all opportunity to experience the kind of distraction I would most enjoy --- the opera, the symphony, gourmet dining. Getting dressed in public washrooms, reduced to listening to my tiny, battery-run radio, and eating smoked salmon and olives in the cab of my truck are nowhere close to the sublimity and elegance of being served by a wait staff in tuxedos in a room sparkling with silver, china, mirrors, and crystal, clear notes of glass and conversation muted by velvet drapes and thick carpet. Rather than ever being made to feel self-conscious, I always felt enlarged in such a setting, my sense of well-being tuned to the distinctive sounds of palatial eating.

Shame is unavoidable. Being without a home is irregular, however common it may become with the economy in full downward tilt. I have dared to tell a few people the details of my existence, but it is a very risky proposition generally. Sadly, while one hopes for the best, one must always expect the worst from people.

For example, there is nothing so humiliating as a police officer waiting for you to finish dressing before he approaches. In this case, most recently, it was a woman wearing the badge. Those Ford Crown Victorias driven by the police make no sound at all. Their tires, unlike the ones everyone else uses, do not seem to create friction on asphalt, concrete, or earthen surfaces and glide over twigs, plastic trash, and curbs. There is no hum or whirring of mechanical parts. You only know the police have arrived if you see them.

Of course, I am vigilant as I roll up my bedding and get dressed in the cab of my truck. I keep an eye out here and there, but then one might ask what a person would do seeing the police drive up if one is not, say, inclined to start a speed chase. There is nothing to do, even though I admit to getting situated behind the wheel. By then, however, the police officer was at my door and suggested that I was not going anywhere. She had already radioed her office and was in the process of checking my license plate.

I was not alone in this. I was part of a caravan of homeless vehicle owners who circled the wagons after dark in a quiet parking lot near one of the boat launches. My truck more than fit in and was even eclipsed in singularity by several clumsy, tired-looking RV's customized with duct tape and cardboard to replace missing glass in windows and bicycles and other objects tied on (not mounted) to the back. Add that to the squeaking, creaking, and rattling of every part and some unidentifiable, never-before-heard sounds. As usual, wheezing, coughing engines and the occasional backfire riddled the morning air, which alone might have been enough to set a cop off on a frenzy of ticket-writing, though that, as annoying as it may be, is not illegal.

"You know it's illegal to sleep in your truck?" The question had the inflection of the rhetorical, but I offered my best explanations. The officer asked for my driver's license. I handed it over, and she returned to her car. I got back in my truck and waited. Impatient to get on with my day and anxious about where I was now going to sleep, reviewing in my mind what place might be left, I walked back to the police car to collect my license.

"Did someone complain?"

"You mean, do people complain?! They complain all the time! You see these signs out here?" The officer pointed to the sign posted a few feet away in red letters, "No parking between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m," absurd and meaningless to anyone but the homeless.

"You know, I'd like to live out here in a car with my three kids instead of paying $1700 a month for a shit hole, with nothing left over," the officer's voice was dark with resentment. She paused. I said nothing. "If I see you out here, or on any city street again, I am going to arrest you and take your truck." The officer handed back my license. I returned to my vehicle, barely feeling my feet touch the pavement as I went. I was having that peculiar homeless experience of disembodiment, of being one of the undead, as the homeless truly are.

We do not usually think of the homeless as people whose human rights have been violated, but threatening to make matters worse for them by towing their vehicle and thereby forcing them out of that last vestige of civilized living so that they cannot get back and forth to work and must sleep on the ground or under a bridge is depraved. As a culture, we are collectively allowing people to be stripped of every possession, save their skin, for crimes as insignificant as sleeping.

Naturally, I have often felt sorry for the police who have to carry out the nasty deeds assigned to them by a fraction of the public, those who have time to attend City Council or neighborhood meetings and lobby for their own narrow interests. Of course, for example, vacation rental owners want the view of the Bay from their front windows to be unobstructed by homeless people and ugly vehicles, but their solutions to the problem take too great a toll upon an essentially harmless class of people.

We treat dogs better. In fact, I see Wild Animal Rescue trucks on a regular basis. I called Wild Animal Rescue myself one day when I noticed a seagull struggling with a broken wing. If the homeless look radioactive, unstable, and slightly necrotic, perhaps they are just not getting enough sleep; but be warned, there is no one to call.

January 2010

2010-02-06T12:05:00.000-08:00

Matt grabbed his cell phone from my hand.

"God, Kerry!"

I was supposed to have called Matt's work number and extension. He was testing his voice-over-internet phone to see if the pop-up box would appear on the computer screen as it should when he received an incoming call, the one I was supposed to have made.

"Matt," I spoke slowly, hoping to dilute his impatience, " I am not trying to aggravate you. You know, in the past couple of weeks, I have stopped to get gas, gone into the station to pay, come out, and driven away. A few miles later, I happen to look at the dashboard and notice I didn't pump any gas. I don't know how to explain that."

Matt pretended not to hear. He is not a man without sympathy, but it was not helping him to know I was a numbskull away from work, too. I had explained nothing. I was making him crazy, and he just wanted it to stop. I left his office without another word.

Working for Matt had been a joy up to a few weeks ago.

With the new year, several doors in my corridor of life slammed shut. Whether a result of winter's usual contraction and abbreviation, life reduced to the merest symbols of itself, or whether I and billions of other people on the planet, by whichever ancient design one may choose, are really facing the Apocalypse on personal and macrocosmic levels, I was left with a sense of foreboding of further damage to the delicate tendrils I was pushing out toward a possible spring. I am not sure now it will come, this year or any other.

There were hints of news that no one would like back in November, but I was keeping my chin up with Christmas ahead. We pretend during the Christmas season, which is unique in the way it stops time. We are all again in a wonderland of hope and promise that abides right up to the 25th, and then we are glad it is over and not sure what all the fuss was about as we continue to find pine needles, tinsel, and ornament hooks all over the house for weeks after. One day, almost suddenly, we realize the gloom and emptiness of January has entered the heart.

As I learned exactly the day after Christmas, my favorite web site where I communed with others who were, or had been, homeless, and what had been a consolation in weary evenings alone, was destroyed by a progress of incautious behavior and unseemly events in the lives of the moderator and his girlfriend. She was discovered by twists and turns to be the paramour in a drama that led her to Scotland and the very doorstep of the mother of his new child. Her personal tragedy, while it did not bring an empire down, meant we were all thrown from the hearth to the outer darkness once again, our stories of how homelessness happened to us and our attempt to communicate it, broken and scattered. Thankfully, a few friendships engendered by the web site had been preserved through private email. Otherwise, nothing was left.

Then my carburated truck, so unhappy in the rain as it sputters and chokes its way to a start as if it were drowning, gave out near the end of last week's deluge. It was towed to the middle-eastern garage and given a new battery. Raised from the dead once again, the truck wheezed and backfired to a complete stop on the freeway ramp a few days later. It was out of gas. The following day, it would not start at all when I returned to the parking garage laden with bags of grocery. Towed again, my poor truck would not be returned to me for an entire week. I had broken the gear box in the steering column, and every junk yard in the area had to be scoured for parts.

Obviously, part of the problem with the truck, besides its age, is me. The gas gauge is inaccurate, and I know I take a risk each time I allow it to fall below a quarter of a tank. I take my frustrations out on the truck regularly, too, by slamming it in and out of Park, hence, the most recent expensive repair. The other slice of the problem is just bad luck. Otherwise, how does one account for the tow-truck driver putting the key in the ignition and pulling it out with the entire starter cylinder attached? I wonder why the wheels, out of shame, do not just fall off and roll away.

The cost of the repair rocketed my running tab with the garage to a thousand dollars; and after a week in a hotel room, eating out every day, and taxi rides to work, I was in trouble again with Bank of America, a representative of which said I was fortunate to have received only four service fees for my overdrawn account as her bank had so generously decided not to charge anyone beyond that number. Of course, all those fees meant that my next automatically-deposited payroll check would be gone --- eaten up by bank rapine --- and that I would incur still more fees attempting to live on too little money. There was no end to the plunder in sight.

All the while, there were moments when the truck's repair seemed unlikely. They had found a steering column, but for a standard shift. Another search produced the proper one for an automatic transmission, but pieces had been broken off in the process of removing it from the wrecking yard. That part, for fear another one could not be located, was held back for repair. A close call. Real close.

I had not thought much about what I would do if the truck were ever discovered to be beyond repair. I have not afforded myself the luxury of such thinking, as being without both my vehicle and current home, as it were, would seem quite outside my capacity to cope. And it nearly was. I was distracted by thoughts of what I would do and where I would go, whether I could continue working if I had to bus, first, to all manner of social service agency to find a place to live. I have tried with difficulty to imagine living in a shelter and working a normal week. Typically, I would be downtown where most shelters are located and have to take both buses and trains and make as many as three changes one way to get to work and back.

Try as I might to amuse myself with television at the hotel, the vision of absolute final ruin never left me. It could be the end this time. I tried to pray, but that eluded me as I could not concentrate well enough to do it. I only slept part of the night, awoke with headaches, and had episodes of nausea throughout the day at work. I was in a sleepwalker's trance by the end of the week when Matt enlisted my help in his office.

In the week before the rainstorm, a woman who had become a friend at work left the company, followed by a young women whom I liked very much who quit in protest, and a manager who was fired for stealing credit card numbers. Being at work now was lonely and uncertain, and there were nasty rumors in the air. But I was bearing up; I had to. Holding a job gave me a paycheck and something to do besides dwell on the grief-stricken past. Fortunately, I doubt I could lose my job short of applying an Uzi to the place since I would have to trump the gangstas, ghetto girls, and welfare moms with their wide array of work habits so poor and glaring you would walk away convinced your dog could be Employee of the Month.

To be honest, though, things have cleaned up quite a bit from the time I first began employment with Matt, and I should admit I wanted this job knowing I would not be vexed by a strict dress code or stymied by an expectation of sociality with people of my own age and experience. After all, I was getting dressed in the morning without the aid of a mirror and doing make-up with a small mirror but not enough light. I could wear torn and ill-fitting clothes. I could wear the same thing every day. I could miss a hair washing. To wit, I could be poor among the poor, and no one would care what my truck looked like.

The best thing about January 2010 was it ended.

My Friend, Bob

2009-12-06T14:20:00.000-08:00

Bob is a regular guy who probably had little more to say to a wife than "What's for dinner?" I don't hold that against Bob. I am only trying to say that he is free of pretense, easy-going, able to laugh at nothing, and very likable for these reasons. I admit it: I like Bob, and I do not take to homeless men generally.

Bob says his father was a cop-killer. His father claimed to have come from the belly of a snake. He knew he was a bad man, accepted it, and bragged about it and the number of cops he murdered. Bob has never killed anyone, even though he has been in a few scrapes. His father frightened him, and I remember imagining Bob as a child clinging to his mother, using her as a shield. Bob is proud, nonetheless, of his father's reputation, audacity, and arrogance. His father probably died by the gun, but Bob never got around to telling that part.

Bob drinks. He likes to drink and drinks constantly. He told me he was never going to stop drinking. Apparently, if he does not drink himself to sleep, he cannot stop thinking about his three ex-wives. He had woman problems, but I never learned how those were different from the problems other men have.

Bob used to work, too. He had worked steadily as a younger man at various types of jobs, but drinking probably got in the way as it did with the wives. By the time I met Bob, he was a confirmed alcoholic and homeless. He had already been homeless on the Bay for five years.

Before that, I did not venture to ask: Bob does not talk in a straight line; his train of thought derails here and there. Before long, he is repeating himself about what he thinks is wrong with my truck and why I need a choke installed even though I tell him the truck is fine. So talking to Bob can be tiring, and he just won't stop unless I beg out a few times over and over again that I have something else to do or must get to sleep.

Bob would walk away from my truck, still talking, only now talking to himself. He would often continue in this way into the night, talking to the Bay, to whoever was out there listening. Tired of that, too, I would roll my truck window down and ask politely, "Bob, are you talking to yourself?"

"Yeah," Bob drawled, stretching the word out as though it were a matter of fate and there were nothing he could do about it. "I'm going to bed soon." And he would. He would climb into the back of his truck.

If you recall, I was saddened in March to learn that Bob was ill. He had been diagnosed with cancer and hepatitis. He was on a stolen bicycle because his truck had been confiscated, and he was sleeping on the ground near the Long's Drugstore. That is where my story, Daffodils, ends.

Bob disappeared soon after.

Sensing something wrong after days and weeks went by without Bob, I drove the streets and allies around the drugstore. I phoned the nearest police department to ask if they might have picked up someone of Bob's description. I spoke to any policeman parked in the area in case he might have seen Bob and to every homeless person in the vicinity; but I was losing hope and feeling that much more helpless the more people of whom I inquired.

I felt guilty and selfish, too, that I could not manage to turn up any information and that I did not have the time or resources to do a full search, either by phone or in my truck. Maybe I was just rationalizing the reality that I have to work for money to feed myself, to pay off debts, and to save for a place to live. Maybe I was made selfish by the conditions of homelessness, or maybe the selfishness came first and lay at the root of my homelessness.

Self-doubt can be vicious.

In a pinch, in a bind of my own conscience, for want of other means, I did what other helpless, hopeless, guilty, and selfish people do: I prayed. It was desperate prayer, perhaps the only honest kind. I imagined Bob being taken in by some philanthropic type who was impressed with his good nature and could afford to handle his bad habits. I imagined Bob in a hospital getting the attention he needed by a caring staff. And, I imagined Bob getting to Las Vegas for the last sexual exploit of his life. (Bob once told me his fantasy of having a number of prostitutes sit on him since he no longer had the energy otherwise.) I could not, though, imagine Bob dead. Whether that were my intuition or merely the result of bad faith was hard to tell in the eight months that followed Bob's disappearance.

People who knew me inquired about Bob. Everybody knew how well Bob amused me, how kindly I felt toward him, and how much he seemed to trust me. He was the first homeless person to ever speak to me. We had a little homeless relationship going, but I no more knew what to do about Bob gone missing than I did about my dead dog ending up in the City dump. (That was the well-meaning fault of a neighbor who bagged my dog in a hurry so that children walking to school would not see her in the road.) In brief, I would feel guilty all over again and all the other feelings that amounted to severe self-reproach.

I guess I got over Bob. I figured he was dead in the sense that, like my dog, I would never see him again. I actually never saw my dog die. I never saw her dead body. I only heard about it. Sad to say, since I did not expect any report from anyone about Bob's whereabouts or his status dead or alive, he was dead to me for all intents and purposes. I did not love Bob the way I loved my dog, but the world was emptier without him; and, absent of Bob's ameliorating effect, homelessness took on a grimmer aspect.

Many more changes later --- from late winter turned to spring, spring to summer, summer to mild California fall, the loss of a job to finding another, having a little money to being flat broke, and so much more of the same old thing --- I was getting out of my truck on a Sunday morning at one of the nearest public washrooms. It was a cool, overcast day, pleasant and quiet without the tourists whose absence left only the dark, damp presence of Monterey pines amid the ghostly morning fog.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone approaching me. I looked, but I did not see right away and could not, for a moment, put a name on the apparition that finally spoke.

"I didn't come to see you sooner because I thought you'd be mad at me." It was the familiar drawl.

"Bob!" I grabbed his arm and looked him in the face. "What happened to you?"

"Well, I been living in John's truck, and they told me I ought to say hello. I been seeing you out here for a while."

"I looked for you at the Long's drugstore and didn't find you. Are you still living around here?"

"Oh, yeah. I had a stroke. Somebody picked me up and took me to the hospital. I was there for three weeks. When I got out, John let me sleep in his van." Bob spoke so slowly and matter-of-factly one would have thought the incident were far in the distant past. We talked for a while longer; but the day was moving ahead, and I had chores to do before I started another week of work.

The hole in the scenery of my life out here on the Bay has taken the shape of Bob once again. Bob stops by the truck to chat on occasion; and whenever I see John's van, I know Bob is ensconced in the back: he's safe, drunk, and sleeping.

The Daily Dance of Going Nowhere

2009-11-21T17:45:00.000-08:00

On the other side of expensive vacation rentals, the ocean is an edge of darkness dotted with lights from invisible boats in the distance. Parked at the end of the continent, I am feeling the terrible weight of my stark life. No one can know, really, in all truth, how I got here. It has been worth pondering in therapy, but no answer to the problem is permanent even if I can make it through another week. Week to week. Day to day.

One foot in front of the other, I struggle to endure the daily routines that circumscribe my life; and, to be honest, I am tired and bored of the radius of financial confinement to which I am presently condemned. I seem to be married to it. I am heartsick at the way money has grown to a staggering importance for me, overtaking everything else, but mostly and rudely the things I love. I have lost my focus for poetry, for long afternoons at the beach, for planning anything beyond the next few hours.

Yet, oddly, and to my own amazement, I would not trade my present circumstance for any other reality. I am not even tempted to find a shortcut or detour. For one thing, I'd be suspicious if things got too much easier too fast. For another, I am proud and competitive and want to see this weird life-warp out to the end: I want the victory over the odds as much as I want a ward against this kind of warp ever happening again.

Yet, I admit I wonder if I have not found a modus vivendi, a make-peace, passive compliance, with the warp rather than the path to defeating it. For all my more-than-occasional desire to run --- run anywhere to get out of here (and one could well ask where here is exactly) --- I cannot seem to find any reasonable alternative to the daily dance of seemingly going nowhere. And run? Run backward into a past that no longer exists?

I do enjoy imagining a prize at the end, if there should ever be an end; but I often doubt these feeble attempts at hope. Hope is tricky. Hope, even a little of it, can plunge one into deeper despair. Like salt or sugar, it is best to go light on it, walk gingerly, but just keep going. I hope, but I am not bragging I have any. I'm not running like a child with scissors. I'm keeping my head down.

I imagine a lot of things. My imagination, though, is much richer than what the world seems to have available. I wanted some good gypsy company out here and hoped for it ---- a gal friend with whom to chat over a beach fire, roast marshmallows, share some silence. I have wanted to record her life --- their lives, for my imagination gave me several women friends with whom to share the coming cold evenings. I thought I might write about these women, hoot about their courage. their intelligence, their strength in pulling themselves through difficult times. They probably don't exist. At least, not the way I imagine them.

For instance, there is a curious gal who lives in a truck about as ugly as mine. She spends most of the day on the Bay in one particular spot, though I could not say where she goes to park and sleep in the evening. I see her very early in the morning as I am washing and dressing for work and if I visit the outdoor washroom in her area before dark.

She seemed friendly at first. I often saw her chatting with people who brought their dogs out for a walk or with someone from the Parks and Recreation crew. However, when I tried to chat with her some time ago, I was politely rebuffed. I was offering food. She said she was on a special diet.

I was unsure how to extent myself to her, and I made a patent mistake. The truth is (and I knew this) the homeless are individuals with a keen sense of dignity: no one wants her state of homelessness pointed out to her, not even obliquely through the offer of food. We hide homelessness from ourselves so that we can do that impossible dance every day. We settle for a lack of definition, a myopic haze that takes some of the sharp edges off, and just plain guessing as to who or what someone once was or did. That is certainly more fun, and that, of course, is the wrong word.

No one talks much to each other out here, which should not come as a surprise. There is too much of a chance of tripping over a live wire of dense feelings that have not been examined or were given up on as yielding nothing but pain if unraveled. We are careful, in other words. There are land mines, you see.

The other homeless, truck-driving lady and I tend to meet coming and going from the public washroom. One day a week ago, she asked if I knew who was taking all the toilet paper off the rolls, a daunting feat, really, when you consider how long it must take to swipe the paper from 12 rolls without leaving a trace, save the cardboard shells they came on. I know we both wonder how the thief is going unnoticed, by what means the toilet paper is being displaced, and how it is being transported from the washroom.

It's the aggravation of being surprised, the grim idea of having to trot back to one's vehicle for tissue or paper napkins to fill the lack, and the curse-laden relief of finding that the thief conscientiously left one roll with enough paper on it in the last stall. It is an ill-timed, five-second emotional roller coaster that no one would enjoy in the early morning, least of all the homeless who have to trek the great outdoors to get to the nearest toilet. It is one of those relatively-small things, like the housed who drop trash in the park or play their radios too loudly, that unite the homeless.

A few days ago in the washroom, this same woman wanted to know if she could ask a personal question. I should have said, "No." I am not that clear headed in the morning, and I was caught off guard. After all, I was dressing, and I will probably never get used to having company in my outdoor boudoir.

"Do you actually shower out here? I mean, do you take cold showers?"

It was all downward from there. I was only half-dressed and felt defensive about something that is really no one else's business. But I am polite by nature and tend to deal honestly with others. I answered the questions: Yes. Didn't I know I could use the Y for only $30 a month? And, oh, she hates being cold. She could never take cold showers. I must run warm. I must have a high metabolism. Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah.

All that at around 6 a.m. My first draught of tea would be a half-hour and two miles away.

Her ignorance was deeply frustrating, even hurtful, as it bumped noisily against my fantasized gypsy girlfriends who would have known the secrets of the open-air shower: the exquisite sensation of cold water warming one's insides; the canopy of pines and palms filled with the sweet susurrus of birds; the high, star-studded, velvet sky overhead; and a privacy otherwise denied the homeless and about which the housed know nothing.

I cannot explain her--- the other truck-driving, homeless lady --- except to guess that she wanted to pretend she had choices and perks of which I might not have been aware. We might as well have been talking over our coffee cups at the fence between our backyards replete with laundry waving in the breeze, immaculate green lawns husbanded by men, and swing sets empty of children in school. There was always a standard histrionic quality to the middle-class housewife and her ability to spend, albeit wisely. That image of the other truck lady and myself persisted through the day, and it was a comfort of sorts, though another kind of fantasy that is far out of reach, existing as it does in another era.

Perhaps her fall from the grace of the middle class had been much harder than mine. It takes considerable time to embrace the notion that one has become part of that class against which the armies of the world protect the wealthy.

