Story: The Homeless Cold

Getting sick always brings out the "Punative Universe" Neurosis in me. The obesession that I must have done something morally or spiritually incorrect recently and the effect of that behavior is my current viral infection, my illness, my cold.

Waking this morning I discovred that I had to pee, was very cold yet had a fever, dry mouth and throat, every part of my body was heavier, especially my head, and I was dumber. Despite the urge to pee and dry mouth i could not move from my sleeping bag. All will-power was gone from me. Summoning just enough to take my morning methadone and Ibuprofin, finally to pee, then down I lay again. No doubt about it: I was sick. Sick and Homeless, a miserabler combination. Tried to think of places I could stay to recuperate, but my foggy mind refused to work. It was cold outside of my sleeping bag. No will to move. Something in the night had changed me, when only last evening I seemed in fine health, this morning all was different in my world.

Drifting in and out of sleep, by blessed miracle it got warmer and the sun came out. I had to pee again, but lacked the will. When I finally could move again I peed and noticed it was almost noon; five hours had passed. I'd never before slept so late in the park. My parched throat looked to my water bottle which was inexplicably filled with watter. Though I had been positive I had drinken it all during the night.

Everything took on the greatest of Mass and difficulty. Each movement took thought, each though took energy, there seemed to be no energy, zombified as only a cold can do, I didn't even feel hunger. The world was so sunny and inviting I no longer worried about being indoors, but my tobacco supply being low I knew I would need to go out and replenish it. I couldn't stay in the park all day anyways; that's the way to get caught by the cops or park rangers.

Putting one foot in front of the other I slowly, painfully, methodically, and humbly, began the crawl of my day with sickness. Resolved not to wallow in self-pity as I have in days of past sickness. To move slowly and simply. Read and relax. Knowing with faith that with time it will pass.

Story: A House That Love Built

A House That Love Built

I see the reality others don't see. Perceiving the wholeness of situations, from multiple viewpoints, at all times neutral, sensitive to the latent emotional themes sometimes unnoticed by the feelers themselves. I see. And I write.

He was not as crazy as I thought and she much more so.

The sadness of the closing. Their time is now over, though they don't see it. She doesn't know what he did for her. He doesn't know what she's done. Yet. And maybe neither of them really knows what they did for so many...

Nothing lasts.

They gave away so much Marijuana, to so many hopeless indigents. Creating warmth and succor where before had been a gaping hole. And then they gave more. They gave every day of the week, most hours of the day. By phone, by window tap, invited or not. They liked you and cared about you. Whoever you were. He grew and she bagged. Often she'd cook for everyone there. I didn't feel comfortable there at first, it seemed too good to be true.

But every time I returned I saw the same thing; loving, selfless, giving. You could rely on it. They were for real, no doubt about it. Honest to God Street Saints, with nothing to prove, but their Love for their brothers and sisters on Earth.

They dreamed of growing larger, branching out, going legal, or simply living by example. But they would fall apart. She first, to a younger man. He later, back to his own life. Separating, they destroyed the Invisible Temple they'd built for so many.

Where there was Unity came Discord.

For the rest of their lives many homeless men and women would remember the "Pot Angels," who lived near Glide Church. Warming their hearts at the thought and the memory: That two people could create and spread so much Love together.

Story: She & I

I don't want to hurt her, but of course I do. I love her. She hurts me all the time, mostly unintentional, but the other times... clearly on purpose. She turns all my heroic acts of "love," into petty psychiatric fights which hurt everyone. And I tried so hard for her. She just doesn't see me. See the streets and the pain. When i was crying one day outside she put her head on my shoulder and held my hand.
It was really nice and it helped a little. She NEVER does things like that in her home. She just goes away, blames me, yells at me, etc.

I am not really a masochist, but the way I let her treat me... It's not a good precident to set. Her house gives her permission to act strangely, it seems. Hurtfully always. I'm a natural sensitive, feeling somethings stronger than other people do. She likes to hurt me when I'm with her at her house. Though she may not even understand it, it's obvious; It happens every time.

It may even be the house acting with her/through her. These things have happened before. She keeps bringing me to the house despite all my prior bad experiences there. Why? To hurt me more? To beat the odds with a "good experience" for a change?

I'll end with she doesn't listen to me, the worst of them all. I tell her what I need, ask her what she needs, she can't tell me.
Please tell me. When she did it was, " I want to be your friend, lover, and whatever I want whenever I want. You get no say in our relationship. OK?"

No. Of course that's not OK. It's completely selfish.

Story: A Funny Thing Happened...