In any case, in my position, one can only do what comes to hand. I have a job. I have a vehicle. I amuse myself with crossword puzzles and New Yorker magazines I lift from the YMCA after yoga class. I write. I run in expensive shoes that were worth every hard-earned dollar I paid for them. I make friends.

Friends. They are of considerably more value than money alone. I am sitting now with my laptop aboard a sailboat that sways gently in its slip, lulling me as I pursue the educated idleness to which I am accustomed. The sound of a grand harp makes me curious enough to go topside to view well-dressed people gathering for a wedding about to take place on the grounds next to the marina. I return to the cabin on loan to me, the jazz music playing on the radio, and the appurtenances of the temporary world I have managed to eke out for myself, an accomplishment of the bare truth.

My truck stopped running in the middle of the freeway a few days ago, which means my world had come to an end once again. I had just received my new Triple-A card and had not yet paid the renewal fee, but I phoned anyway. The Highway Patrol pushed me off to the side of the road, and Triple A's truck showed up within the half-hour to tow me to the middle-eastern garage. That slow, sinking feeling of doom around not having a place to sleep for a night, a few days, a week, or worse began to swallow me. And what if the truck were, this time, beyond repair?

Despite having working solidly for six months at a new job, I had only a ten-dollar bill to get me to the end of week when I would get the first decent paycheck of my career there. That workplace deserves a few pages of its own, but suffice it to say that a vehicle breakdown at this time, while inevitable with an old truck, was nothing but bad luck after bad.

The cell phone, the necessity of which I have exhorted many times, was the one piece of good luck I had in hand. I phoned everyone in the area whom I thought might be able to help. I happened to reach a friendly couple whom I had met in yoga class who lived near my YMCA. I humbly stated my need, and they were more than willing to open their door to me.

Within the hour, I had a ride from the middle-eastern garage to the home of the most upbeat, offbeat, intellectual, and artistic couple I have had the pleasure of knowing in a very long time. Their simple, tastefully-remodeled beach house was filled with exotic sculpture Pattie had created and was a delight to my eyes. Bill, a former university professor and a keen, sensitive observer of human beings, had himself experienced homelessness. He seemed to know intuitively what I felt and what was needed. I was offered dinner, of course, but I was also offered a place to sleep and Bill would take me to work the next day. I could stay there at the house. Or on the boat.

The idea of sleeping on a boat was just too outre to pass up. So we packed me up and took me off to the marina where I boarded an old sailboat with the few possessions I could manage to carry away from the truck. Bill took me to and from work the next day, but, as though his kindnesses so far were not enough, Bill offered me the use of his vehicle so that I could drive myself wherever I need to go.

So it is now Saturday. I have barely left the boat all day, preferring the soft, back-and-forth motion on the water to going anywhere my legs could carry me. I sleep soundly in the prow of this little boat and feel rested in a way I have not in a long, long time. It is no wonder the history of modern man began in a boat. I am prayerful today, thankful for the blessing of new friends. I verge on feeling hopeful, but I know, too, that I dare every day, win or fail, to keep going, to keep doing the daily dance I think is going nowhere.

The Vulnerable

2009-09-07T00:19:00.000-07:00

That evening at bedtime, I lay upon a stack of pillows and a folded sheet spread out the length of the front seat, relishing the quiet. It felt good to lie down and stretch out, and the back windows of the truck cab, as well as the front triangular vents (out of which my father might have flicked his cigarette ash), let in a slight breeze despite the late-August heat.

I will be glad when it is finally over. It will be peaceful and complete the way it feels to lay one's body down for a night's rest. I survey my small quarters, looking up at the ceiling overhead and out the back windows. Very little turned out the way I had hoped --- no big wedding, no husband, no children, no idyllic family life --- and the prospect of those wishes manifesting now at my age are very slim. I'm quite done with it. I'm a hanger-on who might as well leave. Of course, I figure, because I am all too happy to die, I will somehow linger on and, perhaps worse, manage not to find the respite I need from the poison of grief and regret.

I had trouble falling asleep, not because of my wish not to be here, but because of a particularly rigorous yoga class that left me with achy legs. A cold-water shower usually soothes the muscles after a work-out, but I was several hours late getting to the public washroom. I paid for it with tossing and turning and all manner of trying to get comfortable.

Then I was awakened out of deep sleep by the sound of a vehicle pulling up beside mine. I was surprised to be so awake, alert, and immediately drawn in by a peculiar conversation, even though the couple in the vehicle beside me were speaking softly. I heard the word, body, over and over again. We do not usually refer to living things as bodies unless, of course, they happen to be dead.

The couple's language was English, but it was a dialect, perhaps Creole, maybe Cajun. The woman's voice was melodic. She seemed to speak and laugh lightly at the same time, making her words aspirated and giving her voice an overtone. When she stopped talking, she tittered. But I kept hearing about a body . . . when I saw the body . . . I heard her say. I pictured her with small, square, saw teeth visible through lips drawn back in a constant smile.

Her male counterpart would answer with a slow "Uh-huh" in a deeper voice that complemented hers. He would occasionally mumble something in the space she made after the tiny laughs with which she concluded every phrase. Creepy. I lay in my truck attempting to see in the dark in my imagination what the two of them looked like.

It was the hour of thieves, that time in the night, deep in the night, when thieves (and murderers, by extension) come calling. It is a time when no one who is sleeping wants to get up. It is possible to deceive oneself at that hour that one is only dreaming about a signal or alarm that warrants getting out of bed to check the doors and windows. Fortunately, when I had a home, I had a dog that, true to species, was never too asleep to hear the slightest approach of encroachment upon our territory and to react accordingly.

Now homeless, I find I have somehow acquired a new sensory ability to come to full alert. My mind races faster than thought over combinations, possibilities, and outcomes of the situation and possible peril in which I find myself, though, interestingly, unlike the canine, I stumble over human curiosity.

It is not the blind obsession of the horror-movie teenager who moves inexorably (and fatally, of course) toward the danger lying somewhere in wait beyond the next door or just around the corner. Yet, I was very surprised at how long I lay there wondering what was next, whether the couple would get out of their car, if they were really just nice people who happened to park next to me, or if they might have seen me day after day in the same parking lot doing my daily routine and had some unknown purpose for . . . well, my body.

Some years ago, I viewed the scariest horror film I have ever seen in my life, mostly for the fact that it was not fantastical or extravagant and did not rely upon special effects. The movie is Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. It only occurred to me while lying there in my truck ---listening, wondering, imagining --- that psychopaths spent a good deal of time in their vehicles in parking lots, their primary source of victims.

Suddenly, thankfully, time was up and whether perfectly rational or not, I bolted out of my supine position and proceeded, all at once, to sit up behind the steering wheel, tear down the front window shade, start the engine, and hit the gas. I happened to glance to the right to see out the truck's side window that my neighbors were driving a truck at least as large as mine.

For a micro-second, I wanted to tear the shade off the passenger-side window to see what the man and woman looked like, but they would see me, too: now that I were able to identify them, they would have to kill me. It was not a good idea, and I let it slip out of mind as I sped away toward the parking-lot entrance. I spent the rest of the evening under the nose of the City police who have a sub-station not even a block away from the scene of the possible crime.

But then no one would have known there had been a crime. Though I am not entirely out of touch --- I have a cell phone, a lap top, and a calendar in my purse, assuming these items would not have been taken by my abductors --- police, typically, are not pursuing serial killers. They are busy with more routine tasks. It would be days, maybe weeks, before someone missed hearing from me, and more time would elapse before the police were notified. At what point someone would suspect a kidnapping is anyone's guess.

There are stories one hears about homeless people disappearing. Even though the verb, to disappear, does not have an intransitive form in English, I use it in that way, as the Spanish-speaking world does, to evoke the possibility of malevolence. My own friend, Bob, has disappeared, but maybe someone disappeared him.

Indeed, the Online Journal reported on July 8th of this year that the homeless have been disappearing from Washington, D.C. in large numbers, that is, vanishing without a trace, since 9/11/01. Maybe the homeless were only relocated, though no one is saying that actually happened and, if it did, where. The D.C. officials in charge of the homeless, when asked about the disappearances, are being very tight-lipped. One official commented that, with federal camps and a high demand by the transplant industry for usable body parts, he feared the worst may have happened. What a frightening conjecture, but it is even scarier that a public official would say such a thing lest we read in the possibility of collusion with body-traffickers.

Sickening. (And what does "federal camp" mean? Is there an Abu Ghraib for the homeless?)

This makes the purported policy of Atlanta and New York, of dumping their homeless on other cities or paying their transportation out, seem like random acts of kindness. Though I can barely bring myself to think it, I heard a story from Sacramento of homeless people there being kidnapped, murdered, and sold to agents representing facilities that mine body parts that are then sold to hospitals.

Desaparecidos.

This was the word used for the people who were rounded up, detained, questioned, tortured, and then murdered during and after the 1973 coup d'etat in Chile, led by General Augusto Pinochet. While the first four years of the junta were the most brutal, draconian repression through the consolidation of power and the use of secret police effectively neutralized any dissent or resistance for the next 17 years.

Some bodies were found. Some were never found.

My situation with the strange couple is nearly comical by comparison, and I admit a partiality to the quirky films of Joel and Ethan Coen. The script would open, "It all starts in a large, mostly-empty parking lot where obviously there is no need for anyone to park next to anyone else . . . "

Of course, who that couple was and what their intentions were are nothing more than speculation. I will never know, but I do know this: there are outcomes I do not want and can prevent simply by not being there. I chose to place myself somewhere else. I overcame a morbid curiosity to remove all doubt which might have sealed my fate. The storyteller lived to tell.

And, yes, I am still happy to die when death comes, but that is a long way from being murdered. For all my worried existence, I do not want to be thrown at death. But what about the more vulnerable Bobs out here in the street? The homeless who are alcoholic, physically challenged, or mentally ill? What about those days when I am overwhelmed, feel crazy, and unsure of what I might do to relieve my desperation?

We are not living in a nation like Chile, which, like other third-world nations, tends to fall prey to military strong men and the machinations of dictators. To think that our homeless population faces harm just as frightening through reprehensible municipal policies and exposure to criminal elements is boggling. The magnitude of the problem of a lack of protection for the homeless is still dawning on me. It is difficult to grasp, and I feel shame, the kind one imagines as though standing before God when one must account for what one knows.

Running

2009-08-15T18:48:00.000-07:00

I am running for my life.

I am running to save my life and running away from it.

I come along the straight of the oval where the breeze off the ocean feels as though it is under my feet and lifting me. I always have that sensation of riding this stretch, although one would think the wind would slow me down. I run backward on the track, or clockwise, just so that I can sail this stretch while everyone else, for no known obvious reason, runs the opposite way. I am not trying to be odd. I just like the feeling, and so far as I know, there are no rules about which direction to run a track.

Besides, running the track clockwise gives me the widest, longest view of the ocean. The other side of the track, which one suffers in counter-clockwise motion, abuts the baseball field, out-buildings, and the score board; and the breeze is at one's back when one rounds the end of the oval and enters the straight I enjoy so much.

One cannot just count the laps and expect to be happy and to want to do it again. No. My wide-hipped female body with slender ankles is in poor ratio for running, which best suits more slender women. So the rebellion in my body starts almost instantly. My hips complain loudly of being pinched and compressed on all sides from the jolts they are sustaining with every foot fall, but I move my attention to the pleasure in my feet and toes and the room they have to spread out in my shoes. I can feel the small muscles there and all throughout my calves.

I was told by a good runner a long time ago to remember that my heart is moving me when I run, not my legs. Indeed, that entire engine in my chest is the force behind the locomotion. Pumping my arms, he told me, moving them in a C shape between my chest and downward only to brush the sides of my hips, back and forth, would give me the momentum I need and remind my feet to keep up. To think I only run four laps.

My shoes help. They are the race car of running shoes, Ecco Bioms made in Denmark of yak-hide leather. It is a light-weight shoe that molds to the foot. There is very little sole in the usual sense and no bounce at all in these shoes as a consequence. They simply -- no frills -- carry your foot, much the way a sports car rides low to the ground and one can feel every bump in the road, a sacrifice of luxury for performance. At the same time, the Biom is a natural shoe, like Birkenstock, which, after a while, conforms so well to your foot you don't feel it.

These shoes take some getting used to, though, and people accustomed to the cushiness of other models will initially think it categorically impossible to run in the Bioms. The other models of running shoe give you a start, a bounce if you will, because of the wide thick heels and rounded up toes. But my feet would come to hurt, and the shoes would feel more like concrete boots after a mile around the track. I would sprout blisters on the bottom of my toes and between them, and that darn big toe would need massaging if I wanted to sleep at night.

To get started in Bioms, one has to start by creating some artificial bounce at first to be able to lift the feet and initiate a running motion; but the entire foot is engaged. I have heard, of course, how many muscles there are in the foot; but I can feel all of them with this shoe as I put myself into the rhythm of the run.

It is here on the track that I lose the demons and the overwhelming sense that my troubles are insurmountable. Throw in some nagging remorse and sorrow over whatever portion of this suffering I brought on myself, a longing for the way things used to be, and the pall of thinking maybe things won't come right, after all, and I am ready for Bellevue. Really, nothing says things will come right. The hard-stare face-down I give my reality --- my way of preventing myself from entertaining delusions, the kind that brought me to this parallel universe of homelessness in the first place --- is perhaps necessary, but painful.

Therefore, I run.

Bellevue, the longstanding, proverbial household term for nut house, is a real hospital in New York City, and it is the oldest public hospital in the United States. It was founded in 1793 and still serves people of all backgrounds, irrespective of ability to pay. However, contrary to popular myth, Bellevue has never been only a psychiatric facility. Bellevue Hospital Center had the first ambulance service and the first maternity ward, hosted Nobel Prize winners in medicine, and was the site of the development of the Polio vaccine. It has been affiliated for a long time with New York University School of Medicine and is considered to be a training ground for leaders in the field.

I needed this cool factual break, though I must add that Bellevue here is Mesa Vista, a facility I intend to visit before I ever spend another entire week crying and disabled by grief.

The secret to running is not to think about it. Even while the compression and ache around the hips is ever-present, I notice how the run feels in the buttocks, calves, thighs, and so on. The secret to living my life right now is, similarly, losing the fixation on what hurts. But what hurts in my life is . . . well, everything. My life is the remnant of a life, and I am impaired by it. I am crippled, and maybe it is this with which I must come to terms. Perhaps I must see myself differently, not as I used to be, but as infirm and afflicted. Perhaps this is where my new life and all my thinking about it must begin.

Running may be only compensatory, a way to clear my head, a means to being too tired to think and worry. Maybe the Bioms are just a toy, something to distract and ease the mind. It is so hard to tell these days in the absence of things familiar and with living irregularly. Can I live this new life without thinking about it? Like a day at the track above the ocean?

Success and Defeat in Homeless Living

2009-07-23T18:00:00.000-07:00

To tell the truth, I do not know who I am outside of writing this blog, doing yoga, swimming, running a mile a few times a week, and generally doing whatever comes to mind that might be useful in moving my life past this homeless episode. Sometimes I am simply overwhelmed, and I don't think I can take another minute: the destitution swells up in the back of my mouth as my mind floats over all the things I have ever loved as though I were dead. I feel slightly nauseated and as though I might pass out.

But I am now on top of a hill in Point Loma with the widest view of the Pacific in all of San Diego. The ocean spreads north and south and meets the sky in the same shade of blue, distinguishable only by the shimmering silken fabric of waves. There is a college here with an all-weather track where I will outrun my nasty goblins who can barely make it a quarter mile.

Maybe it's me. Maybe it's the situation. All I know is there are some awful days, days so blue and beautiful that sometimes the contrasts with my terrible interior are surreal. On those days, the overly-bright sunlight gives grass and leaves the translucence of a vision of the afterlife. On those days, I could not tell you with any certainty that being housed would make a difference, though we all want to think that.

Moving past grief is in fits and starts, and the fits are ugly. They down me for days at a time, and I crave rest, sugar, and the people I know, most of whom live elsewhere. I just want to be slouching around a big house in my PJs, but all I have is this truck. I curse homelessness and kick my own tires. It is at these times, too, that I do not have the energy to think or act on getting out of the situation.

Sure, I have some good recommendations for other people who face homelessness, but that only means I have had the experience: it does not mean I have conquered my demons and am on the way toward a life of better homes and gardens. Successes at homelessness are ephemeral, given the chances that something is going to change in the next hour. Not that the change would be a surprise. It is just that there is not much I am going to do about the possibility of outcomes I won't like. I live with that prospect and hope it is not today or tomorrow that I have to face the utter demise of my truck, for example.

And friendship is almost impossible out here. I am always hustling, always on the phone, always driving somewhere, always looking for a new place to park the truck: I'm on the hunt. Even if I meet someone whom I like, I am not at leisure, nor much inclined, to chit-chat. It is hard to tell what one has in common with another under the conditions of homelessness. We do not share a neighborhood, nor a workplace, nor do we have children enrolled in the same school. Life is impromptu and inconvenient out here, and I must stay sharp and more than a few feet ahead of probabilities.

Now, having given sufficient preface, having expanded upon what defeats me, I feel more comfortable in offering my list of ideas and suggestions for living a relatively successful homeless life. These are not hard, pat guidelines which would be truly impossible to create with the instabilities and uncertainties of homelessness; and not all of my suggestions will be relevant to another's circumstance. There are also gender differences in the way homelessness is approached, and I cannot speak to substance abuse since it is not part of my experience.

Therefore, my opening assumption is that something catastrophic and quite out of your control has happened to put you in the street, something that made you lunatic, frantic, stressed out, and unable to cope as you once did. You are disabled right now, though you are capable enough, with a little help, of being healthy once again.

Perhaps, the changes you are experiencing are scaring you. I used to wake up in the middle of the night unable to breathe. I was not getting oxygen, which made me wonder if I were really awake or in a dream. Whichever it was, I had to get some air. I got out of bed and went outdoors until the cool evening's freshness brought me out of emotional impairment and back to cognitive normalcy. These episodes were far too frequent.

By day, I was driving maniacally. I was getting stopped once a week by the highway patrol for speeding and running stop lights; and as I reported in a previous blog, the cost of tickets was mounting to a vast sum. I could not seem to put a brake, so to speak, on this driving behavior. I could not control it, and that was another reason therapy looked so good.

After all, I was becoming unrecognizable even to myself. I might have been crazy at other times in my life and didn't know it, and I would not have taken anyone else's word for it. This time, beyond any doubt, I needed help. Fortunately, I was aware of the newer therapies that are not just talk.

So, in the first place, hopefully, you recognize that you must have help. The first line of defense is the support of a good therapist whom you believe has the talent to work with you, who can handle someone outside the mainstream, and is not put off by your homelessness. The newer therapies that are working for me are called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprogramming (EMDR); Brainspotting, an advanced form of EMDR; and Advanced Integrative Therapy (AIT), also known as Seemorg Matrix work. Impressive, huh? They really are. These therapies have clearly defined and proven processes that work on both conscious and subconscious levels of the mind to clear away trauma.

Next, be kind to yourself, and you may come to find how very difficult that is to do. You may discover you have never been all that kind to yourself, and the eremitic nature of homelessness will teach you such things. My advice is to give yourself as much rest as needed, even though it may seem excessive, and eat whatever you want to eat. Do whatever it takes to elevate your mood. Dare to talk to people you do not know. Talk to animals and trees. Talk to yourself. Give yourself pep rallies. I admit I talked to myself in the beginning because I was frightened and I was all I had by way of company.

If it doesn't feel good, don't do it. This is your unique situation and your opportunity to stop the world and get off for a while, so take advantage of the freedom to do what you really want to do. If you are able to work for money, find a nice establishment run by nice people with whom to work. Do not waste your precious life force on anyone who has a lousy attitude toward employees. Do not accept employment from people who think employees are slaves who are there to do their bidding and that you ought to be grateful for the pittance they are paying you. Even if the job pays very little, but is something you think you would enjoy, take it. You can always quit if things do not go the way you expected.

Yes, I said quit. You are in no position to put up with any kind of insanity.

Be your own best friend. This maxim is the parent of all the others. I place it here because you will not know how to do this straight off. However, you are in a process of change that will teach you how to do it and get better at it as time goes by. You will make deep discoveries in therapy that will raise your consciousness, and you will be making small everyday efforts to take care of yourself by doing only what you want to do and what feels good. You will come to find yourself and then become hungry for your own self-realization.

Find good work. You will need the company of other people in order to see your progress and to find out who you really are. Of course, you must stick to the maxim of only doing what you want to do. Whether your work with other people pays or not, the point is that it will serve as a creative outlet for your self-expression. Having work to do also keeps the mind and the emotions engaged in something other than your own problems. Sure, you have them. But you do not need to talk to them each and every day and let them eat away time that could be better spent. Besides, as you already know, your problems are boring; it's the same old stuff.

But, you must allow yourself to feel whatever you are feeling, even if it seems like self-pity. Who cares? It's your soul, and you are the only one who walks your path. Get righteously in favor of taking your own side. It helps sometimes to imagine that there is someone who really loves you. So you ask yourself what that person would do for you or how they would think about you out of their great love and appreciation; and whatever that is, do it and think it. Finally, you will come to see your own true worth even if it started out as pretending.

Start exploring avenues that may have been cut off or to which you previously had no access. Maybe you would really like to go to school to study a topic that has fascinated you for a long time. Maybe you have always wanted to learn to swim, roller blade, surf, or rock-climb. Maybe you have always wanted to learn to sew, cook gourmet food, or write a novel. Find a place to start and stick with your new venture until you are satisfied with your progress or discover you do not like it as much as you thought you would. And that's OK. You are just experimenting with expanding your life along the lines of doing only what you want and like to do.

Get some exercise every day. This is one of the best remedies for poor sleep, over-eating, sluggishness, temptations to alcohol or drugs, and a myriad of bad habits that impede one's ability to think and act. Thinking and acting can be difficult enough under ordinary circumstances, but let's face it, your situation requires staying out of stupors.

Make friends as far as possible within the limits of homelessness, a state comprised of the most peripatetic people on earth. Still, it is nice to know you are not alone. I have actually slept better in a parking lot knowing someone else was out there sleeping in their vehicle, too. Homelessness does not always have to feel desperate.

What I am saying here is not about chasing the American Dream from the lowest rung of the socio-economic ladder. Not at all, and I doubt it is your life-goal in any case. Rather, it is about taking responsibility for yourself because few others will or can. The post-Reagan United States offers no way back up, but what one can hunt up or contrive on one's own. You are now a hunter/gatherer.

Stay as sharp as you possibly can, and I do not mean freshly-pressed, go-to-work uniforms and shiny resumes. No, I mean living with dignity and self-respect and in tune with your own needs. That includes money. If you know you need it, find it. I have infinite respect for the homeless people who panhandle at the major intersections in town. I always give them money if for no other reason than to set an example.

For one thing, I believe all Americans need to see homelessness with their own eyes for the object lesson it presents. To all intents and purposes, the increase and spread of homelessness in the United States was engineered, as it was a direct result of Reaganomics: trickle down, changes in the tax code that benefited only the wealthy, and corporate welfare.

Secondly, I believe it is a moral good for drivers to be confronted with homelessness at every intersection and to feel its imposition on their daily routine. Eventually, they are going to want someone to do something about it; and whatever they are thinking, at least they are thinking. For truly, not since the Great Depression has this country had homelessness on this scale, though the homeless today may be worse off since their tent cities get removed regularly by police action. The "Hoovervilles" of the 1930s seem downright cozy, safe, and secure by comparison.

My soapbox preachments are a bonus, and I do not expect anyone else who is homeless to carry a banner and get out there and march. Your primary concern should be about you and the quality of your own life which you already know never has to be at the expense of another.

Musings from the Parking Lot

2009-06-30T23:24:00.000-07:00

It is late evening, and I am sitting in my truck in a parking lot. It has been one of those days in which past aggravations nag at me and cling like a dense fog. The loneliness of homeless life lends itself to wrong-headed musings; and as the night deepens, the lack of the physical presence of companions is felt even more keenly.

There is a sweetness to saying "Good night" to people whom you love and with whom you live whenever one is lucky enough to have that situation. I look back with envy at those times in my life when, flushed from a long day and a wonderful meal together, I, friends, and beloved pets retreated to our separate rooms. The day's end together was a prayer that sent us off to soft sleep and gentle dreaming.

I have been challenged to renew my perspective, to believe there is more in the world than my immediate troubles, to believe that I can have a future once again and a home made up of dear friends. But there are swells of hope followed by deep troughs, and I must admit there are days when I wish it were over, which means I have not yet found the proper way to navigate and to enjoy my own kind of life on the Mississippi, as it were.

I feel quite certain that ending an incomplete life is failure. While it may alleviate present pain and the future possibility of more, I shrink in horror at the idea of having to take the same rotten lesson again. I want to go out with the victory. Otherwise, I am hard pressed to understand the point of being here and taking so much time at it.

What I want to believe in earnest is that I can only die when I have become happy. About everything. It would be the ultimate accomplishment to be at peace with my life, every part of it in every second, and to own it as my own unique work of art. I could die then and feel ready for something entirely new. But to die in frustration, despising my death because too much was left undone, is nightmarish. All feelings reverberate past us and into the channels and cracks of the future, here or there; and there is no percentage in dying the wrong way.

A great saint once said it is a sin to be unhappy, and I agree. Of course, the theological reasoning was that the Son of God shed His innocent blood for our redemption, our souls' salvation guaranteed through the sacrifice. Therefore with our souls saved, there is nothing to be unhappy about. But that always sounded too much like Mom nagging me about being ungrateful and how someone somewhere is starving in the world. You know what I mean.

My revisionist take on this notion of sin, minus all the theology, is that unhappiness is a waste of time and must be avoided as much as possible; and wherever God is, if that place is too far away from where I am, there is no hope anyway. So I conclude that God is a part of me (or the other way around) and nowhere else. In which case, learning to love oneself and everything in, about, and around one's life, inner and outer, is the only route to becoming whole, well, and happy, the way I wish to die.

The good news about homelessness is that it strips away most everything but what is essential so there is very little distraction. One's thoughts and feelings become rather stark against this backdrop, and there is an excess of time to think, write, walk, nap, or whatever else one is inclined to do. Homelessness, in other words, can be good for you.

It has been good to me.

Following the death of my beautiful dog, it were as though a curtain had been drawn across my mind. I had no inner light; it had been snuffed out. The morgue in my heart contrasted strangely against the typical cerulean days of southernmost California, light so bright and stimulating that it is rapturous. To be honest, I was afraid. I had never before been swallowed up so dramatically by grief, and it dwelt in every cell of my body. The darkness lived with me for weeks on end. It stayed so long it altered me.

That darkness over the death of beautiful Inde made any disturbance in my surroundings unbearable. The wearisome noise of television, the mindless antics of housemates, and the inane routines of making money were overwhelming me. There was no reason left to tolerate any of it.

I decided to go homeless.

My dog's death was the last domino in a long line of losses. I attribute my recovery, at least from deep gloom, to the smell of salt air, cool breezes off the ocean, sleep like death, and my innate determination to outlive it. Ben Stiller movies help. So do milkshakes. Never underestimate the need for distraction at such times, and the byword on that is "whatever it takes."

The climb back up is steep. It is steeper than it should be because the American Dream is not what we can or should continue to have, but the old structures are still with us. America has been a wasteland of people driven insane by the harried pace of making a living and the deep-down unspoken guilt and grief of killing off all other living things in the process; and that takes a lot more energy now than Coca Cola was giving us a generation ago: the new fix is Starbucks, Rockstar, or Red Bull, with caffeine and sugar levels so high they could rival a Class-B controlled substance.

Survival has just become too difficult, at the same time our deeply-ingrained notions of progress and modernity tell us that life should be easier. Perhaps, the new economic order of depression and chaos is an attempt by the collective unconscious to change the game. Maybe, at the ancient source and primordial depths of our existence, the system is suspending operations pending a restart along very different lines.

Despite the fact that most people would like to take the canoe down the river and pitch tent somewhere else, there is nowhere else. In lieu of a new frontier, we must get really creative, but not without humility and respect for limitations. We have to get beyond the Christian programming that leads us to martyr and crucify ourselves and other people daily and even further beyond that to a recognition, not only of universal human rights, but the universal rights of all living things.

Homelessness, from the point of view of critically-needed changes in the world, is a badge of courage. At the very least, the homeless have taken a step beyond the cultural routine and usual outcomes that are too narrow to be truly inclusive of all races, classes, creeds, religions, and species. Homelessness may be one of the few sanctuaries afforded a weary population of tired bourgeois capitalists. And we need sanctuary more than ever from the cruelty of the daily meat-grind of work as we know it and having to juggle the internal conflicts of conscience.

Homelessness can be that sanctuary that was once provided by the Sabbath and the church that would open its doors (literally, not figuratively) to people who needed rest. It is the least expensive retreat; and as good retreats do, it offers time for contemplation, exploring feelings and their meaning, and letting go.

For Your Reading Pleasure

2009-06-21T19:28:00.000-07:00

For your reading pleasure and greater literary edification, here is the poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay to which my last post refers:

Sonnet: Love is Not All

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Love is Not All

2009-06-21T19:15:00.000-07:00

Love is not meat or drink, but it can get very, very lonely being homeless without it.

Most homeless people have no roof whatsoever, and those of us who do are living out of a car, truck, or van, which barely provides enough room for one person. Assuming two people could get along under one small mobile roof, there is still the problem of lack of privacy with having to situate the "roof" on a side street or in a parking lot. Truly, I wish I had had a choice about listening to Sheila and Brian argue, break up, kiss, and make up every few days.

The homeless are up early and turn in early to avoid encounters with the housed and the police. There are just too many logistics to handle as it is, and the police can rattle your nerves even when they park next to you at Seven-Eleven. And I can live without the nervous, faux cheeriness of the housed when they have an unexpected encounter in a public washroom --- I only have my bra on so far and I'm brushing my teeth. Somehow, they want to chatter at such a time, perhaps to pretend that I am just like them. Except for the homeless part.

It is not that often, though, that I meet the middle- and upper-middle class housed. Most of the time the public restrooms are empty, and I can relax and enjoy the breeze coming through the open-roof structure and look out at the tree tops. One public washroom has dovecotes, whether by accident or design: instead of a single pitched roof, there are two pyramidal roofs separated by a breezeway, each with its own skylighted pavilion perched at the top. Doves can be heard flying around the empty, upper interior. They have taken over the roofs and nest on top of the walls separating the toilets, which places the humans doing their business on the first floor.

The birdsong of the mourning dove permeates my earliest memories, so having this particular, familiar bird attendant upon my toilette is a luxury and a joy. Even if the biggest problem with having birds in the attic looks nasty --- the excrement that has dripped down and dried on the upper walls --- it seems fitting.

One day while doing my toilette, I was surprised by two very well-dressed women, so well-dressed it was startling. They were in skirts and high heels, made-up, perfectly coiffed, and wearing expensive jewelry. There was a pleasant hint of perfume in the air that spread like an aura throughout the washroom. We exchanged greetings as they entered and each took a stall. I continued washing my face.

"You ladies are really dressed up for the public washroom this morning!"

"Oh," said one of the ladies as she left her stall, "We're Jehovah Witnesses."

There is usually an internal "uh-oh" response whenever I hear Jehovah Witnesses since they are generally so pesky, all but ramrodding their way through your front door and into your living room. But, of course, I do not have a front door or anything else resembling a house. I decided in that moment to be all the person I am, to be bigger than my reservations, and to stay open and honest.

By now I was brushing my teeth. It seemed a little awkward, but the ladies stayed a while to chat. Most of the chat was about their missionary work. I told them I respect their belief as I do all beliefs, which turned out to be an opening for one of them to ask what my belief was. I told them I am spiritual, that I have outgrown religion, that I love Jesus, but I want to be able to communicate with everyone on the planet regardless of their belief.

My answer elicited a pause; I think it impressed them because no one can honestly deny the need to relate to all people. They may also have been relieved not to have to defend their own belief, as I am sure they meet with plenty of diatribe against the JWs. At any rate, the two well-dressed women took their leave; and I have to say I liked them. My impressions of people include a disaster scenario and whether they could weather a storm with me. I do not want to hear, "I broke my nail!" when we all need to be bailing water. These women were tough on the inside. I could tell.

A few mornings earlier as I had just finished in the washroom, a car drove into the parking lot blaring the sound of the Beatles. So few radio stations play the Beatles anymore and, where I live, no one listens to them. It was unusual. Then my friend, Sheila, pops out of the car and runs over, as usual, lunging at me with an enormous embrace.

Unless by way of a well-honed internal guidance system, I never know how Sheila finds me. She behaved as though she expected to see me right there right then. Even uncannier is the fact that I am not staying out by the yacht club anymore where Sheila last saw me, but further south in Mission Bay.

Sheila's lover is still in jail, and she is pining away. She is pining so much she decided to go back to school to become a nurse, maybe to keep busy. But Sheila always sounds a little drunk, so I am hoping she succeeds despite her boyfriend and the addiction. Unfortunately, because she pops into my life unannounced, I usually have something else to do and must leave her company sooner than I would like. That was the case a few days ago. Sheila is no longer homeless, but she still retains some of the footloose habits that homelessness engenders; and I will see her again.

One of the subtle effects of homelessness over time is to make a person more truly herself. I have been given back to myself through this simple way of life, which has few distractions. I tend to be completely honest, even honest about dishonesty on the rare occasion that I must employ it. One of the most important features of this new integrity has been a progressive ability to be in the present moment much of the time and to make the best of my surroundings and everything in it.

I am no longer fixated.

It is remarkable when I review my life to see how often I denied my reality. I was always waiting for the perfect friend, lover, sister, brother, mother, job, apartment, exercise plan, vacation, and the list goes on. I was in the future and stuck in the past, unable to love what I had; and I am only beginning to enjoy imperfection as the capstone of things rare and extraordinary.

Letting go of fixations --- who can be my friends, who can be my lover or soul mate, who is interesting or not --- has allowed me to accept the things around me and experience them in greater depth and detail. The narrow romantic-love vision of the 1950's household of my childhood no longer applies under my present circumstances and may be, in fact, obsolete. Certainly, if one is looking to live life to the fullest and have the experience of joy, there is no other way but to leave oneself open to the excitement of possibilities and to a childlike fascination with what might happen next.

For example, bird visitations are a regular feature of the outdoor shower at public restrooms. One day, a silly gull perched on the shower wall was behaving just as my beloved, deceased dog would have and seemed to stand guard overhead while I washed. In fact, I came to believe my beloved dead dog was inhabiting a bird body. Fantasy? Magical thinking? Perhaps, but the experience was real and something I will never forget.

Then there are the elusive Bob, Steve "the Wonder," and my girlfriend, Sheila, exotic creatures in their own right. If I look for Bob or Steve or Sheila, I cannot find them. They just appear and our relationships continue, renewed and updated. These people have blessed my life with the richness of their personalities.

There is nurturance in relating to everything around oneself. There is a sense of belonging, a feeling of security, and love that comes with it. It is not just what one gives or what one gets, but the relationship itself, the in-betweenness, that brings joy to me. That third element is what I seek, that subtle energy of life between and among all living things, the gravitational pull that draws us into one strange, wonderful whole.

Near the End, Part II: Happy Court

2009-06-14T16:50:00.000-07:00

I would never have believed it could happen.

It was a scene out of one of those perfect-world daydreams. A gentleman walked down the center aisle to ask if anyone were too warm because he would open the windows, a curious thing since the audience consisted of homeless people, not a theatre crowd. The officials of the Court sauntered in, milled around, smiling and relaxed as though they had all just stepped out of a hot bath after hitting the gym.

The two prosecutors were the only exceptions to the otherwise distinctly pleasant atmosphere --- business-like, lonely in their front corner of the room, and glued to the screens of their laptops --- whom, the Public Defender, Steve Binder, asked us all to thank on our way out for their kindness and cooperation. After all, with few if any exceptions, the cases before the judge were dismissed right and left; and that was the happiest judge I have ever seen. Steve believes that judges become judges to have a positive impact on society, and he has no difficulty recruiting them for Homeless Court. One judge is reported to have exclaimed, “This is the most fun I’ve had as a judge!"

It was a great day of victories over the very unimportant intrusions and slights that thrust themselves upon the lives of the homeless.

(Well, of course, I thanked the prosecutors, but neither acknowledged me, a clear invitation which I could not pass up: I thrust my hand out and kept it there. One of them, still looking at her computer screen, finally bothered to shake it since it must have seemed my hand would not go away otherwise. I left the Court amid a profusion of approving smiles, nods, and thumbs-up.)

However, by far the greatest boon to visiting Homeless Court was meeting Steve Binder.

I would like to think that all greatness were measured by Steve Binder's stature. While I believe there has been an increasing lack of concern for the poor and homeless over the past several decades and that there is an entire class of people who are quite conscious of their contempt and act on it, Mr. Binder believes everyone would like to help, but does not know how. And that is why I like him so much. He is good, and he sees the world through that lens.

I interviewed Mr. Binder some time after my Homeless Court date. He told me he liked to hang around the courthouse when he was growing up. He was fascinated by the attorneys, but became deeply impressed with the people who needed them. He observed these men and women, noting their appearance and expressions as they entered and exited the courtroom. It became clear that a day in court could make or break a person, or an entire family. Steve knew he would become a lawyer.

As a San Diego Public Defender, Mr. Binder was one of those who answered the call for legal professionals to participate in the first Stand Down in 1988, a grassroots, community-based event to which volunteers donate their time and expertise to caring for homeless Vietnam veterans. When those participating veterans were interviewed, it was found that the greatest need among them was help with outstanding bench warrants.

A bench warrant is issued by a judge for contempt of court, such as the failure to appear or the failure to pay, which often presents difficulties for the homeless, the underlying assumption being that one has money and means, which are not the usual situation for homeless persons. I have mentioned in other posts how the way back up and into society can be stymied by the status of homelessness itself and how something simple, like an unpaid citation, can exponentially explode over time into more fines, confiscation of one's vehicle, and even arrest. A bench warrant gives law enforcement the authority to arrest and take the subject to jail.

Homelessness can become a fugitive lifestyle.

Moreover, because the homeless are not a protected class, what happens after arrest and jail is anyone's guess. No one has been able to tell me how long a homeless person is incarcerated and where he goes after his release. Presumably, they are back living on the street again, facing the same challenges. However, my friend, Robin, of whom I spoke in previous posts, knew of many incidences of homeless who were "disappeared," that is, never seen again. The isolation of the homeless, their lack of strong family and community ties, may make them prey to criminal elements who operate with impunity for that very reason: no one knows, cares about, or misses the homeless, so they are fair game.

Mr. Binder's innovation was to extend and expand the legal services offered to homeless veterans at Stand Down to all homeless people, making the court system accessible, collaborative, and user-friendly. The Homeless Court Program, begun in 1989, consists of volunteer legal professionals in cooperation with various community-based services that can support the homeless individual's rehabilitation. The Municipal Court judge essentially erases the individual's record by imposing an alternative sentence, such as participation in a recovery program, attending computer classes, and so on. The location of the court, too, is far less imposing, being held in the community, usually in a homeless shelter.

It was a fateful day when I happened to phone the San Diego Municipal Court's Traffic Division and talk to a young clerk there whom I questioned about my options in regard to the most recent, very-pricey citation I had to pay or manage to clear. I summoned the nerve to say I was homeless and that there should be some different standard applied in such a case. She said quite casually, "Well, there's Homeless Court."

"Homeless Court?"

"Yes."

"OK. Where is Homeless Court?"

"Oh, you can't just go there. You have to call the Public Defender's office. You want to talk to Steve Binder."

I was on to the next phone call in an instant and left a message. I left a message the next day and the day after that. I even left a few bold snippy messages. It was a full two weeks before my call was answered.

In the meantime, I thought I would try going into Traffic Court before the set date in the hope of learning from the judge what I could do to lessen the financial burden of the ticket and if the judge could refer me to this thing called Homeless Court. Clearly, I was impatient for an answer, or I would not have tried sitting in the court room.

Picture it: the judge enters wearing the black robes of the legal priesthood, and she sits an entire story above the sinners seated in purgatory. One poor sinner after another comes up to the bench as his name is called and faces the judge. Everyone can hear what the judge and the defendant are saying. No matter what the outcomes, I am embarrassed at hearing about someone else's problems with the law.

After a half-hour of this, I start to cry and cannot stop. The idea of standing before the judge and begging for mercy because I am homeless in front of a hundred other people is mortifying. One of the court officials passes me a box of tissues, but it does nothing to alleviate the fear. All the same, I needed help; so I stand up and approach the bench when I hear my name. I am still crying and can barely remember what it was I intended to ask. The judge completely misreads my intentions and merely postpones my court date. What a relief it was to get a call back from the Public Defender.

The truth is no one benefits by homelessness, which should be treated as an affliction in a healthy society. The legal system suffers from a back log of minor cases and the opprobrium of being dehumanizing and punitive, and the community suffers from having a part of its population inactive and unable to contribute. No one can be happy seeing the homeless at every major intersection in every city of the United States begging for anything we can spare.

Fortunately, Homeless Courts are spreading all over the United States. The Homeless Court Program is transforming the lives of the homeless, as well as transforming the legal system through its working relationships to agencies and services in the community. The community at large is healthier and freer.

Steve Binder, as it turns out, is widely-known and respected and was elected to the Ashoka Fellowship in 2005. Ashoka International recognizes and supports social entrepreneurs across the globe. Ashoka Fellows undergo a stringent selection process based on four criteria: the candidate possesses, first, a new solution to a social problem; secondly, creativity; third, leadership; and, lastly, ethical fiber. The final criterion is weighted more heavily than the others. If there is any doubt about the last quality, the candidate will not pass. So the last question asked in regard to any candidate to the Ashoka Fellowship is "Do you trust this person absolutely?"

I knew nothing of Mr. Binder's reputation when we first met by telephone and in the brief time he acted on my behalf as Public Defender. My own answer to the question above, unequivocally, was and still is "Yes!"

2009-06-02T22:42:00.000-07:00

Readers and fans of Vagabond, I apologize for the hiatus without warning. My computer underwent a major repair one week, and then I spent a week visiting a dear friend. Yes, I, too, was housed, but there is something claustrophic about it. I was happy to return home to life under the palm trees and views of the Bay. I am not sure what that means, to you or me. Perhaps I have gone native in some sense. In any case, I want to assure you that I will be back with a new posting very soon.

Near the End (of Life as We Know It), Part 1

2009-05-06T12:03:00.000-07:00

Life, as we know it, that is, in the way most people have structured their reality, begins with a place to live, usually a house, which becomes central. Everything else depends on that: owning a lawn mower, having pets, insurance policies, the dining room set, even having children. And it is difficult to imagine any other circumstance and even harder to create one.

My friend, Bob, when speaking of his buddies, as though apposite to whatever he says, always mentions where they stay. "Tom, he has the white car," Bob starts off, or "John, he has the red van," and so on, just as another person might refer to a house on a certain street. Were we truly able to live outside the cultural stricture of expensive one- and two-story boxes lined up row after row, we would not be living out of our vehicles or, lacking a vehicle, anywhere a person can be left alone.

There would be free zones, commons, or town greens where people could squat and put up a tent or some other temporary structure. That would assume there were open spaces available, though, when every square foot of land, outside of what is owned by the State, is private property, which, by the way, used to be a liberal notion and one greatly appreciated by our peasant forbears. All the same, it would nice to have an alternative to one's vehicle or homeless shelters, which are usually located in paved-over, treeless downtown areas. But, here we are: one is housed or homeless; there is very little in between.

My homeless story starts almost two years ago.