Outside the 99 cent store yesterday a slightly buzzed man came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder, half laughing and half crying sincerely.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" He asked me, looking genuinly confused.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" He repeated. I felt sorry for his son already and though a strong supporter of gay rights, I knew there were very few things I could say to this man that would help.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" I rummaged around my brain for a second until I came up with my answer:
"Well... It's better than having a daughter who is so sexy you want to fuck her."
He laughed at that, nodding his head, "You really said something there, brother! You are damn right about that! Ha!"

As I left I could tell by the way he was shaking his head that I had helped him... at least a little.

Story: The Finger

Yesterday I was feeling lower than low. Homeless, penniless, stinking, sticky, alone, with a sharp pain in my stomach from hunger. Walking down a street where an endless stream of cars drove towards me and away. I felt the unholy weight of my uselessness on this planet. Like a ghost, nothing I did really mattered to anyone. I was powerless and impotant as the endless river of cars full of real people passed me by. People who did matter. People who had power to change things and make a difference in this world. Oh, how I hated and envied them. Was there really nothing I could do? Nothing at all that would matter to these people? If I killed myself they wouldn't even notice. My writings are read primarily by my mother, to use as fodder for insulting me and torturing me. What could I possibly do that would make the slightest shred of difference to these people, while at the same time expressing my deepest feelings about my situation and their society?

Without really thinking about it I raised my hand toward the on-coming cars and extended my middle finger towards them. The cars were passing quickly, but the response was immediate: Eyes widened in surprise, children pointing with laughter, looks of confusion, looks of anger. With this one simple gesture I had made a connection with the Others, I had communicated my feelings, and i had made a difference, however small, in their lives.

A small drop of warmth filled me. Almost like joy. Raising my finger higher and prouder I walked leasurly toward the beach. I must have flipped off a thousand people yesterday. And it felt great!

Later on I started singing repititions of the word "Fuck," in Operatic form, as loud as possible - much to the consternation of the tourists nearby. Looks of confusion and illness; clearly this did not have the same effect as The Finger, nor the same cathartic warmth for me.

A gesture is simple and fun and can't really be misunderstood, while a man screaming "fuck" is just sad.

Long live The Middle Finger! When the world's giving it to you, give it right back! You'll thank me for it.

Story: TheRapists

I hate therapists. They're like abusive girlfriends. Everyone says I need therapy. Though it has never worked in the past and doing the same thing while expecting different results is the very definition of "insanity." Never-the-less I'm homeless and am pretty miserable a lot of the time, so every so often my defenses break down and I give therapy a try, full of shiny hopes that this time will be different, this time will help, fucking foo!
It takes about five months of phone calls and appointments all over the city, but finally I get an intake appointment with one of these magic therapists who supposedly help so much.
He's a fat, jolly sort, like a slightly young Santa Claus with a shorter beard and half-moon spectacles. Always careful to keep his "friendly smile" on. He carefully records the most intimate details of my life on a form five pages long, like it's common for people to tell their darkest memories about being molested by their father to a Mad-Libs game. Fighting tears and a panic attack I inform him of how suicidal I am and how anxious to begin therapy. The first session is next Monday at noon.
I look forward to the appointment all week, eagerly. Excited to be starting afresh on the road to mental health, anxious to tell a "qualified" listener all my worries and get some advice on my problems.
Getting to the secretary excited and happy I'm informed he called in sick, but he can see me tomorrow. The fat selfish fuck.

"But you don't have a phone," the secretary tried in a reasoning type of voice.

"Lady, I'm homeless, I don't have a lot of things."

"oh," she looked back at her desk,
"I'm sorry. But these things happen. People get sick."

On my first visit?! What a fucking amature. Psych101 taught even me how fragile a Doctor-Patient relationship is in the early days of therapy. Building trust is essential and vital to all further activities.
And this unthinking blimp cancels our first appointment, knowing I'm homeless, knowing I'm suicidal. He didn't even e-mail me. Sick today, but better tomorrow? Bullshit. The fat fuck was hungover or lazy.
This , this is exactly what I'm talking about. I'm supposed to get help from an anus like this? Incapable of even keeping a vital first appointment. Fuck him. He just quit from my case. I'll try their other Therapists, but if he is any indication this whole clinic is fucked. I've seen it all too many times before.
Amazing. Truly baffling. It seems to me, after so many experiences like this, that you actually have to be mentally well in the first place simply to put up with all the crap it takes to see a therapist and not get put off by all the stupidity.

Or maybe I'm healthy after all. Not ill enough to put up with ignorant behavior like this...
The world may never know.

Story Outline: The Suicide Files

About a young man in a similar world trying to get a license from the government to kill himself. The National Suicide Office makes repeated mistakes with his application, inlcuding sending him an acceptance letter he can't use because the name is mispelled.
When a well-meaning friend mentions the possibility of suiciding without a License the character is appalled at the idea of breaking the law. (E.G. Brazel, sub story perhaps, beauracracy vs. humanity).