I prefer the short version, in which I say, only, that I prevailed over an incident of domestic violence, ensuing money difficulties, living in an entirely new environment, and the loss of my beautiful dog. I lost much more than I could ever list. Real tragedy is of a high order and brings the curtain down.

Whatever life I had is over. I can now state that with great calm.

Then the crucible of rebuilding, that is, absolutely everything from the ground up, begins. I had to start with my identity. What remained of life for me was unfamiliar, and there was terrible grief over all that was lost, what had been the fabric of my existence. The future, and I mean the next hour, was a blank, as though my lot in life had been reduced to little more than a square centimeter of time and space.

I happened to come across a book in the library that described the strategies of people who had undergone deep losses, much greater than mine, people who had experienced dislocation and deaths of loved ones due to war or natural disaster. One strategy, while simple, turned out to be profound for me: work.

Having a job has been critical to my well-being, as, so often, it has been the only thing close to a normal reality. Working restored faith in my capacity to stay alive and take care of myself. I have treated my job with an unusual respect, though a respect it is clearly due: it has been a lifeline for me. My work affirmed my identity as a highly-social, universally-minded, generous person whom other people tend to like and want to get know.

Coming and going from work has been a movement between planets: that is just how big the gap is between having a job like everybody else and making a home out of my truck, which, try as I may to create routine, often defies it. I sometimes draw a blank just as I am ready to leave work. Of a sudden, I do not know where I am going or what I am doing. I step out into the proverbial void, making things up as I go along, at least, until the alarm goes off the next day and I show up at my job as expected.

My employer, Ellen, likes my strong work ethic and persistence, especially with her. She is known to be demanding and highly critical, but I have passed muster. The evidence of this was on the day I arrived to work on time, as usual, but had been set off by memories of my dog: I could not stop crying. All the loneliness of the world found its ways through my heart. The oceans might have risen an inch or so on that day.

Quite unexpectedly, Ellen took my shoulders. "I love you. I am so grateful you came into my life. You work so hard. You try so hard. I know there is something that bothers you, a burden you carry."

"Ellen, I can go home if you want. I don't want to scare the customers."

"No, it's OK. You go ahead and cry and just be yourself, as you usually do."

So I worked and cried and worked and the day went by.

That episode wove the beginning of a new cloth.

Though I had been employed before meeting Ellen, I had blown that job to bits with a post-traumatic stress outburst. At the same time, I was having difficulties living in the cheapest room I could find, what I could afford, in a house with Navy kids. However, I found I did not have the patience any more for housemates, especially given the work it entailed: clearing the kitchen counter of pizza boxes and beer cans every morning just to have a little room to make breakfast, while listening to the squeak of my shoes sticking to dried beer on the floor. Little wonder, really, that homelessness seemed, if not romantic, at least, redemptive.

Not that living with the American Navy was the only situation. I could, and did, find generous people willing to lend a couch. I might have gone from couch to couch, but I was not handling other people's environments very well. Many people need noise to feel comfortable --- usually the sound of the television in the background. I want to hear the wind, birds, water, almost anything but that.

Let's say I tried. I did have a place to live after my stint with the Navy kids, for as long as I needed it, in fact, until I knew I could not stand the sound of the box any longer. I decided my truck would provide the most peaceful, quiet, nurturing home for me for as long as it had an engine. There are inconveniences and drawbacks, as I have mentioned in earlier posts, but I get a good night's sleep; and I never feel that I am missing a thing by not having a television.

Now, the way Ellen's job works for me is that I am outdoors in an open-air courtyard. We are on a hillside that always gets a breeze by afternoon. The air is fresh. There are birds and the sweet smell of desert shrubs. The ambience has proven to be salutary for me and, except for the episode of grief described above, I have not had an other post-traumatic stress breakdown.

But, I had very little money when I went homeless, which meant that I could not buy insurance for the truck; and this is just where things can get very sticky if one is living out of one's vehicle. I managed to go quite a while without spending that money until, of course, I was stopped by the highway patrol for something else.

Let me back up, though. In the previous year, I had been stopped on Interstate 5 for speeding. I could not pay that ticket off all at once, so I contacted the Court and asked to make payments. As matters worsened for me, however, I just let it slide; and it came back to me with a vengeance.

Now, over a year later, I owed some terrific amount on that Interstate 5 ticket and had to contact the Judge to ask for some forbearance. In the meanwhile, I had racked up several tickets during a post-traumatic-stress speeding spree. I had tried to pay these citations off during my stay with the Navy, but I was getting overwhelmed. I lacked the money, I needed another job, and I was about to go homeless, a way of life about which I knew nothing, as yet.

That speeding spree was almost funny. I just couldn't seem to drive straight anymore. I had no idea that post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) could do that to a person until, out of frustration, I brought the matter up with my therapist who assured me that a lot of quirky things can happen. She practices a weird, simple, and effective psychotherapy called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing or EMDR.

That single appointment ended the crazy driving.

It did not, however, end the world of pain I entered with all the speeding tickets. I wrote and phoned the Sonoma County Court about dropping that five or six citations on the basis that I was having PTSD episodes at the time and I had not incurred another ticket in over six months. Though it took a while to resolve, the Judge there granted my request. The same was not true of the Judge in Fresno who levied a suspension of my driver's license.

The Judge of Traffic Court for Fresno County was unswayed by any argument about stress or a therapist's note to confirm it. Deceased might have worked. All the same, this judge did waive the additional fees, which were substantial, a few hundred here, there, depending on how often he thought I had blown off the Court. $300 per incident.

Now, this may sound strange, but I grew to have some affection for the Fresno Judge. Maybe it's daft, but I think a person really likes me, maybe even loves me, when he can't let go. And it's downright platonic when two people have never even met. This judge was not satisfied until I had spent a significant amount of time calling and writing. In the end, he let me go for $40.

I was negotiating payment with the Fresno Judge by mail, which takes time, of course, when I was stopped by Officer Mink. I was at the stop sign and ready to make the turn off Mission Boulevard that takes me out to the Yacht Club. I was almost home, in other words. I pulled over and watched the officer approach my truck.

"Officer, I don't know why you stopped me."

"You're joking." He seemed genuinely surprised.

"No."

"Oh, I thought you were being cynical."

"No. I really don't know why you stopped me."

"The tow ball on the back of your truck is obscuring the license plate," Officer Mink stated, as though tow balls rate right up there with running stop signs and everyone knows that, but me.

"Officer, that tow ball has been there for almost 40 years."

"Well, we need to be able to see the license plate." Then the dreaded moment occurred: he asked to see my driver's license and proof of insurance. I handed Officer Mink my license, which had already been suspended, and an expired insurance card, knowing this was the end of my days as a Ford F-150 desperado and the beginning of a new era.

Officer Mink sat in his patrol car, working out my fate for the next six months or more. He came back to me with ticket pad and pen in hand and asked me to sign it.

"Officer, please don't write me up. You have no idea what kind of trouble this is going to create for me." I was begging. I had just managed to avoid paying close to a thousand dollars in tickets to Sonoma County, and I was not up for an encore.

"I am just days away from having the suspension on my license lifted." My frustration was beginning to turn to tears. "Here," I took out a stack of envelopes, "I can show you the correspondence with the Judge in Fresno." Of course, there was the little matter of driving without insurance, too, for which there was no remedy but to go out and buy some. I was feeling light headed over the imagined cost of that infraction. But Officer Mink was a nice guy. He wasn't going to have my truck towed, which he well could have.

So I signed and sealed my fate with Officer Mink that evening, and the world of pain expanded to a universe. Though I may never know for certain, Officer Mink may have intended to nab me as part of the homeless roundup, the one in which Tom was told to leave for peeing on the beach in plain view of people boating on the Bay.

Tow ball. Sure.

Whatever the case, when the Notice to Appear arrived, there might as well have been trumpets. That piece of paper was stunning, loud with money owed, and, no, I was not eligible for traffic school. I went into a PTSD downward spiral, becoming a nervous wreck, and, finally, had to allow myself to go unconscious by eating and sleeping it off.

Now I was ready to tackle the problem, though not without needing to stop regularly to let go and recharge. The anxiety part of PTSD can make you feel wound up as though you have been running, even in your sleep, even while standing still and doing nothing at all. An accomplishment under this kind of anxiety is having finished just one phone call. Then it may be time to take another nap.

Strange, I know.

Yet, my guess is that there are millions of people with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; how could there not be? And they make life hell for millions of other people. Stressed people are not very nice. I know about this. Add it all up, and there you have the total population of planet earth. It is a wonder there is not more dysfunction than there is, which makes me believe there is a God, and angels and saints in great numbers.

Another frantic day standing still, phoning around for some way out of the huge amount of money owed to the Department of Motor Vehicles, yielded one lead amid an excess of doomsday scenarios proclaimed by government naysayers on my probable fate. The fine would double or triple; I could have my vehicle impounded; and I had X-number of days. It went on like this. Threats.

Our culture is organized around threats, potent threats that are enforced. Most people yield, figuring they cannot afford the time it takes to defend themselves. In my case, I cannot afford to give in: I just don't have the money, and, like it or not, I have to sacrifice my time to stay on the phone, write letters, and research. I was lucky that one day to have been given a lead, a jewel, which might be of help; but I was going to have to track it down.

Homeless Court.

Daffodils

2009-04-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

The wind is blusterous and cold, blowing palm trees, my hair, everything, straight out like windsocks, all pointing east. It is spring, but it feels colder than winter, as spring often does. Wacky weather and strange things tend to happen this time of year.

Sheila visited me while I was doing my toilet yesterday. She bustled into the ladies room like she always does, throwing her arms around me. "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you! Where've you been?"

"I've been here."

"No you haven't. I've been looking everywhere for you. Where've you been?"

"Sheila, I have been here. I am always here. I always sleep out here."

"No-o-o-o." Sheila drew out the o so that no sounded more like new. "Where were you?"

Sheila does not believe the truth, so I pondered telling a grand lie before choosing the best strategy: I stop responding to the questions. I had to brush my teeth and gargle, anyway, which gave her the chance to tell me she was high.

The occasion was that her boyfriend, Brian, went to jail. Brian is a big man, cheerful, funny, loving. Except when he is drunk, and then he hits people who are not showing him the love back. Sheila is a cute, small-built blonde who likes to have fun. Otherwise, she is depressed and gets angry for no apparent reason. She can make one up.

Sheila was feeling lonely. She mentioned the wedding she and Brian were planning. "Yeah," I said, "if he doesn't kill somebody and go to prison." Now that might have been a joke were it not Brian we were discussing. Sheila suggested I get in her car, and we could drive around, find something to do. I begged out. I had a long list of chores for my day off.

Why alcoholics imagine anyone wants to ride in a car with them puzzles me. Sheila and Brian would usually offer to take me somewhere with them while they were not only drunk, but arguing. But that was last summer, when I was new to homelessness. Still, I am not one to risk my life for friendship.

I grew fond of Sheila and Brian. They were close to normal, except for the drinking. She drove a new Audi and wore nice clothing. So did Brian. They were both used to working and having money. I drove into the parking lot next to the restroom one summer day and happened to take the parking space next to theirs. They had the windows down in the Audi, the better to enjoy the fresh air off the Bay.

They spoke to me and introduced themselves, finally getting around to asking if I were homeless. They had seen me around the washroom at the Yacht Club. It was my first close encounter with other homeless people, and it went a long way to easing the estrangement I felt. To this day, I am grateful for Sheila and Brian's presence in my life then. Sheila finally received a long-awaited settlement from a former employer and went on to find a house to rent.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" Sheila's words encompassed the space we were standing in and were meant to ding every corner of my life, with which, fortunate for me, she had no familiarity. Still, I did not want to hear aspersions cast on my truck, my favorite washroom, the Yacht Club parking lot.

"Look at me . . . I have a place to live! If I can do it, you can do it!" Sheila meant well with the motivational, strong talk.

Finished gargling, I turned to speak to Sheila. I had planned to change the subject, but she wasn't there. I looked around, stepped out of the washroom. Her car was gone. That is the way of many people I have met who are, or have been, homeless. Here. Gone.

I can't say when I might see Sheila again. The same with Bob, for example. If I look for him, I can't find him. He finds me. The day before Sheila's appearance, I was just getting out of my truck to do my morning ritual when Bob showed up on his bicycle.

"Hey, Bob! Where's the truck?"

"Oh, they took my truck," he said slowly, resigned, with his usual composure. Having one's vehicle taken is quite serious for the homeless. It takes homelessness to a deeper, lower level. It means sleeping outdoors and makes the logistics for working and making money next to impossible. It spells the end of life as we know it.

"Whaaat?!"

"I got a DUI."

"Oh." I was let down. I was ready to defend Bob, but there is no defending anyone who is a serious risk to others. Still, it was odd because, while Bob certainly drinks, he does not drink and drive. He knows better.

"Where are you sleeping?"

Bob must have told me where he was sleeping, but I didn't quite hear it. The idea of Bob sleeping outdoors made me feel sad, and my mind was fogging over.

"How are you staying warm?"

"Oh, I'm warm enough. I have a blanket . . ." Bob's voice trailed off in my mind. I had stopped listening. I had nowhere to go with what Bob was telling me. Losing the truck would mean he was over the edge. No way up from there.

"Oh, I went to the doctor, too," Bob said in his offhand style. "I have cancer."

Bob went on, but we might as well have been under water. He pulled a paper out of his jacket and handed it to me --- a medical report with a short, intimidating list: leukemia, hepatitis, impaired immune system.

Bob also had a doctor's Rx that prescribed a daily bath and staying away from shelters to minimize exposure to cold or flu. Some half-buried part of me, now lying on the bottom of the Bay, wanted to scream with laughter about the daily bath. I wondered how this doctor imagined Bob would do that, and I wanted to tease Bob about it; but I could not resurrect my humor.

I felt very tired all of a sudden and turned the topic to lighten things up.

"It's a good thing you had your bike."

"Oh, you haven't seen this one. This one's new." Bob paused here. "I stole it."

Bob doesn't steal, either, so the bike was a matter of conscience for him. "I can't handle a bike now without a lot of gears. I get too tired. This is a $700 bike. I figure if the guy can afford this, he can afford another one."

I offered some forgiveness, which I knew Bob would appreciate.

"I'll send up a prayer for the person whose bike you took, Bob. Maybe he didn't even miss it. Maybe he forgot he had a bike like that."

"Yeah . . . well, I needed it."

The conversation dwindled to a chat, and I excused myself for work.

The wind was cold and carrying sand. There were high clouds skittering overhead. I sat back and started up the truck. Driving along South Shores, the view is a lonely desert, palms trees here and there. I thought, and quite a departure from the past few days, what a silly word, daffodil. Once upon a time, a girl might be named Lily, Iris, Rose, Daisy, but never Daffodil. The Elizabethans called the flower, daffodilly or daffodowndill. Sometimes primrose peereless.

I could imagine being a Primrose Peereless, a new companion to Avenger, Jonathan Steed, off to save the world from diabolical schemers.

A scene came to mind just then. As a child, I had often seen daffodils sprung up from the frosty ground, sometimes in snow. They were always in bloom at Easter, and along the trip to church, both sides of the road would be strewn with their bobbing, bright, yellow heads, the only sunshine amid a gray and white landscape.

The magical, numinous sight of the daffodils of my memory lifted my heart. That silly word alone was a relief. There are so many questions for which I have no answers. I am coming to think there are no questions: just things that happen. In place of answers, this time, I found wonder.

Hang the Bankers!

2009-04-01T21:15:00.000-07:00

"Capitalism isn't working!" was only one of the cries that went up from crowds in the streets this morning in London where the G-20 nations are holding their world economic summit. I especially liked, "Hang the bankers!" I was amused, but it really isn't funny.

It is a marvel that so many of us managed to survive the past thirty years, that is, since the Reagan Revolution. Any pay raises at work were nullified by a raise in taxes on middle-to-lower income earners, as well as company decisions to drop medical benefits and even the smallest perk, such as a paid, hour lunchtime.

Hardly anyone remembers the good old days when work was a 9-to-5 and there was an entire hour for lunch. Now, work starts at 8:30 a.m. to offset a half-hour, unpaid lunchtime, and business still closes at 5 p.m. so that employees get in a full eight hours. To wit, we spent more time at work making less money.

Meanwhile, the cost of living never stopped going up; and the credit card industry was filling in the gaps. We were made poorer as we just could not keep up unless we used credit to pay, especially medical bills. And then the credit card companies began to raise fees and add fees, especially late fees; and there was nowhere to go with a complaint. By the time the credit card industry got competitive, most of us were already awash in debt. I remember paying off several credit card balances with other credit cards, paying off debt with another debt.

No, I did not know how that made sense, but I was not a business person. I remember one financial expert claiming years ago that our financial system was far sturdier and more resilient than it was before the Great Depression, that there were mechanisms, some sort of interdependence among financial institutions, that made it bust-proof. I had no idea what he meant, but it was also the era of the then-new, high-yield debt instruments, a.k.a junk bonds, created by financial wunderkind, Michael Milken.

Because of Reagan-era deregulation, banks could issue credit and operate as investment banking houses. Real estate firms, insurance, and title companies could behave like banks. Every and all sorts of companies could issue credit cards. Venerable companies like General Electric became better known for their financial services. Prudential Insurance became Pru-Bache. What monies the insurance companies did not want to pay in claims enriched their investment portfolios.

Many homeowners were making their mortgage payments to a different institution every three or four months, many removes from the institution that originally held the paper. Their mortgage had been swapped, that is, bundled up with other mortgages, some good, some not, and sold like a security to another banking firm. Except that someone made money off someone else's debt, no one knows what that really means, especially, now, with the trouble we are in.

The cost of insurance kept rising, too, but it came to seem more like protection money. There were always reasons why the insurance companies, behaving more like the Mob, did not want to pay out; and with each auto accident or trip to the hospital, rates went up. So despite insurance, one could not have an accident or get ill. It was simple usury and certainly racketeering, and where insurance was involved with the State, collusion.

Tuition went up for both public and private schools, at the same time there was less financial aid, unless one wanted to take out a loan. Then Congress got angry at those people who were not paying back their loans, whom they claimed were all doctors and lawyers. Now you could default on your student loan, but the debt would never go away: it would alway have a spot on your credit report. And it would die when you do, and that part is thanks to President Clinton. Otherwise, your children's children would have been reaping sour grapes from the U.S. Department of Education.

Still, I lived a prosperous life. I had a new car, a nice house, clothing, jewelry. And a mountain of debt, which did not seem to matter. It was the American way.

Of course, I could never stop working. Or juggling.

These days, I just have a lot less to juggle. While all that credit was floated over the past thirty years, social services of every kind were cut. Slashed, really. What that means for me now is that I get any public aid in piecemeal fashion. If I have food stamps, I get less of something else. If I have more unemployment or disability monies, I get less food stamps. The aid is not cumulative in a way that a person could reach financial stability and move on and up. One merely teeters.

But, I am resourceful and in good health. And I do not really want to hang the bankers. Honestly, if swapping nothing is considered to be capital, I don't know whether capitalism works or not. I'm not sure we were even practicing capitalism, as such. I do like what money buys and would be woefully unhappy in a Marxist state where there were no department stores where I could try on new dresses, shoes, and jewelry, no matter that I could not afford them, and no array of cosmetics and make-up counters.

That sounds like sheer frivolity, but we are going to need to commit simple acts of levity to keep our heads up and to feel like staying above ground.

The Patriot Act and the Department of Motor Vehicles

2009-03-28T20:41:00.000-07:00

For a long time, the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) has wanted a national system connecting all the States in a compact to make it easier to find persons who have committed vehicular crimes. The new Office of Homeland Security, through its legislation known as the Patriot Act, created just such a structure, though its purpose was framed in the language of chasing international terrorists with cells in the United States.

The Problem Driver Pointer System (PDPS) is a list of names of all American citizens who have ever had a traffic violation for which the fine is unpaid, and my name is on it. Little is known about the PDPS, so there may be other reasons why there are names on a list; and, indeed, there may be other lists; but it all seems to have little to do with terrorists. The PDPS is operated by the DMV, but it is part of the command structure of Homeland Security, making it impossible to find anyone who has authority and who is ultimately responsible. I do mean impossible.

I know this because I spent six months researching ways to retrieve my California driver's license without paying that 20-year-old traffic fine, for which reason, purportedly, my name is on the PDPS. I never did manage to speak to anyone where PDPS decisions are made, wherever that is.

Six months earlier, having finally resolved a mound of debt with the DMV, I went in to the local office to pick up my driver's license which had been confiscated. (More on that later). After an hour, my number came up on the big board, and I skipped to the appropriate window, holding back a "Yippee!" I had just been released from driver/debtor prison and was about to be restored to legal-driver status.

"Uh . . . let me see . . . you have an unpaid ticket on your record," the clerk remarked as she scrolled slowly through several screens on her computer. "We are going to have to keep your license until it is cleared."

"Wha-a-a-t? That can't be. My record was just cleared," I said in disbelief. A wave of gloom and hopelessness swept over me. I had been struggling for months to clear my DMV record, and I thought I was at the finish line.

"This ticket is in Iowa, and you will have to call Illinois about it. I'll get you the information." The clerk handed me a print-out of a suspension notice. Until this moment, I had completely forgotten about the incident, though the memory is vague. I remember being ticketed, but all the details escape me.

I was a campaign worker in the winter of 1988, a visitor from Illinois in Iowa, and I was driving two-lane highways in rural counties in a rental car. I am guessing that when I passed through the little town of Montezuma, I failed to reduce my speed. Maybe I did not even see that little town. (The 2000 census puts Montezuma's population at 1400.) In any case, I am sure I didn't kill anyone. There was no hit-and-run, though that patrol officer could be dead by now. The Illinois Senator for whom I worked is no longer with us. Twenty years ago, mind you.

"That was twenty years ago!" I was exasperated by this turn of luck. "Isn't there a statute of limitations?"

"Not with the new system there isn't. You're not the only one. Everybody is getting these old tickets, and the best thing to do is pay it." The clerk looked like she knew what she was talking about, but I still didn't like the answer. Sure, I probably was speeding and, with the hectic life of a campaign, just never got home to pick up the mail. From Iowa, I had gone on to several other States.

But it was not the ticket that bothered me: it was the lack of forgiveness, which is unamerican.

My quest for pardon began with a call to the Illinois Secretary of State Traffic Violations Section. They said they would look up my suspension and send me the requisite information, which turned out to be a form letter stating that once I satisfied the ticket in Iowa, I would then need to pay Illinois a reinstatement fee of $70. I called that office back to ask if there were any mercy for homeless people. Mercifully, I suppose, I was told that if Iowa dismissed the ticket, then I would not have to pay the Illinois fee.

So, next, I phoned the Poweshiek County Clerk's office in Montezuma, Iowa. I explained my situation, that I was homeless, and wondered if there were any pardon for the 20-year-old traffic fine on the basis of hardship. I should write a letter to the magistrate, I was told, and he would render a decision by mail.

Several weeks passed before I received an answer to my letter. It was a few words scribbled on an official form to this effect: the Court had no authority to set aside my ticket or the fine. Surprised and upset, I called the Poweshiek County Clerk's office immediately. I wanted to speak to the magistrate, I told the clerk; but he is only in on Thursdays, she said, and I would have to call before 9 a.m. Central Time, before Court began.

Nearly a week later, on the following Thursday, I was up at 5:30 a.m., Pacific Time. Anxious and wanting to be alert for the phone call, I tossed down breakfast and had my first morning cup. There was no answer on the first call, presumably because the clerk was not in yet. On the second call, the clerk's office was open, but the magistrate was not in. It took another call, and another, but I reached the magistrate.

Too self-conscious to repeat what I had written in my letter, I got right to the point: how could a judge not have jurisdiction in his own court? That was hard to believe. After all, it was only a speeding ticket, and it was a very old one, at that. The magistrate was apologetic, but, indeed, there was nothing in the law that gave him authority to dismiss the ticket.

"Well, who does have the authority?"

"Maybe the Governor?" I thought he was joking for a moment, but he seemed genuinely not to know for sure. Good enough for me. I was back on the trail and calling Governor Chet Culver's office within minutes. I was promptly sent to one of the Governor's assistants who took my information and gave me the phone number of the point person on driver's issues. I was handled expertly by this woman who even emailed me with updates. I did not want a pardon from the Governor, she explained, because that would take, at least, two years. Rather, she found someone to help me in the Iowa Department of Transportation (IDOT).

It was all downhill from there.

Plenty of emails and phone calls passed; but, in the end, there was nothing IDOT could do for me. Their suggestion? Go back to the magistrate of Poweshiek County.

"You're kidding." It made no sense, but clearly this IDOT employee had no idea where to send me. The setback dampened my enthusiasm for the quest, but there was more to come. It was only the first circle of going around in circles.

For want of a better idea, I phoned the Poweshiek County Clerk's office again. I told the clerk, flat out, that I had been sent back to her office. She said I could try speaking to the magistrate again, but, suddenly, I had a better idea. I phoned the county legal service and asked for help with my old ticket. I wondered if someone there could represent me, at a distance, in the magistrate court in Poweshiek. That office sent me to the County Attorney who was brusque and lunged irascibly at everything I said. He thought I was out of my mind and hung up on me.

But I remembered the County Attorney saying I should be speaking to the motor vehicle people in California, since that is where I currently held a license. I latched onto that piece of wreckage, like a floating spar, as I now found myself desperate for help from some quarter. I called the California DMV. They sent me back to Iowa.

"Do you have any other ideas, other than Iowa?" I was tired and disheartened, but not yet demoralized: that would have to wait for the go-round with staffers to California elected officials, which was the DMV employee's next suggestion.

I called my State senator and representative, neither of whom had anyone in their office familiar with the PDPS. I explained, seemingly, over and over, about the PDPS and what I found offensive about it. Everyone to whom I spoke sounded young, too young and too poorly educated to be working for a California political player who represented, primarily, Baby Boomers.

One of those whippersnappers told me just to pay the fine: "Well, you did break the law, didn't you?"

See what I mean? What would he know about creeping fascism, which has been creeping for decades, at least, since Richard Nixon was in office? What would he know about taking it to the streets or any other form of civil disobedience to which Americans have a right? I wanted to reach out and slap somebody. Instead, I gave the young man a listen-to-me-Sonny piece of my mind. Not that it did any good. He hung up on me.

Another such staffer accused me of expecting his office to commit an ethical breach, what he called "influence," when I merely wanted someone there in that elected official's office to do something, make a phone call or two on behalf of a constituent, as it was my assumption that they worked for me, for the public, and should be able to unravel tangles like the one I was in.

Again, I got nowhere at all, but the more resistance, the more emboldened I had become. I struggled on and phoned my U.S. Congressperson and a U.S. Senator whose offices, I was told, did not handle DMV matters and somehow also seemed unaware of the linkage between the DMV and Homeland Security. I was not in America any more, not the one for which I used to protest, but the new America of the after-school daycare cohort.

With no one left with whom to speak, with no help forthcoming, I called the PDPS office myself. I had nothing to lose, but I was not ready to admit that we now have a whole new set of laws with limitless reach that place all Americans under suspicion.

Phil answered the phone. For the first time in my search, I seemed to be talking to someone who understood my point of view. He was candid about the purpose of the PDPS, which was not to fight terrorism. He asked how I learned of the old traffic violation. I explained about my visit to the local DMV. Phil said he thought he might be able to get me off on a technicality since PDPS notices were usually sent by mail. I was not sure what kind of difference that might make, but Phil felt I had a slight chance. In any case, he would bump my case upstairs, that is, to the people in Homeland Security. I was to phone him back in a month.

Visions of a final victory over the evil of the twenty-year-old traffic ticket carried me through the next month. I was ready to feel vindicated and to have a reason to call those public officials' offices back and that madman attorney in Iowa. I would harangue them from my high horse.

All to no avail.

When I called Phil again at the PDPS office, there had been no response from on high, which meant nothing had happened, nor would anything likely happen in the future, to change the disposition of the old traffic ticket. It did not matter that I had been a good driver in California for twenty years; that counted for nothing. I was a problem driver now, unless and until I paid the penalties in both States of Iowa and Illinois.

Defeated, I retreated across the Rappahannock again, this time never to return to the matter. I spent a few days binding my wounds, then did the gracious thing of phoning the Poweshiek County Clerk. I would be sending a money order for the old traffic fine, I told her, and would she please send back a letter of release for the State of Illinois. She seemed please to hear from me, as though I had been through a spell of prodigality and waywardness, sure to return to the fold.

Her sort of old-fashioned faith was very American, no matter what else has happened to our country.

Sanctuary

2009-03-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

At 19, on a fine spring day after a long midwestern winter, I wondered why I was in such a hurry to finish my undergraduate degree, which I was taking at breakneck speed. And now I was hurdling toward an accident of thinking too much about everything. I left university with only a semester to go, but I stopped smoking pot indefinitely.

I pored over every trajectory, the options made available to persons my age in our culture. The usual things. For example, I could marry my boyfriend. When I stretched this prospect out over ten years, the marriage looked so uninteresting that I saw myself traveling alone, on a plane headed for Paris, never to return. That relationship, as I wended through the nuances, would not bear up under ordinary, daily wear. Except for midterms and finals, campus life was carefree and love, untested.

The idea of marriage turned everything sepia, tinged with the tired sunlight of mid-afternoon. It would mean the suburbs. I imagined trying to live with the heft and burden of a china hutch, which one fills slowly over time; and an undistinguishable, largely unused, for-display-only front yard; and a generally mind-numbing conformity. I would need a place to scream.

Or, I could go to work. I had little experience with anything other than housework or homework. I had no idea what it was like to have a job, and I was not keen on finding out. I was already leaning left in my socio-political views, and I knew that business people were usually conservative. I was puzzled by work being a primary tenet of the women's movement, at the same time these ladies were throwing off their bras. It doesn't take long to figure out that the lack of foundation garments will get you sent to Human Resources, the work-world equivalent to the principal's office. These days, with no HR departments, one is simply fired.

Of course, if I was not in school, I would have to work; and work is where I learned that democracy ends at the office door. I could not eat when I was hungry; I had to wait my turn in a lunch rotation. Personal phone calls had to come out of my lunch time, and I could never look too comfortable at my desk. The office manager would take that opportunity to fill my inbox with paperwork she didn't want to do. Life at the office (and an eight-hour day is a lot of one's life) was trivial, at best, and barefaced fascism most of the time. I could not understand how democratic principles did not apply, though the reason was absurdly simply: I didn't own the place.

I returned to university several times just to get a break from the workplace, but I finally completed my undergraduate degree, though it did not help one jot in determining a future course of action. Not even a master's degree was able to put me in a solid career direction. After wandering for years in a kind of private diaspora, my true homeland unknown, I decided what I would always need were regular breaks from the world.

I have taken several such breaks, some radical.

Not long after leaving university for the first time, I became enamored of a spiritual community I visited in Berkeley that also had a farm up north in Mendocino County. I spent one entire summer hoeing and picking vegetables, meditating, walking the hills, and playing volleyball. Some things we did as a group were hokey, but so in earnest, I was deeply impressed. By the time I learned I had joined the Moonies, I didn't care. I had made good friends.

That relationship lasted several years through all the weird newspaper reports about kidnappings and brainwashing, which I read with disappointment because it was patently untrue. I knew this because I was thrown out of the Moonies twice; and when I decided to leave because I was ready to move on, I simply called a cab.

Not to sound nonchalant, I agonized over that decision as the difference between what I wanted for my life and what that organization offered began to widen. The Moonies were good, decent people, to the one, and theirs has been a worthy experiment. What I always found enjoyable was the communality. It was not just a value, but the reality, what impressed me about the group in the first place. Sadly, we have to go far afield of our current society to find that kind of peace and security.

What the American Dream does not offer.

It is my personal belief that people need sanctuary, not necessarily more money or a better job. We need to stop the world once in a while and get off, that is, drop out. What I imagine is a campus/facility that costs nothing at all, where there is complete rest and a reality free of the usual pressures and competitiveness, a place where it is possible to meet people whom we might never meet from another culture, race, or occupation and where it is possible to learn a new skill or art form. Then, satisfied, refreshed, and renewed, we would return to the world we inherited, perhaps, to make a real difference.

Money, despite so much cultural importance attached to it, despite its centrality to the American Dream, does not seem to make anyone happy for very long. Add that fact to all the stress of earning it or finding ways to steal it and hide it from the government. Happiness of the permanent sort, not the temporary ersatz, is far more of a shared endeavor than an individual pursuit.

If happiness and money were compatible, both would be shared; and there are very few people who have the capacity to share money, even within one's own family --- perhaps the reason why Marxist revolutions are the bloodiest and why, if anyone escapes, they empty the national treasury on their way out.

Even education has come to reflect the pursuit of money: universities are geared as much toward financial careers as they are toward providing a fine education. Not that they are necessarily mutually exclusive, but MBA programs have been touted for decades as the prerequisite for workplace mobility and a decent income and have trumped the pursuit of educations in other fields.

And the discourse of political campaigns has a tendency to devolve narrowly around jobs. Few people have bothered to ask why we cannot talk about satisfying occupations, right livelihood, and modifying the American Dream to include the quality of life, all life, including the environment and other species. Fortunately, the way we have been doing business has come sharply into focus recently, which may give us a chance to see how our obsession with money-making is destroying our world and creating an indifference to the very things that could make us well and happy.

Breaking free of our attachment to the narrow world we have created will not be easy, but it is certain to involve doing business in new ways. It will certainly -- and it must for our survival --include new modes of living, with less dominant, xenophobic, disjointed views toward each other and nature.

The Myth

2009-03-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

I have heard it more often than my conscience can bear, and I repeat it here with regret: many of the homeless are on the street because they want to be.

The last time I heard this mistaken notion was yesterday from a young woman with whom I work and of whom I am fond. Laurie is having a fairy-tale wedding in a few months and continues on to graduate school next year. We had planned some social time, and Laurie suggested we meet at my place. In a rare moment of candor, I told her I didn't have one.

"Oh, oh. I understand, " Laurie said, measuring her words. "I understand completely." Laurie has a soft voice. Indeed, she has a soft appearance. She is small-built, bird-like, with alabaster skin and the kind of dark eyes and light hair that the Spanish once regarded as the mark of great beauty. I was more accustomed, though, to hearing her speak rapid-fire in the style of urban cool.

I wanted to explain, but she interrupted me. "Say no more. It's OK. I understand. Really I do."

It was Laurie who did the talking: her mother had been a drug addict. The sketch of her past told of constant moves, confrontations with fear and dark forces, and a resignation to an eternity of mistrust and abhorrence of her mother. That Laurie knows firsthand about homeless life is without question, but she also mentioned casually that numerous people she had met on the street wanted to be there. They had money, she said, but, for some reason, chose the street over a place to live. I listened without remarking.

After all, this had been Laurie's childhood experience. As a child, she would not have had a knowledge of the larger context in which adults conduct their lives. Unfortunately, it seemed, the underlying rejection of her mother, including her homelessness, took the form of an oversimplification. There had been too much hurt, and Laurie was not about to think too much about her past in an effort to extend unqualified compassion.

While I am a child of the nineteen-sixties, the country had already undergone the Reagan revolution by the time Laurie could walk. Homelessness was everywhere and growing, as it still is. It was not long before homelessness was a fixture of the American urban landscape, and America joined the world. The Third World.

What bothers me the most about homelessness is how it is taken for granted.

Try to find someone who remembers a time when there were no homeless in America. Most people have accepted it, and Republicans deny it. An articulate, intelligent Republican spoke to me about homelessness recently. We had been talking about the new Obama Administration and our hopes for the future of the United States. I told him I was most ashamed of homelessness and that I hoped we would make corrective efforts to eradicate it. This man made what I thought was a shocking, blatantly false statement: he claimed that homelessness, on the order we see it today, has always existed, but it was just not as visible.

Visibility is the operative concept here. I countered that homelessness was not visible because there wasn't any, certainly nothing on the scale of what we are seeing today. Of course, there have been pockets of homelessness, often due to natural disasters, the Dust Bowl, the Great Floods of the Mississippi River, and Hurricane Katrina, to cite a few. There were drunks on park benches when I was growing up, but they were not homeless. There were people in flophouses, halfway houses, and numerous other forms of transitional facilities for which there was once funding that dried up with the Reagan years.

The idea was that volunteers and churches in the local community would take care of the people who would no longer have a place to live, that is, after they were made homeless. But federal funds to municipalities were also cut and entities such as public broadcasting had to go begging. Taxes went up, too, for working people.

And Ronald Reagan seemed to hate the working class. As the story goes, a waiter somewhere was discovered to be making a substantial living, mostly in tips, which, of course, he could only be making because tips were, once upon a time, non-taxable. Somehow, Reagan was incensed by the idea that any working person should make good money tax-free. Never mind that few people want to make a career of waiting tables. Never mind that college kids need jobs like waiting tables in order to pay college expenses. Life just got tougher for most of us.

What I see on the street are broken dreams, lives beyond repair, and the abandonment of hope. Sometimes, it is just a case of bad luck that makes a person homeless. Even if homelessness were the outcome of many poor decisions, we are still only human. I am reminded of the movie, Slingblade, when the harmless, open-hearted Karl, now in prison, is asked by another inmate about being out in the world and what it was like. He replies, "It was too big."

It is a big world, and it is not always possible to know enough to do a good job of living in it.

Bad luck and broken dreams have a cumulative effect. We come to think there is no way possible to repair the mistakes, even if our judgment, in hindsight, has improved. We come to live without a past, as that past and everything in it --- the people, places, and memories --- are too painful. One begins a kind of homeless identity and a sense of difference from everyone who still has a home, in the communal sense of the word. Family. Friends. Reasons to get up in the morning.

If ever there were ones in a position to recognize the spiritual and emotional value of home, it is the homeless. It is not that anyone homeless would not like to have a home: what it takes to make a home is beyond reach. With few loved ones, broken relationships, and substance abuse problems to numb the emotional pain, it is little wonder that the homeless who are receiving disability or social security monies are living in the bushes behind trash bins.

Sometimes, what has been broken cannot be repaired. That goes for people and relationships. One would have to start over, but perhaps there is little confidence that a new beginning is possible. Hope may not reach beyond finding a good meal in a dumpster. One may no longer identify with the housed, not because the housed have an actual place to live --- for the bushes for Steve, or my truck, or Bob's truck are also places to live --- but because the housed have the spiritual and emotional components that give life to that dwelling, without which there is nothing particularly compelling about a house. Home has an absolute value.

And, of this I am certain: there is no human being on earth who does not want a home.

Discoveries and Decisions

2009-03-10T20:21:00.000-07:00

In key respects, I was unprepared for the tasks of homelessness.

Homelessness requires constant adjustment, adaptation, and resourcefulness. Most people use these skills in small and various ways all the time, but the goal is routinization so that the details of daily life are on autopilot. With the establishment of routines, there is certainty, predictability, and more than a modicum of comfort.

Because of the extremity of homelessness, one never reaches that stage of autopilot for very long because daily life has to be built around other people's activities. For example, most Saturday afternoons there is no one around the Yacht Club, so I can get a shower at the washroom in the day rather than at night. However, on some Saturdays, if there are rowing competitions, the college kids have already filled up the parking lot.

Another example, after 9:00 a.m. on weekdays, the fire department shows up for exercises at the other parking lot I like to use. The idea of attempting my toilette with so many men around is paralyzing: I couldn't get out of my truck if it were on fire, though I would be in the right place. An alternate plan for where I go, what I do, and when is ineluctable.

In short, I have never made so many decisions in my life. I have never had to be so self-conscious and so thoughtful about everything I do every single day. Moreover, I made the personal discovery that I have avoided decision-making most of my life.

It may be a gender thing, if there is any excuse. I can say my father made most of the important decisions in the household in which I grew up. Consequently, there was some tacit understanding I absorbed to the effect that I was not going to be making major decisions. I would defer to someone else, presumably a male and presumably my husband. (Humph. That walk down the aisle never happened. I could sooner die in a plane crash, which is statistically next to impossible.)

Nonetheless, I am learning to make decisions; but I must tell you how difficult it is. Prior to homelessness, without knowing it, I was floating through this world, buffeted here and there as things happened, out of my control. I did not have control of my life because I did not take control as one does each and every time he decides. I did not recognize those critical moments in which one must decide or else become victim to circumstance. As I am very new at it, in the moment of deciding, a chasm opens up in front of me, my toes suddenly poised over the edge. The anxiety is that the ground beneath me may start to crumble, causing me to fall, no matter how I decide.

What scares me is the uncertainty: my conscious decision could turn out to be a very poor one. The consequences could be worse than had I just gone with the flow, entertained my old habit of letting the universe decide for me. I can barely stomach not knowing. I will let the need for a decision go for many days, sometimes weeks, even months if possible.

Let me make a relevant digression.

There was a time when I looked down upon men for the decisions they made. It seemed they, as a class, made poor decisions, utterly thoughtless, often immoral, certainly socially abhorrent ones. And, they often had company. They called upon the experts, held meetings with their peers, and leaned upon think tanks. They snubbed anyone else's input.

Now I know why.

Decisions are scary: absolutely no one can predict the outcome. It is a brave thing, I think now, to dare to stand up and decide. Men are accustomed to this, though not all of them are lucky with outcomes; and I have come to believe there is luck or fate involved. And it may make people feel a little better about making that decision to get as much information as possible, to have friends come forward and endorse it, to share the burden of proof, which, as the old proverb goes, is in the pudding, that is, in the outcome itself. Ugh.

To help me make difficult decisions, at times, I use the old tactic of the coin toss; and, no, this is not exactly the same thing as going with the flow. The difference is that I commit myself to abide by either way the coin falls and, furthermore, to any consequence. It helps to reduce a decision to simple steps that can be answered by a Yes or No. But this is only one strategy.

I call my friends. I also ask strangers for their opinion. It helps. At least, it helps me to better define myself and my circumstance, those parameters within which I live, by taking the issue outside myself to see how it looks on someone else. It is a way of getting perspective, perhaps old hat to those more accustomed to decision-making, but so new to me.

There is, of course, another fear associated with decision-making with which men have handily dealt --- the guilt and remorse over poor outcomes. I remember wondering why a court-martialed man, condemned to death by shooting, would require a firing squad. Sometimes the firing line was in front of the man, but often he would be surrounded. It was explained to me by a male friend; the need to distribute guilt was not obvious to me.

Perhaps that is what is so dreadful about personal decisions: there is no one with whom to share the blame when a decision, by its consequences, turns out to have been poor, indeed. For the lack of someone else with whom to share decisions, I am having to find ways to handle the feelings evoked by poor outcomes. Neutralizing judgments around consequences is yet another learning that has been imposed upon me by homelessness.

I am a long way from accepting decision-making as part of the human condition. I am even further away from enjoying it, if that is even possible.

Little to Do with Homelessness

2009-03-04T16:38:00.000-08:00

At the same time that homelessness is exaggeratedly real, it is just as often sublime. There is a sense that anything can happen, from an unexpected show of police shining their bright-white spot lamps into your vehicle at 2 a.m. --- for who knows what reason --- to full-color dreams of being overtaken by a slowly-rising ocean, gently swallowed up in my truck and carried off by waves. So comfortable and no way to fight it, even assuming I would.

The sound of the ocean grows to one continuous roar as the night deepens. It is the cumulative sound of waves falling up and down the coastline for miles and miles. One cannot hear it by day, for all the competing noises, so the roar is startling at first. It often awakens me, and I drift easily back to sleep, listening, following the water along the dark coast.

We do not often think about the intelligence of the ocean itself, though we like to study the underwater societies within it: whales, sharks, dolphins, porpoises. I imagine these creatures once to have been human beings who grew tired of the captivities of land, who yearned for freedom of movement and freedom from structure. And, adaptation to water would be a way for sensitives to remove themselves from the planet's most dangerous predator.

Life of the highest order gets simpler, not more complex.

My friend Jeff Hedin, an anthropogist, believes water is an angel. He believes the basic elements of life are the angels of the directions (we think of four, but there may be twelve) and that life is timeless and holographic because it takes place in many dimensions. These ideas are vaporized by thought, so just listen and see.

Recently, I have begun a walking meditation in which I take notice of all the water in my body, to the fact that I am a walking body of water, that it is not my bones or muscles that give me form, but the density of so much water inside, and my skin, a mere membrane formed by gravity's pressure. It is a novel way of seeing the world, and it connects me with other people and the nearby ocean in unique ways.

What this has to do with homelessness and other issues of the day is nothing. Nothing at all. That is the point of it.

We are too much immersed in the tiny, joyless, troublesome world someone else passed on to us. There are more problems than we can bear, and none of it is our fault. We can get neurotic over it and do destructive things to ourselves, or we can go unconscious and do destructive things to others, all the usual state of everyday life here on earth. There is no other recourse than to elevate the discourse, find levity, and make fun of everything.

It's not all funny yet, but the odd thing about tragedy is how a certain angle of light can make it comedic. I have to admit that Steve, who lives next to the Yacht Club, is a curious case in point. He is the most carefree of the homeless I have met. He is not disturbed or distracted by what anyone else may think or do. In fact, he makes most people look ridiculous for all their needless thought and worry. He is a fish on dry land.

Steve takes care of himself, too. He has a serious hobby. He zipped by on his bicycle last night, on his way home to the bushes, with another golf bag slung over his shoulder.

Inside Out, Upside Down

2009-03-01T21:44:00.000-08:00

Lincoln was worried about me. He would park his truck right next to mine.

"Are you all alone out here?"

I was annoyed at being bothered while having my tea and a crossword puzzle. Some guy. Still sipping, I locked the door and rolled the window up without moving my eyes from the page.

"Just wondered if you're OK," Lincoln would say as he backed his vehicle out.

It took weeks for me to realize that this man was the same one I saw in the evenings at the Yacht Club. The night security man was playful and friendly: he would say hello and shine his flashlight into my truck when he saw it parked at the public restroom nearby. Finally, one evening, he walked out to my truck with flashlight in hand. He waved it as he walked, perhaps, to give me fair warning of his arrival.

We struck up a simple conversation, and Lincoln, the night security man, invited me to tour the Yacht Club some evening. He would show me around.

I don't know why places like yacht clubs look the same everywhere, the way Sheraton Hotels do. One would expect, with a higher class of clientele, that there would be more, much more, more of an elusive something. But the truth is people with a class-consciousness are quite boring and really only want to be safe.

As a student in Mexico City years ago (many years ago when it was unpolluted), I would take a long weekend off with friends and travel to Acapulco. By bus. Later, we would jokingly talk about the "Mexican bus" because there was nothing like it: we rode with goats, chickens, screaming infants, and people hanging off the sides, which was stupefying when the bus was skirting the edge of a sheer cliff. Anyone in his right mind would have worn a parachute.

When we got to Acapulco, having little money, we would walk the narrow streets to find the cheapest place to stay. We found a hostel: a large, open room with ceiling fans to keep the air cool and single beds, like a barracks. We gave the bare accommodations no other thought, as we spent most of the day and evening out on the beach or visiting the beautiful restaurants, pools, and bars at the luxury hotels. La Princesa was the favorite. It is probably still exceptional.

But the years pass, and, by and large, if you have seen one resort hotel, you have seen them all. What struck me after a while was how much more fun and interesting a place was when you stopped looking for monuments and artwork and noticed how people lived, and where. Acapulco was a strip of huge hotels at the water's edge and, everywhere else, a lot of teeny-tiny, green, yellow, orange, and pink houses built very closely together, all a little shabby.

Not that I have anything against real luxury, but there seemed to be a growing sameness in the hotels across the world and a penchant for serving American food, badly. I always wondered who would want a hamburger in Acapulco; but, for the class-conscious who were not there for the native experience, there was perhaps too much to fear. Myself, I caught a few bugs and was all but carried off once by flying monkey-sized mosquitoes while camping in the mountains.

But back to the Yacht Club. Lincoln was a perfect tour guide, and he is always kind. He wanted to know if I might enjoy watching television in the empty bar on the nights he was on duty. I declined the offer since what I enjoy most is his company. Lincoln has worked at the Yacht club for almost forty years and earned trust enough to have the run of the place. We chat about the weather, why the parking lot is empty, or full, and a time he remembers when kids set fire to the palm trees, making them look like huge birthday candles.

We talked about the upcoming election and the excitement around Senator Obama. Lincoln was obviously proud, but restrained, perhaps for fear that the election might be lost. I had asked him several times if his name really was "Lincoln," since it seemed like too much of a coincidence that Illinois is my home State, and we had met in a watershed, historical election year. For those of you who are not from Illinois, Lincoln is God there. Illinoisans know we are Yankees from the time we can walk, that we won the War, and that probably even peanut butter would not exist if not for Abraham Lincoln.

My local Lincoln, while clearly a namesake, does not really get my zeal; but that does not trouble me. I am proud of my heritage and the solid sense of democracy I learned growing up in the Midwest. I am sure Lincoln knows, in the most intimate way, the distance between the ideal of America and the reality. I have shared with him my amazement, even though it seems naive, that one should need money to buy everything, that even sleep is not free where prohibited. And what a rarefied form of slavery it is to work and earn money, but not enough to keep a roof over one's head. Or, should one have that roof, one foregoes food, medicine, or gas.

One wonders what kind of people would create such a society, if the scheme is intentional, as in a conspiracy, or if mere ignorance is to blame. The poor are living inside out, and the rich are upside down, exalted, but without the virtue or excellence of high rank. Lucky for me, my friend, Lincoln, is a respecter of persons. He never minds my truck or my homelessness, and he teases me to no end about turning into a solid block of ice from all the cold showers.

Part 2: Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

2009-02-26T19:51:00.000-08:00

Love is a terrible thing, terrible in its obligations, terrible in its joys.

Most of the mistakes I have ever made --- and I mean the really big ones --- were on account of love. That is not easy to admit since it is our tendency to find someone else to blame, and it is truly bitter, and not a little annoying, to discover there is no one else to hold responsible.

But mistakes are really only outcomes we do not like and probably did not expect, but the possibility was always there. And that really hurts. It hurts to betray oneself, even when, especially when, it is inadvertent; and so unadmitted mistakes become the seed of discord with someone else --- the usual suspect --- for years and years to come.

Your mother, brother, sister, or lover just happened to be around at the time and was a firsthand witness to your own stupidity. It really wasn't their fault, even if they set the trap into which you waltzed. Anyway, how could they know it was your particular trap? Think about it, and do not say "karma."

Indeed, with a little perspective, it is possible to see the usual suspect's role in your high drama as an ultimate act of love. Somebody had to do it. Betrayal is a deep lesson in life, and not everyone has the special qualifies needed to play the foil. Think of the sacrifice the other person had to make: you come off as the hero, and they are the villain of the piece. What a dreadful price to pay to be your friend (or mother, brother, sister, lover).

One of my tasks on the lonely bay in my old truck is to remember whose mistakes they really were and get all the knots and threads untangled. I want to become familiar with my mistakes. I want to love them so that I no longer cower at their memory. I no longer want to be enslaved by regrets, resentment, estrangements, and the strictures of my own heart that are so near and hard to see. In short, I am working on my blind spots.

Being homeless, I am relatively free to pursue such contemplations. I am not sure I could jump into the crevasse under different circumstances, and I am afraid not to explore the chasms of my psyche, lest I make another big mistake. Mind you, I am still recovering from the last one, which really brought the curtain down, a Hamletesque, complete disaster.

My truck is safer.

My truck is not real life. It is a sanctuary, and I want to keep it that way for a while.

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

2009-02-26T17:55:00.000-08:00

OK. It's what I deserve for having well-educated friends and one who is a professor of English and a fine poet, too.

If you did not catch the glaring reference to (or theft from, as someone might say) Richard Wilbur, then I will fill you in right now. Richard Wilbur, the 1987-88 Poet Laureate of the United States, wrote one of my favorite poems that describes a unique contemplation on the human condition in the form of that everyday routine of getting up in the morning.

In my last blog entry, the paragraph in question is the penultimate, in which I describe my "astounded" soul's reentry into the "waking body." Yes, words I lifted, on purpose, from Richard Wilbur. The comparison between my own experience and Wilbur's elegant, beautiful poem was all too clear to me and, hence, seductive. And we all know that "bitter love."

For the benefit of my readers, I include the poem here. But, stay alert --- I know someone will --- to other barely-concealed, or should I say, bald borrowings:

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
and spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
as false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.
Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
with the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

Now they are flying in place, conveying
the terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
and staying like white water; and now of a sudden
they swoon down in so rapt a quiet
that nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

from all that it is about to remember,
from the punctual rape of every blessed day,
and cries,
"Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
and clear dances done in the sight of heaven."

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
with a warm look the world's hunks and colors,
the soul descends once more in bitter love
to accept the waking body, saying now
in a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

"Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
and the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
of dark habits,
keeping their difficult balance."

Privacy

2009-02-24T21:36:00.000-08:00

Biologists consider privacy to be a psychological necessity for humans. As much as we need other people, they say, we also need time away. Privacy is essential for peace of mind, establishing a sense of control, and maintaining personal identity. I cannot say I understand all this, but, clearly, it is my experience that I want privacy, even in small ways, and feel the need for it at times when it is impossible to have.

Often, I will go out of my way to avoid people, especially in the morning. Once in a while, I will meet someone who is not homeless in the ladies' room. This morning, it was an elderly woman who was bicycling with a friend and needed to make a stop. She was confused at first by the shower room and then figured out that the toilets were through the next doorway. She spoke as she went, rather loudly, the way old women do when they are nervous and have led sheltered, married lives. She was congenial, but I was busy, the way she probably was earlier that same morning at home in her pajamas. Few of us are disposed to conversation while we are doing our toilette.

I have learned to forgive myself for what I would otherwise consider rude behavior, and I do regret that I cannot, at all times, hold up my end. I said nothing at all to the elderly lady. I just went on doing what I had to do. She did not know it, but she was on my private time.

"Putting on your face" is the term my Great Aunt Posie would have used, and the phrase was pure poetry to me for all it implied. It carries several meanings --- the application of make-up, the psychological preparation for the day ahead, an awareness of one's role or image, and a consideration of how one intends to present oneself, the persona or mask. There is also a sense of privacy inherent in the term, as one may remain unrevealed behind the mask. What a curious phrase it is and, like the fan, an artifact of a bygone era for women.

But maybe not.

The use of make-up is enjoyable to me. It is one of the ways I care for myself, but it is still a mask; and that mask is intended to cover (and this is not easy to admit) the signs of age. I want certain spots and wrinkles to remain unseen, hidden to all but a few people whose preserve it is to know my soul. Make-up gives me a modicum of privacy. Make-up may be even more important now that I am homeless. There is a certain anonymity with it, too, since I appear to be of that class of women with which I most identify. And they are not homeless.

Oddly, I am anonymous when I eat out, shop, see a movie, and go to work. Anonymity is its own strange kind of privacy in that I am among other people, doing things not so differently from the next person. It is a way of hiding without having to hide. It is often relaxing, in fact.

Curiously, and it amuses me, I see the crabby old man when I am eating out. He frequents the same little neighborhood cafe. I see him walking. I see him passing by in his car, and the last time I waved, he waved back, which made me believe he might some day be inclined to a decent conversation. After all, he is an insider.

But in the mornings, the most difficult time of day, when there is no place to be anonymous, my astounded soul must take the most gradual descend into the waking body, having been spirited from a sleep in which my dreaming is far, far away from the earthly realm. If there is a time when one must wrest control and lay hold of one's identity, it is certainly then as we begin, again, the strange navigation of everyday reality.

There is a moment, too, when I am about to leave work, that I wonder where I am going. It is as though work were a coherent dream in a peaceful sleep and I am about to enter another waking state. I am disoriented for a few seconds as I grapple with my homelessness and make peace with it all over again. Once back at the truck, having made a myriad of small decisions on my way there, since there is very little that is automatic or routine about homelessness, I am again willing to make the adventure.

Thoughts on Homelessness

2009-02-21T21:00:00.000-08:00

Let me make clear right now that I am not suggesting that people forsake their houses for living out of vehicles. There are just too many things wrong with homelessness: in the first place, it is not socially acceptable, on the main, and the lack of personal privacy is objectionable, even if one works very hard at the logistics to make it tolerable.

Not a day goes by that does not include some form of dread around using public facilities. For instance, as I am driving over to the public restroom in the morning, I am wondering if there will be many people around --- joggers, fishermen, picnickers, kayakers, and so on. More specifically, it is the idea of being seen taking my duffle out of the truck and putting it back, actions that could give away my status as homeless. Of course, the reality is that few people would regard it as their business, assuming they were even able to identify whether or not someone were homeless.

But, there is that sense of vulnerability which never goes away. Though I am aware that the presence of other people makes no difference whatsoever in what I must do for myself, and I will certainly not be late for work because other people can view my trip to the washroom, I cannot seem to kick that feeling.

One of my theories about feeling vulnerable in my circumstance is that I have something with which to compare it. I was not always homeless and once lived in a large, beautiful house. In the morning, I awoke in a roomy bed and could get up and move around without changing out of my pajamas, from the bed to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the kitchen, and so on, even traipsing outdoors with the dog. My belongings were everywhere, in every room of the house, which amazes me now when I think on it. My environment was aesthetically pleasing, which means I had more than I ever needed; I bought items just to match a color in the floor.

The space of my truck is a fraction of the size of that house. I can only use what area is not taken up by the engine compartment, which is about two-thirds of the truck, and I cannot stand up straight anywhere. Maybe I have 65 square feet.

I am not bewailing my present circumstance, but discomfort at times leads my mind to visions of a sunlit kitchen with views through French doors to the garden and the smell of citrus fruit in a bowl and of bread toasting, details of a clean and pampered life. Understandably, there is nothing I have now to match that, but it has helped to keep some remnants, a down blanket, a letter opener, silk scarves.

Yet, without the comparison, is there really a reason to feel vulnerable? And perhaps it is not vulnerability, but shame. No one likes poor people, unless it is for pity's sake which makes one feel better for having more and being able to adopt an attitude of noblesse oblige. The signs of poverty, for the most part, make us cringe; but, again, it is the comparison to comfort, which, were it unknown to us, would perhaps lead to a different response, though I am hard pressed to think what that would be.

But we are not in the Stone Age, and I am completely conditioned to cleanliness. I am certain that I could not survive any worsening of my circumstance because going dirty is my limit. I cannot do it, and I would probably sell my soul for a bath.

I think of my yacht-club compatriot, Steve, who is ashen in that homeless way and dirty. He is so dirty that being near him makes me itch, as I am allergic to mites. Even though Steve is intelligent, has a pleasant manner, and keeps to himself, I loathe him for the mites and the smell.

Steve has a bicycle, so he is able to get around. I see him at the library often, and he enjoys playing golf, though he complains that someone took his golf clubs, stole them from his little home in the bushes behind the trash bins (where I assume he picked up mites), too near the yacht club's private parking lot where patrons are able to see his possessions through the fence and wonder at what appears to be garbage strewn about. (I feel certain the Mexican gardeners took Steve's golf bag, and I have asked my friend, Lincoln, the night security man, to find out what happened. More on that later.)

I met Steve one evening when I found him sleeping in the women's shower room. I was not nice to him, not the least bit, as I was tired and wanted to prepare for bed. Steve picked himself up and his belongings and left with an equanimity that put me to shame. I felt guilty over that incident, but I was able to exonerate myself when he showed up again on a really cold night, reason enough to seek enclosure. This time, I suggested Steve use the toilet room that has a large stall in the back where he could shut the door and manage to be out of the way and unseen.

Steve took my suggestion. One rainy evening, I entered the restroom and noticed right away that the air felt tight and clingy. There was a slight foul odor, and I began to feel that creeping itch. I looked over to the back stall and could see a bicycle and part of a sleeping bag under the door. At least, he was out of view, and I was out of view of him, though washing up for bed in the same room where a strange, smelly man was sleeping --- well, I'd rather not talk about it.

But back to the idea of shame at being homeless, I believe it is a conditioned response, both cultural and personal. Homelessness is far removed from our expectations around lifestyle, and it does little good to pose "what if" scenarios when there is just little known to be attractive about homelessness. The fact is there is a lot to which one can compare it, and even camping sounds better off. We are culturally indisposed to it, by thousands of years.

I am reminded, though, of my visit to Central America years ago: I stayed with a family that was living in a house with a dirt floor, which was swept just like any other floor. Though these people were peasants, they seemed to have all they needed. And, by the way, they were never dirty or smelly. After dinner, they and friends would stay up till dark and tell stories and laugh. The children would chase hens around the yard and find other silly things to do. The food was simple, but wholesome, and I slept peacefully out in the barn, the only spare room. If this sounds too idyllic, it does not change the fact that it was.

When I returned home to the United States, I was confronted with what appeared to be mass insanity. I was deafened for weeks as I readjusted to all the forms of noise to which we are accustomed, a constant bombardment of sounds from motor vehicles, radios, televisions, construction sites, and people talking. I had never noticed before how much Americans talk and how loudly they do it. I suppose we have to talk over all the other noises to be heard. Perhaps we also need all the noise to keep from listening to our deepest heart's desires.

I missed the quiet people of Central America. I missed the simple, wordless, emotional tie I seemed to have with them. I missed their clarity. Their lives were relaxed and emotionally satisfying. They were not sublimated in the least. They were not bogged down in a constant, noisy bustle that would suck their life out and make them insane.

Yet, to be sure, these Central American peasants, like peasants the world over, are considered poor and, thereby, needful of development, that is, all forms of our civilization, from education to finance. But these peasants were not starving or hungry or unhappy. Indeed, emotionally, they lived an enviable life no longer available to most of us in the United States. Nonetheless, they are too poor by our standards, even if it is a faulty comparison.

Sadly, though, homelessness is a different kind of poverty. It constitutes a wholesale rejection of everything we hold dear, from bathing to spending time with significant others. It is a strange kind of impoverishment that leads to subhuman conditions for those who are homeless and subhuman responses from those who are housed. It has polarized our society and become symbolic of our cultural decline.

Finding Home

2009-02-17T15:36:00.000-08:00

The homeless are aware of their environment. They tend to be cautious about their movements, noting who is around them and if there are any police in the vicinity. The homeless tend to keep to themselves, too, given that relationships are not sustainable in the ways they are when one is housed. There is only so much room in my truck, for instance. One also learns quickly that bothering someone else can have unwanted consequences.

Tom got into a bad habit. He would open his car door, as though this lent a screen to his activity, and urinate in the other direction. Of course, out on the Bay, the college girls in their rowing shells could see him. This incident prompted a phone call from an irate parent who implicated Bob, along with Tom, in having some indecent intentions toward the nubile. The fact that Bob tends to stare didn't help.

So, there began the roundup. There were police vehicles cruising the parking lot for days. Tom was told he definitely had to leave the area. Since the police know Bob, they explained to him that parents with girls at the rowing club were concerned about idle, older men hanging around.

"But you're safe," Bob told me.

He meant safe from being run off by the police, and I am certainly not a menace to other women. However, I do have an expectation of civility, even if I do live in my truck.

By far the loudest and most annoying people are the housed. They do anything they want in public spaces, especially parking lots where the housed think they are alone. Through the warmer months, there was a couple who would drive in late at night, very late, late enough to wake anyone up who was sleeping. There is something about being surrounded by water that amplifies sound, so the woman's moans of pleasure pierced the air and echoed off buildings on the Point and houses along the bayside walk.

People get out of there cars and have lengthy conversations in the open on cell phones as though no one else could possibly hear them, even though it is broad daylight and people are sitting in nearby vehicles. Blaring radios and stereos are frequent disturbances, and, unfortunately, there is no shield from the high-decibel intensity of subwoofers. It is all too common for people to drive out to nowhere, which is where I live, and argue with their children or have a private conversation that can be heard all over the Bay. Too many people are doing their private life in public.

Why don't they go home?

My own answer to this question, which I pose with some indignation since I am subject to the vagaries of life in a parking lot, is that they do not have a home. It is true they live someplace. They are housed. However, as we all know, a house is not always a home.

There are metaphysical properties to a home: it must be a refuge, first of all. It must take one aside from the world and one's everyday doings in it. In this sense, it provides a boundary in space from everything that would irritate or trouble. Home is the ultimate source of nurturance, which is clearly not just about food and survival. Home is the place to experience the ground of one's existence. Home is intimate without necessarily being sexual.

However, many people cannot fathom such a place. They are not familiar with home; rather, they escape, even what they call home, through vacations, music, video games, alcohol, sex. They want to go unconscious for a while. Just think how many people are unconscious at any given time and what the consequences must be for the planet. Multiply the noise in public, in a parking lot, where people feel free to let go of constraint, by thousands and millions.

This is a loud planet.

It makes me wonder if birds are going deaf.

Boundaries are critical, and not just corraling people. I am not talking about more laws, rules, or restraints, but, rather, learning to find satisfaction within oneself, a sense of wholeness, a feeling that one is naturally self-contained and, as such, safe. This means more people are going to have to lift their eyes above the seething, unconscious mass. I am certainly doing my part by asking the lumpen who parks next to me to turn down his radio and roll up the window so that I do not have to breathe his cigarette smoke.

Truly, there is no reason why a public space should not have a feeling of home or should not be respected in the same way. Telescoping this idea, there is no reason why the planet should not be respected as home to every living thing on it. But we must all find a way to think privately about public space if we are going to live peacefully, indeed, if we are going to survive on this planet together.

By the way, there are homeless people who feel like home, who are home, because they have been away from the bustle for a long while. They have gone without comforts, conveniences, and personal escapes and discovered, instead, their own soul. Therein lies the great possibility in homelessness.

A Tenuous Life

2009-02-15T19:36:00.000-08:00

On a more serious note, it often occurs to me that I am not really homeless because I have a vehicle. My circumstance may be pathetic, but it is not desperate. And then I have a vehicle because I also have a job, and I have made use of every possible social service for which I qualify. Besides that, I am not exhausted or hungry, so I am able to think.

Not everyone is so fortunate.

There are numerous social services agencies and programs, but, sadly, many of the homeless do not use them. Fatigue and hunger make it difficult to think about what one needs to do from one day to the next, as survival itself is the priority. Without a vehicle or money for a bus, the nearest shelter or county office might as well be on the moon. Then there is the interview with an agency representative, the paperwork and pointed questions.

The need for advocates and for mobile services that meet the homeless where they live is clear; and there are, indeed, some notable outreach programs, including one run by the police department, that do just this kind of work. However, the demand exceeds supply.

Still, there is a more elusive problem at work: a homeless life is tenuous, and a homeless person does not have the mental acuteness that generally attends persons who are housed. The homeless do not spend a lot of time thinking about the future, for example. Thinking is necessarily short-term, as resources that would make planning ahead sensible and easy, such as a phone or automobile, are lacking.

Homelessness is very much about being here now, an inconsonant twist on the new age mantra. The wandering mendicant of India who walks the country with rice bowl in hand did not slide into poverty by an accident of fate, however; and even if begging has an honorable history, homelessness in our modern society gets none of the respect. Still, someone like me might more accurately be described as a sanyassi or bhikkhuni, except, outside of a willing participation in social service programs, I do not beg.

Rather, I make a point of giving, usually money, to anyone who asks. It seems only decent, and I want to set an example for other people in vehicles behind me at a busy intersection or for those who are parked alongside me in front of the 7-11, in those open, public spots where one finds beggars. After all, we have become a niggardly people, inculcated by years of exposure to religious extremists and Darwinian survivalists to believe that poverty is some kind of isolated incident that occurs in a vacuum to persons who deserve it, rather than an indication of something systemically wrong with our culture.

It takes energy to think and plan, and some homeless never really sleep, at least, not well. My friend, Robin, and her partner, John, are always worried about being rousted by the police. They have been homeless for five years and have had troubling and wearisome experiences, even though they have not yet had to sleep out in the open.

Robin and John had a newer model Volvo, which I had grown accustomed to seeing. They also had two small dogs whose barking in the morning gave me a homey, comfortable feeling; but Robin, John, and the dogs went missing for several weeks. When they reappeared, they were driving a small Toyota pickup with a camper shell that did not exactly fit the dimensions of the back of the truck. The camper shell hung off the rear by a couple of feet.

Cause for worry.

Robin and John told me they had been stopped by a policeman and ordered out of their Volvo. The officer wanted to know if Robin had leashes for the dogs because he was having the car towed away. The couple was left on the street with two dogs and all their worldly possessions.

This is where the stories of the homeless get complicated and tiring because of the frustration of having heard similar accounts and not knowing what, if anything, can be done. Nonetheless, somewhere, this couple had another vehicle, the old Toyota truck. It took a while, apparently, to get to the storage site, and then the truck needed repair. They were back at the yacht club, but Robin awoke at night every time she heard a car in the parking lot, afraid that the Toyota, perhaps not street-legal because of the camper shell, might also be towed.

It is not clear why the Volvo was towed in the first place: it is not uncommon, and no surprise, that the homeless often drive vehicles with lapsed insurance or registration, or both. While the police tend to ignore the homeless if they can, their job, after all, is to enforce the law; but Robin claims the policeman stole her car because he is involved in racketeering in vehicles, and the newer Volvo, confiscated at no cost to the police department, has good resale value.

Maybe she's right.

After all, Bob is still in his run-down truck, even if the police do rout him repeatedly from one place to another. And, I, too, am still in my road warrior, though I had a close call. I was stopped by a policeman one evening because, he said, the tow ball on the back of my truck was obscuring the license plate. That tow ball had been there for 35 years, so the officer's reason for stopping me seemed like a pretense to hassle someone homeless, though, really, I cannot be sure.

Certainly, the tow ball gave the policeman the excuse he needed to check my license and registration, both of which were suspended. Though it is a very long story, I was in the midst of a communication by mail with the judge who levied the suspension on my driver's license. I had failed to pay a traffic fine because I could not afford it, and I was due to hear back from the judge in a matter of days on a reduced bail. I begged the officer not to ticket me because I was taking care of the problem and could prove it. Besides, I was clearly already struggling to pay a fine to the DMV.

The officer was not sympathetic and wrote up the ticket, anyway, as he recited the sacred chant of the highway patrol, "Driving is a privilege, not a right," after which a driver is supposed to shut up and look like she agrees. He said I was lucky that he was not going to tow my truck even though he could, in a tone that meant he had done me a favor.

But, let me add here, other police officers have been very kind to me. On two previous occasions, I was approached by policemen who wanted to know what I was doing, since it appeared to them I was living in my truck. I was honest about my situation, and these officers were kind to me in return. One officer, concerned for my safety, even told me what places I should avoid at night.

Nonetheless, there are vagrancy laws and City Council members who want them enforced, which is understandable from the perspective of the housed. It is unlawful to sleep in your vehicle in San Diego, and many parks close inconveniently on purpose between the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 a.m. Robin told me there is less enforcement of vagrancy laws now.

Once, not long ago, after a homeless person with a vehicle had been rousted often enough for sleeping, the police would tow the vehicle, having inevitably discovered a lapsed registration or driver license. That homeless person was then ticketed for sleeping outdoors. After a while, with tickets piled up, unpaid, the police had cause to arrest the homeless person and send him to jail for up to six months. The cost to the County became significant and could not easily be justified.

According to Robin, who tracks these occurrences and has seen innumerable homeless people disappeared, the Mayor and City Council came to an agreement that the homeless were not to be bothered between 9:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m. Unless there is some flagrant public act, like hanging laundry out on your vehicle or assuming no one will notice if you urinate, the homeless are off limits. Still, there is reason to be vigilant, as public complaints about the homeless are taken seriously, and the police can stop anyone.

As I mentioned earlier, homelessness makes living tenuous and short-term. Something may happen, or it may not. The need to survive can get in the way, and it might rain. I offered to rub Robin's feet, give her a pedicure, and paint her nails. Robin is very thin and ashen, that gray color that homeless people have from exposure to the elements and not bathing regularly.

We had a girlie date, but she must have forgotten it, or maybe it was just too much of an overwhelming prospect after so many years without pampering. Maybe she woke up one morning and thought she had dreamed it.

But that is not the worst thing that could happen between homeless friends: Robin and John have gone missing again, and I have no way of knowing where they are, if they are safe or even alive.

My Truck, My Home

2009-02-11T17:26:00.000-08:00

My truck is exceptional, not only because my entire life is in it and everything I own, but because it just keeps running. Of course, I do my best to take care of it; but it takes far better care of me. I admit that my mind still runs along gender lines when it comes to things automotive, which means there are little things I forget to do. I came close to running the truck completely out of oil once, but it survived; and I am far, far safer in this vehicle, having been in a few accidents with it, than in anything I have ever previously driven, mostly sports models and sub-compacts.

In a recent parking-lot incident, a young woman backed into my truck, and, just for fun, I thought I might go on a rant about how she was going to have to fix the whole thing, including a paint job, starting with an emphatic, exasperated, "Just look what you did to my truck!" But she already looked nervous, and I didn't think she would get the joke. So, as she got out of her car and approached me, I told her not to worry, that she couldn't possibly hurt my truck, which is true: it showed no sign at all of being hit. She was relieved, but her poor car had a ragged-looking spot near the left tail light.

Except that the original orange paint and the yellow racing stripe are badly faded and cracked everywhere and rust has set in, and the white, fiberglass camper shell on the back is deteriorated, the appearance of my truck is fairly normal. Things appear to be intact on the driver's side. However, the passenger side of my vehicle tells the story of someone who seems never to have learned to drive, at least, nothing as big as the Ford F-150. Though, now, after nearly a year with my truck, I could drive an elephant in New Delhi.

Near the right-side front, where the metal logo, F-150 is displayed, the letter F and the hyphen are broken off and the number, 150, sags between the 5 and the 0, giving the impression that it was, once, a great truck. There are several long dents that run along the right door all the way back to various end points just ahead of the rear wheel. Some sport the color of the object I hit, though, of course, I have no idea what that thing was, nor where.

There is no mirror on the passenger side of my truck: it was shaved off clean, bolts and all, passing a City bus. I was trying to maneuver through traffic between a line of cars and a bus picking up passengers on my right. I had plenty of room and came up alongside the bus, seeming to pass with ease. But, then, there was a horrific, metallic screech.

Like most big trucks, the Ford F-150's side mirrors are mounted on a metal arm that sticks out about a foot on each the side of the truck. That is a full two feet, and I had forgotten to account for it. At first, I just could not figure out what the matter was. I was looking at the bus driver, and he was looking at me, because something was getting badly crushed.

I turned the corner and found the nearest place to stop. The bus moved on. I got out and checked my truck, but I saw nothing unusual. It was not until later when I reflexively looked to my right to use the passenger-side mirror that I realized I did not have one. I got out again to take a look: the mirror had been sheered off, leaving only holes in the metal door, which I thought was a testament to a great American-made vehicle.

My truck once lived at the San Francisco Marina, and it shows the wear of constant exposure to fog and salt water. Where there was once paint, there are now rust blisters, and holes where the rust blisters popped. On the hood, there are as many holes as there are blisters. Often, while I am driving, pieces of rust will fly off. It is part of the charm.

Men take notice of my old truck, too. I have even been accused of using my truck to bait serious, big-toy, dog-owner types. But nothing could be further from the truth.

For safety and reliability, I could not have a better truck, and that is the point for a woman who is homeless. It is also roomy and has a bench seat, which makes it possible for one to stretch out and get a good night's rest. Furthermore, I own it outright, having paid only $700 for it. The problem, really, is age. My truck is 35 years old, and some parts eventually wear out.

The F-150 has needed a few repairs, and, in truth, the "Middle Eastern" garage owns a 90% interest in it by now. The bills for the brake job and new tires were hefty, and I am still paying them down; but the real story here is how I managed to find a place to have my truck repaired that would not demand immediate payment and would allow me to run a tab.

I was driving around doing my usual chores when the brakes went out last summer. Luckily, there was room to pull over and allow the truck to roll until it stopped. I was in a real pickle: I was going to need an expensive repair, which was obvious; I did not have the money for an expensive repair; and I was going to be without a place to sleep overnight. In such a circumstance, I become prayerful. I set my mind on being in the moment and letting go. I take a deep breath and relax my muscles. I thank the universe for my cell phone and an AAA membership.

Triple A sent out a tow truck driven by a young, heavy-set, pierced black man whose friendliness was relieving. Once John had winched up my truck, he wanted to know where I wanted it taken. Well, I didn't know, I explained and, moreover, though I worked, I had no money to pay for a major repair, at least, not in full at the time of service. Oh, he knew just where to take my truck, and that was to his own mechanic at the shop that takes care of people like me, or us. And that is how I ended up at the Middle Eastern garage where I do all my automotive business.

John introduced me to everyone: Sal, the manager, a Palestinian; Gus, the cashier, an Iraqi picked up during Desert Storm; Ken, one of the mechanics, a Jordanian; and Eric, the other mechanic, a Mexican-American, who fits right in and seems to understand the Arabic dialect spoken around him. Gus told me they would take care of me, and they have.

My brakes were fixed in less than twenty-four hours, and I paid what I had, according to the arrangement Gus made for me. He showed me where my paperwork would be kept, in the wooden file box that hangs on Sal's office door, in the "poor" section. Gus delighted in my poverty, as it seemed to give us something in common. In fact, he thinks in terms of the worldwide poor versus the worldwide rich. Gus spent many years between evading arrest and being jailed by the Saddam Hussein regime, but somehow wound up in the Iraqi army and the invasion of Kuwait.

He is now the property of the U.S. Army.

Gus is quite humorous and has an incredible facility for languages, traits which did not go unnoticed by the Americans who have used him ever since. He was called up just a few weeks ago and is going home, that is, to Iraq, but he says he will be undercover. Sal and friends are not sure what the story really is. They figure he is a dead man. Someone of one faction or another will not think he is funny.

One day, I pulled into the station and up to a pump for gas while Sal and Gus just stared and shook their heads at me.

"What?"

"We are your family. We take care of you."

Gus was speaking in a low tone of voice, reproaching me with an index finger. Sal's face was hard and unmoving. He did not look directly at me. Because I must have looked puzzled, Gus spoke up to explain that Sal had seen me pumping gas at the Valero. Then Sal, obviously offended, asked why I bought gas there. I explained that the Valero was sometimes closer, especially on days when I visited the post office to pick up mail or stopped by the bank.

"Oh," Sal said, seeming to understand.

"I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven," Sal stated in a tone that assumed the authority to ascribe sins and take them away. "Anyway, I do not make money selling gasoline, and my gas and Valero's are about the same."

"Just don't let it happen again," Gus added.

Once I finished pumping gas and got back in the truck, I realized how serious these men were in their insistence on being family to me. I was touched, even though it is tempting to regard such sentiments as pure schmaltz, or worse, deceit; but there is nothing about their cultures that would provide a motive for anything disingenuous. Fine, I thought, I will let them take care of me.

Since then, it is my habit to do all my automotive business at the Middle Eastern garage.

From New York City to Everywhere

2009-02-05T17:18:00.000-08:00

In the late 1970’s, I lived in Manhattan. I had moved from the West Coast with a group of friends who thought they wanted to live in New York City. The experiment largely failed, as no one lasted there more than five years. We scattered again all over the United States, but we never forgot New York City --- nor forgave it. It was not America, and so not-America that we often thought the best thing that could happen would be for someone to drop a bomb on it. We always spoke this way about Manhattan, as a matter of course, until 9/11, when it became incorrect and maybe even dangerous to talk that way.

Still, New York City is a dramatic, 24-hour place to live. I was sipping bortsch one day in the Russian Tea Room when Woody Allen and Diane Keaton sat down for lunch just one table over. They were engaged in a hushed, passionate conversation; but so was I, with the same gentleman who took me to singer Paul Simon’s birthday party at the top of the Empire State Building. I was introduced to Simon, who was extremely soft-spoken and very short. Simon was standing next to a tall man, perhaps so people could find him. The famous are commonplace and rather unpretentious in this larger-than-life City.

New York’s virtues were large, though few; and cleanliness and humanity were not among them. I prepared a picnic lunch to eat in Central Park, as it was a warm spring day. I found a grassy area with old trees, picked a boulder, and climbed up to sit. As I prepared my spot, I noticed out the corner of my eye that I had a visitor: a rat the length of my forearm was sitting up on his hide legs, on the same rock, staring at me. I was sickened. Afraid and unsure what to do, I started to pack up, very slowly, in case a quick move would provoke the rat to lunge and bite. Then I jumped and ran.

I began to notice rats after that.

Continuous garbage strikes characterized Manhattan, too, in the 70's. There was a pervasive smell of garbage most of the time, and trash blew around in the streets. People dropped their trash wherever they happened to be, having given up on putting trash in the overfull cans which were located on every corner of every block. Really, I had never seen a city with such good intentions. Chicago is probably one of the cleanest cities in the United States, and one must walk out of the way a few blocks to get to a trash can.

One expects cockroaches, though. The west-side apartment I shared was probably built in the 1940’s. It was spacious and charming with interior French doors and dark-wood moldings. It was quite a lovely space, by day, and while we were all up in the evening, enjoying dinner and coffee. We would clean the kitchen before bedtime, too, making sure there were no dishes left in the sink.

It was my habit, sometime in the night, to go to the kitchen for water. It was the oddest thing: just as I switched on the light, I would hear the sound of clicking, a rush of clicking, and then it was over; and there was nothing I could discern that made such a noise.

Curious, one evening I decided to enter the kitchen without turning on the light. I could just see enough to discern little dark bodies all over the plates in the dish rack, all over the counter tops, and everywhere in the glass-front cabinets, in fact, anywhere I looked and on top of everything. I made the slightest sound, and shiny wings moved in unison. I turned on the faucet, and the little bodies scattered, making that clicking noise with which I had become familiar.

On occasion, a cockroach would skitter across my face in the middle of the night, waking me in my bed. I would open my purse, and a cockroach would crawl out, having traveled across town with me on the subway.

While rats and cockroaches were disgusting, by far the worst, most unimaginable sight I had ever seen were the homeless. New York City has an elaborate subway system, and the underground tunnels through which the trains run are aerated by openings to the ground above. By convection, the heat from the trains comes up through these passageways, which are grated at street level. These subway grates are all along the sidewalks in Manhattan, and there is enough breeze coming up to catch your clothing in the style of Marilyn Monroe's flying skirt.

On the coldest, snowiest evenings in winter, there were people heaped on top of each other on the subway grates in every direction I looked. Stacks of people, maybe three or four people to a layer and five or six layers deep. I had never seen anything like this, as homelessness was not yet commonplace in America.

On Central Park South, in a fashionable part of town, I stepped over a large woman whose feces had run in rivelets across the sidewalk to the curb. She wore a quart of ice cream on her head. It was a hot day.

New York City was the filthiest, most disgusting, hellish place I had ever seen, and I swore never to go back. It was deeply troubling to me that New Yorkers seemed to accept the idea of people living in the street, and it was hard to understand why there seemed to be no effort made to help. Though my stay there provided years' worth of astoundingly dark stories to tell, there were things I wish I had never seen.

People say New York City has really cleaned up in recent times, but I find it hard to believe there are no more rats or cockroaches. And, I doubt that New York has done anything about their homeless, except perhaps shuttle them off to another part of town and out of sight of tourists. Besides, Americans now take homelessness for granted, the way Third World nations do.

In 1980, utterly finished with all things New York, I moved a clean and safe distance to Chicago. I was living in Lincoln Park and Ronald Reagan had just taken office. He intended to reshape America with "trickle down" economics and our place in the world with the Strategic Defense Initiative, or "star wars" program; but he would also "roll back" social services in our country.

The lady on our corner was elderly, probably around 70. She seemed clean and well-dressed, but it was winter and nightfall and she should not have been outdoors standing in front of the the corner store with a grocery cart. She was there every day and every night, and the residents of my apartment building would buy her coffee and sandwiches. No one knew who she was, where she came from, or why she was on our corner. I asked her about herself once, but her words were unintelligible. I assumed she had some form of dementia. The first "bag lady" in our neighborhood had arrived and the first homeless person I had ever seen outside of Manhattan.

Part 3: It's OK to Be Homeless!

2009-02-02T19:17:00.000-08:00

Civilization, as we know it, for better or worse, is near impossible without a vehicle. A vehicle gives one control of time. We all tend to take the convenience of the control of time for granted until our vehicle ends up in the shop. Matching up bus and train schedules and finding friends who happen to be going somewhere you want to go is easy enough, but you lose, say, at a minimum, two to three hours out of your day, and maybe more.

This time factor gets critical when you are homeless.

The logistics of getting to the bathroom, eating, and staying clean are already a challenge, but, then, not having wheels makes these routines all but utterly impracticable; and we have not yet begun to address having a job and getting to that job in order to earn some money. After all, a working person is expected to be clean, wear fresh clothing, smell right, and look rested. I would imagine it takes supernatural stamina, discipline, and determination to be prepared for work after a night sleeping in the bushes behind the trash bins.

You are wondering about shelters. There are shelters for emergency situations, overnight shelters, day centers, and various goal-oriented programs for getting homeless men and women back on their feet. I am on a waiting list. I have been on a waiting list for almost a year. I would be surprised if someone called me; and, anyway, I have given up on the idea of being housed, which is radical, I know, but maybe I can explain it.

Rest assured, though, there are good people around who are helping; and, I believe, the worst cases of homelessness are getting care most of the time. While I doubt there is any shelter suited to my sensibilities and tendency to get claustrophobic, take those women I met (in a manner of speaking) at Father Joe's Village. Clearly, most of these women have suffered a trauma and are off the street because a facility like Father Joe's exists.

For some time now, I have thought about housing and becoming housed. At first, scared of my decision to live in my vehicle, I thought only of getting enough money together to share a house or apartment; but then it occurred to me how much I dislike having roommates. Rarely, in the past, did I ever know those people well enough with whom I lived out of financial convenience (aka, the roommates); and there is nothing worse than spending money on a place where you no longer want to live, usually sticking it out because to find another place is just as uncomfortable. Consequently, I ended up moving only when I had to, that is, short of the place burning down.

Sometimes, tucked down comfortably in my truck and watching the stars out the windshield, I find it hard to imagine being housed again. I can understand Willie Nelson's restlessness and why the cowboys wrote those solitary songs. An eremetic way is not necessarily unsocial. I would love to share a campfire and would choose that over television; but I digress.

Homelessness has made it easier to save money, that very money I would begrudge spending every month on some portion of rent. I find I am living within my means, which had not occurred to me until a disagreeable old man pointed it out. It was early morning at the Yacht Club. I had parked next to the public washrooms near the boat house where I would do my toilette and was unloading my duffle from the back of the truck, when I spotted a man whom I often see in the area.

The man was walking toward me, only a few feet away. Given his proximity and that I recognized him, I thought it only decent to say "good morning" as he passed. He gave me a hard, unapproving look and kept walking. A little ways past me, he threw back a comment that I must be saving a lot of money living out of my truck. It is hard to know what to say to a complete stranger who presumes to know my motivation and attaches a value to it from a perspective I probably do not share.

All I could think was Republican, which, besides being a political party, is a point of view I do not understand, at least, not right away. I have to take my mind to the dark side where I can access character traits I eschew --- cynicism, mistrust, selfishness, stinginess, and small-mindedness ---and view this man's words from there. It took days of study to understand that this strange man resented me because I was not paying rent, to him, or someone like him. All he sees are dollar signs, and my moral obligation to society is in question because I cannot help him with his obsession. Money is his value. He had no concern at all that I might be hungry, or cold at night, or lonely, or scared. It never occurred to him to inquire.

Republican is a dirty word.

All thinking, sensitive people know how that came to pass; and my politics have suffered, hardening solidly to the left in this new century. I certainly would not make a good Bolshevik since I find nothing wrong with money; but money is not a value. Money is a thing, like any other thing. One can have a lot or a little, but it has nothing to do with values. Our country has taken a convoluted path to get where we are today. Somewhere along the trajectory, we followed the lead of people who thought it was OK to put people in the street; and that was not so long after we made it OK to bomb people living in huts.

What I seek is a whole new way to live together.

In the meanwhile, if the cost of rents ever goes down significantly, I may consider becoming one of the housed. Then, again, I may decide to stay in my truck. I might make a protest of it. I might stay in my truck, like an urban Gandhi, until every last homeless person has a place to live.

Part 2: It's OK to Be Homeless!

2009-01-30T20:54:00.000-08:00

There are some particular items that are necessary to making homelessness feel comfortable and decent, even making it a lifestyle. As I mentioned earlier, one needs a cell phone; but a cell phone must be recharged. I had been recharging my cell phone on the City's dime whenever I found a public washroom with an outlet. However, one day I plugged in my phone and nothing happened. So, be aware that City workers know who you are and may not, on principle, agree with you siphoning off City electricity.

So, it was on to the cyber-cafes, coffee shops that offer customers free outlets, where I could recharge my cell phone and get online. But gasoline was going up and hovering at around four dollars a gallon, so travelling hither and yon to plug in was getting expensive and nearing out-of-reach. It occurred to me that Radio Shack might have a whatchamacallit, and I trusted the young man at the counter would not only be patient, but clairvoyant.

Indeed, the gizmo I wanted is known as an "inverter," which plugs into a vehicle's cigarette lighter and delivers electricity from the battery to your cell phone --- or lamp (so long as you use the new compact fluorescent, instead of the old-style light bulb). I mention this because my old vehicle lost its interior lighting a long time ago.

And, thus, the experience of homelessness evolves.

It took months to come to the idea of visiting Radio Shack, even though it would seem absurdly obvious. There is so much else on one's mind, though, and not all of it good. I suppose, too, at first, I was trying to use just whatever I had available: I was doing crossword puzzles by flashlight for a very long time, holding the crossword book and flashlight in one hand and pen in the other. Of course, doing crossword puzzles is a longstanding, comforting habit, which, as such, was important in itself. It takes a while emotionally to settle in and feel at ease with oneself under conditions regarded as culturally extreme.

A radio is handy, too. Of course, your vehicle probably already has one; mine doesn't, so I cannot adequately express my sense of accomplishment in finding a pocket-size, digital AM-FM for ten bucks at Long's Drug. Having a computer with portability, like a laptop, or maybe one of those new cell phones that connects to the internet is also recommended as the general idea here is to stay connected in as many ways as possible, in this case, to the nation's social and political discussion. After all, homelessness is a current issue, and the homeless are being discussed.

It gave me an odd feeling a few weeks ago hearing myself talked about, in a sense, in the third person while I was present and listening. I was tuned into a local public radio program on the homeless. It was all about what to do with us. The members of the panel, of course, were informed and the callers-in well-meaning, but they may as well have been talking about feral cats or stranded whales. It would be nice, somehow, to get across to the general public, but especially to policy-makers, that the homeless are a wide swath of sundry persons. I cannot stress this enough. My fear is that I/we could end up in internment camps or, even worse, high-rise projects. After all, it took a lot of well-meaning people to create Cabrini-Green.

My fear is not baseless. A few months ago, I attended Homeless Court (more on this later), which is hosted by St. Vincent de Paul Village. Now, no one in her right mind would pick a bone with Father Joe's Village, as it truly is a leader in providing services to many homeless people and probably the best care available for homeless families. But imagine this for a moment: here I am, dressed to the nines for a day in court --- skirt, heels, jewelry, make-up --- when, nervous about facing the judge, I needed to find a lady's room. I am directed down one hallway to another, where I pass a long folding table with rows of tiny, thimble-sized paper cups on top. There are labels taped to the table at the head of each row that read, "Soap," "Mouthwash," "Toothpaste," "Lotion," and so on. I am stunned.

My mind is a jumble for a few seconds as I take in the scene. When I can finally sort out one thought, it is an exclamation: wow, I use a whole lot more soap, shampoo, toothpaste, you-name-it, than what is in those little paper cups! Then I notice there are two women sitting behind the table who are not smiling and who seem to be guarding the tiny cups. They are not, apparently, there to greet people. So I am wondering what kind of reception I would get if I took two or, God help me, three of those tiny cups. I would probably need, at least, four of those cups with shampoo. In a few seconds, I have done the math and now wonder if toiletries are portioned due to shortage, wastage, or shrinkage, to borrow the business euphemism for theft, or all three.

Up ahead, in front of me, I see a cafeteria with tables for two and four and a few people eating. A glance to the right, and there is another table with tiny cups and men sitting behind it. I realize I am probably in the Day Center where the homeless can get a hot meal and a shower. Finally, at the end of the table and behind it to the left, I spot the lady's room. My relief to get away from the scene I have just walked through is quickly supplanted by a much weirder experience.

There are a number of women in the lady's room, which has a row of sinks, toilet stalls, and an open shower area. There is a woman showering and another getting dressed, both in full view, and I am feeling a bit embarrassed at my intrusion on their privacy. There is another woman seated, dressed, and staring out, but she does not seem to see me. There are two or three women using the sinks, but no one looks up. No one glances from the mirror. I wash my hands, then turn to the dispenser for paper towel --- empty. I make a comment, something brief and chatty, but no one responds. No one turns around.

I am in a deaf, mute world; and I am invisible.

I choose a stall and, as is my custom, I look first for the toilet-seat covers, but there are none; they are not provided. My fallback is to lay paper down on the seat, but the toilet paper comes off the roll one sheet at a time, not in a strip. So I squat and do my best not to make drops on the seat. I am working hard, at the same time, to collect enough single sheets to wipe dry. It occurs to me how much I love toilet paper, all paper, every kind, and that I use a lot of it. Then, I exit this corner of hell as quickly as I can without running.

I cannot seem to get enough oxygen until I am well past the tiny-cup tables; but those images, what they mean, what they imply, have haunted me ever since. I go over the particulars in my memory in an attempt to understand them and to allow the numbing fear to trickle in slowly; for I think they mean something I do not want to know: loss beyond sanity's threshold.

Safe beyond the prison-like atmosphere of the Day Center, back in my truck and in a reflective mood, I head home. I drive out to a spot where the San Diego River meets the Pacific and watch the sunny, late afternoon turn to early evening. The fog billows gently, slowly, in from sea, to cover everything like a blanket. The air cools, and the breeze strengthens. Yes, this is home.

It's OK to Be Homeless!

2009-01-28T13:37:00.000-08:00

Having just read one of the most tragic news reports --- a Los Angeles-area couple decided to kill themselves and their five children because of fears over job loss and homelessness --- I must tell you that homelessness, while certainly not everything a person could want, is wonderfully freeing.

One needs very little, outside of a cell phone, a vehicle, and some money to keep it rolling. A cell phone is absolutely necessary for staying safely on the road and in contact with friends and family. Family can sometimes be too far away, as in my case, so one of my best pieces of advice to anyone homeless is "Make friends." They do not need to fit the best-friend category, either. Just make a point of saying hello to others and being open to whomever approachs you. The idea here is to stay connected.

One of my dearest new friends is Bob. I was a newcomer to homelessness when Bob approached my truck. I rolled up the window and locked the door because Bob stares while he is walking toward you and appears not to blink. Ever. I was a little frightened, but Bob planted himself right next to the door and spoke through the glass like nothing was the matter.

"Well, what do you think? I shaved off my mustache."

Bob speaks in a western idiom, delivering slow, deliberate stress to key words, like John Wayne. He was obviously proud of his new look, and his question had the innocent appeal of a child. I got the impression, too, that Bob was not going to move until I responded. Having known Bob for almost a year now, I can say he would have stood there, in that same spot, talking to himself, answering his own questions, had I decided to back the truck out and leave.

"Yes, that looks nice."

"I see you out here. My name's Bob . . ."

And that is how our friendship started. I love Bob, though in a way quite unexpected. Living alone and homeless, one has countless hours to ponder life, how things happen, or don't, why things happen, or don't. I have had some very low days when all the weight of my losses in the past few years have visited and nagged me into deep sorrow. Then, somehow, Bob shows up and starts talking. Quite out of the blue. And Bob talks and talks and sometimes repeats himself in this John-Wayne voice. He can be struck funny all of a sudden and take me with him on a wave of laugher.

I have been endlessly amused by Bob, and I have come to believe he is a personal blessing upon my own little life. He has helped me make peace with God after so many losses that I was not sure who I was and suicide was always on the back of my mind as a possible option. I thought, were there Suicide Centers where one could volunteer as Malthusians propose, I would gladly turn myself in for lack of a reason to live and to make space for someone else. I am now able to see the virtue in persistence and riding out emotional and mental difficulty even when there is no end in sight, which, I believe, is otherwise known simply as faith.

However, I have not been without help from others. I sought help, and I urge anyone faced with tremendous losses to persist, do your best to find your way, and a way will open up. Please, do not take the first and most convenient idea that pops into your head. Allow yourself time to rest and sleep and eat whenever you need to do so. Dare to ask strangers for money if you need it. I give small amounts of money away all the time to people who ask. Do whatever it takes, but take it easy on yourself.

I am not going to tell you to think positively, which is, more than likely, impossible; but allow yourself to think magically for a while about this part of your life being only a part, not the whole and certainly not the sum. It is a very old, bumpy, dirt road, washed out in places, and it is still storming; but allow yourself to believe that this ancient road was taken by many people in the past throughout all human history. You are not alone, and, besides, someone has to do it. Someone has to walk this way and tell others about it.

Imagine, too, that this path is not for everybody because, truthfully, it isn't. Only those destined to deep understanding and compassion can walk this way. Perhaps you were chosen to walk here by the most benevolent force in the universe, picked as one of its very own. These are the kinds of thoughts I ask you to try out. They feel better than most of the thoughts you are going to have for a while, so let yourself go to sleep at night thinking about the Love that put you in this place, what that Love is, and how Love is possible. These are really the only thoughts worth spending any time with.

My friend, Bob, drinks and says he is never going to stop. He thinks about his three wives, unable to sleep at night, unless he drinks. Bob is a marginally-functional alcoholic: he works on his truck, listens to the radio, watches a tiny television, goes "canning" (the term used for picking up cans and bottles for recycling to get cash), and naps. He socializes and eats at a local church on Wednesday nights. The rest of the week he eats out of the garbage; and from what he has shown me, he eats rather well. Bob has no money unless he "cans," though he tells me he has applied for government money.

Bob has been homeless for a very long time and homeless in Mission Beach for five years. He has had trouble keeping his vehicle insured and registered and has been rousted out of parking spaces many times by the local police. Still, the police have also been kind to ignore Bob most of the time and not tow his truck when they legally could. As Bob says (in that voice), "You gotta sleep somewhere"; but the police have a set of rules to enforce and not everyone is so lucky. I will have more to say on this later.

So what should our attitude be toward Bob? Is Bob worthless because he does not work a regular job and has a limited ability to care for himself? Is Bob worthless, too, because he cannot take care of anyone else? He is worthless because he represents the wrong kind of statistic? I can tell you that Bob has great value to me, infinite and immense value, as a gift from the benevolent force of the universe; and there is no amount of money that can equal the value of this one soul --- or anyone else's. It is my hope that, as a nation and a culture, we can overcome our obsession with money and everything that it buys. I hope we can grow beyond the crudeness and obscenity of placing money over people because the truth is we are our brothers' keeper.

In the next installments, I will continue the discussion on the freedom provided by homelessness and what one needs to conduct a happy, homeless life.

Activities of the Homeless

2009-01-27T11:22:00.000-08:00

Many of the homeless drink and smoke. I part company rather quickly with this category of person, homeless or not, because it makes for very sloppy living; and, to be honest, none of us is at liberty on this planet to destroy someone else's air, nor is one at leisure to be addlepated in tough times. Staying clear headed is hard enough with the logistics of homelessness. It takes practice to stay alert under trying conditions.

Let's take a typical morning for me.

First of all, cars doors are slamming in the parking lot . . . slam, slam, slam, slam (a car that was full front and back) . . . slam, slam, (a driver and a passenger) . . . slam, slam, slam, slam . . . and so on, at around 6:00 a.m. These are the college kids who have come out to the Bay for their rowing classes. Then, there are the herd sounds, the tromping of feet and a cacophony of voices as flocks of young males and females make their way to the boat house. I tuck myself a little deeper into the bench seat of my truck and wait for my cell-phone alarm.

When the cell phone plays, I know it is 7:00 a.m. and time to sit up, brush my hair, pack up the bed clothes and window covers, and fit them neatly stacked on the passenger-side of the vehicle. I slip my shoes on and start the engine. I used to drive over to the nearest public washroom, just a few yards away and nearer to the boat house. Now I drive 3 or 4 miles to get a quieter public washroom and parking lot. Too many people about, first thing, rattles my nerves.

Once parked at the other public washroom, I hop out and go to the rear of my vehicle for a duffle bag in which I keep toiletries, a towel, and the next day's clothing. I sometimes have to compete with City workers for the space, as this is their time of day for cleaning the public washrooms. They are usually accommodating, though; and if I wait for them to finish up, it is only a few minutes.

The public washrooms everywhere at the beach are the height of convenience and always clean. There are two rooms, the shower area and the toilets. I proceed to empty my chamber pot, wash up in the sink, brush teeth, and get out of my sleepwear and into day clothing, using the bench seating in the open-air shower room to hold my duffle. If it is raining, I am confined to the room where the toilets are and use the other sink (there are usually two) to hold my bag. Fortunately, most of the time, there are not other people using the public restrooms early in the morning, even in tourist season.

Still, even so --- and it does happen that company shows up, and I am there nude from the waist up and brushing my teeth --- one must overcome any sense that what one is doing is anything less than normal, for it is perfectly right, given the circumstance. It takes practice, however, to be truly humble before the facts: this is how I live, and these things are what I do to get along each and every day for right now. It takes more than an ounce of forgiveness, too, both of oneself and other people whose thoughts about how you may be inconveniencing them are palpable. Of course, it is also easy to impose these thoughts on others when, in fact, oftentimes, most people are too caught up in their own lives to care anything about me; and that is a good thing. I have not decided yet whether the need for privacy is innate or cultural, and it may well be both. It is certain, though, there is discomfort in doing in public what most people are accustomed to doing in private and expect everyone else to be doing in private, as well.

Be that as it may, I can get tired at times of the public-restroom routine. Some days, like everyone else, I want to sleep in and stay home. On occasion, I do sleep until 9:00 a.m. and, except for need of the toilet, I would stay in my truck even longer; but one does not want to tempt the neighbors who live in houses and who will call the police to roust the homeless from their living-room view of the Bay. I will address that topic in days to come.

On with my day, I either go to work as scheduled at the Old Town Market; or it is a day off for me. If I must work, my day clothing will be my Mexican-style, long skirt with matching blouse and a poncho. I get back in my vehicle and drive to the nearest spot where I can get hot water for my tea mug, in this case, the Middle-Eastern gas station. Now, mind you, all this and not yet a drop of hot liquid. Really, I have never before in my life spent so much time awake in the morning without the benefit of a cup of coffee or tea; but one adapts. I now think if the end of the world comes (of course, it is on its way), I will be perfectly awake for it and able to help others if the water does not rise too fast and swallow us all first or we are not all instantly atomized. I was so incapable once of even walking without wobbling if I had not first had a hot, caffeinated drink that I now think going without for over an hour is heroic, and I cherish my fantasy of saving people while others, addicted to immediately gratifying their habit, are still brain-dead.

Once I have picked up hot water for my tea bags, I visit the "breakfast nook," a quiet spot with a view of two bridges and both the south and east shores of Mission Bay. Here I prepare my food. I do not yet have a cooler and may not purchase one simply because the back of my truck is just too crowded already. One learns to haul as little as possible because things cannot be out, that is, neatly arranged on shelves or in closets. Belongings have to be boxed and labeled to travel easily. Still, what one needs most must be accessible, very much at hand, and near the very back of the truck. Of course, not everything can fit right at the very end of the truck near the tailgate, so one learns to be selective and practical. For instance, my portable beach chair, given that it is winter, is more toward the front; and I have to climb into the back of the truck to retrieve it. The same goes for the sewing kit; little-used bathroom items, like the hair dryer, heating pad, and water bottle; cookbooks (which I could not bring myself to give up); and clothing, shoes, and handbags that are out of season.

Breakfast consists of an Ezekiel bread sandwich: one side is slathered with a mixture of Vegannaise and stone-ground mustard, the other with crunchy peanut butter. In between, I stack finely-chopped vegetables and baby romaine. Wow. So good. Then a few, long sips of black tea with turbinado and soy creamer. I am sorry to say, however, that my vegetables come in bags, as I cannot imagine taking the time to clean, dry, and cut vegetables in a public restroom, any more than I can imagine washing my clothes in Mission Bay.

Now, once in a while, I take myself out for breakfast to eat eggs, which I truly miss and believe make the best breakfast on earth. I am also fond of New York-style bagels, that is, boiled, not baked; but I try to control my love of this type of carbohydrate. I also do not like spending too much money, as I need to pay for the cell phone, truck repairs, and make-up.

Yes, I said "make-up." I cannot believe it, either, that I love make-up so much that it is a priority, as are the occasional trips out to Macy's to the make-up counters of Lancome and Benefit. I brouse other cosmetics makers, but I have used Lancome for decades and have a love affair going with Benefit's line of fun, feel-good creams and lotions. Recently, I bought what looks like a pink tool box for all my cosmetics, as I was tired of pulling out one bag and another, trying to find where I stashed the lip liner. So part of the washroom stop in the morning, after I have cleaned up and dressed, involves switching the duffle for the tool box. The make-up process takes around ten to fifteen minutes, but it is a favorite thing that absorbs me utterly. I cannot imagine under what circumstances I would be willing to give up this part of civilized living.

As for work, I cannot stress how important it is for someone who is homeless. Not only does one need some amount of money, but one needs to stay connected to the rest of the world, if for no other reason than to continue to believe in the basic goodness of people and oneself, not the least. I am not paid a lot, but, for once, I do not care: it is the doing that is important. It is the giving of the best of myself to others, including my employer, that really matters. I will talk more on this at a later time. For now, let me explain that I spend no more than six hours on the job, as this is my practical, emotional limit. Beyond that, a job becomes hard to do, and most people get neurotic and must indulge some kind of addiction to bear it.

After work, I do the regular chores of grocery shopping, checking my post office box, reading and answering email, making phone calls, writing up lists of things to do, and preparing for the next day. I am able to manage my life with some ease and to stay in touch with friends and family, on the main, because I have a vehicle, for which I am eternally grateful; and I have more to say on this point later.

My evenings are spent, at least for now, in winter, in my truck, reading, doing a crossword puzzle, or listening to the news or music on my small, ten-dollar radio. Evenings on the Bay are quiet and relaxing. There is rarely anyone else around, so slipping into the public washroom near the boat house for an evening shower with the starry sky overhead and the sound of ocean birds is wondrous. I try to imagine what it would cost to buy a house that had an outdoor, open-to-the-sky shower room, and I count myself fortunate to have such a place available to me. As the cold water warms me inside, I look up to see palm trees wave in the breeze, gulls flying overhead, and the night of stars that will soon watch over me as I sleep.

Cold Water Won't Hurt You

2009-01-26T16:31:00.001-08:00

My daily ablutions are done in very cold water in the public restrooms. I feel lucky to live in a clime where, though temperatures can be cold, freezing weather is unusual. Still, it is a brisk experience to wash up in the morning and take an evening shower in cold water. There are, though, some healthy benefits to it.

For instance, I have not had a cold or flu yet this winter. Having become somewhat inured to cold, I believe I have boosted my immune system by outdoor bathing. After all, germs enjoy warmth, and there is little of that in the public washrooms. There is also a wonderful internal sensation of warmth throughout the interior of my body after being in cold water for a while. This phenomenon has been noted by ascetics from around the world for centuries. There are also a number of health resorts that utilize both extremely cold water and area hot mineral springs to supply bathing pools for visitors who want an unusual, touted-as-healthy challenge during their stay. Harbin Hot Springs in Northern California is one such place. I have been there, and I did that.

Years ago, when I was a Moonie, the Japanese were taking cold showers regularly and chanting prayers. I was a bit scared in case anyone should suggest that I do the same, which, thankfully, no one did. I needed a form of penance, of course, as proving one's faith was a rule in this celibate community, but I stuck with fasting.

But, now, cold water every day?

I am wondering if I will ever return to the hot bath. Let's put it this way: I do not need a hot bath. I used to luxuriate in a regular bubble bath with scented oils. I did enjoy them, accompanied by symphonic music, a cool glass of water, and a good book. However, I did not like sweating and then feeling a chill afterwards. I did not like the water growing gradually tepid while I was in the tub, either, and having to empty and refill the tub at the same time. That was a lot of work. Languor had set in, and I was good for nothing but sleep.

After a cold shower in cold air, I could enjoy a walk, as I am alert, though I would not go so far as to say I would run a mile, which does not appeal to my temperament. Rather, I head back to my vehicle and prepare for bed. I feel gently awake, but relaxed and fall asleep easily.

Of course, I have a vehicle, which makes me wealthy among the homeless. I can get toasty warm in my truck after I have washed my hair, which is truly a luxury in the winter months. I am far better off because of owning a vehicle, and this is an entirely other topic.