I would like to send a special shout out to whomever is viewing my blog from Thailand. You are my only international viewers thus far. And if you are not in Thailand, but routing through some scandalous server some you can anonymously trade your Silk Road kiddie porn, well....... my daughter is too old for your tastes, and, at this point, a reader is a reader. So, welcome. (Disclaimer: This blog or its author in no way endorses or accepts kiddie porn. Christian cyber-terrorists, please don't send me viruses. I get enough on my own from mature porn sites.)
Must have been some spice in town yesterday. (You know, that fake marijuana, that is made by who knows who, with who knows what.) The shelter looked like an open casting call for extras on The Walking Dead. One guy sat staring at his phone, trying to figure out how to answer it, for five minutes, while his ringtone, Fancy, by Iggy Azalea, disturbed all the other zombies, forcing them to acknowledge the world for a brief moment.
You can tell what types of drugs are around by sitting in the smoking area, and watching the other residents. Some days they are up, some days they are down, and some (As in the case of last night) they don't know where the fuck they are or what they are doing. I know of no better argument for the legalization of marijuana than that walking coma inducing, gray area legal, shit.
Justice continues to move at glacial speeds. But, some progress has been made. The parole officer with the Erie County Parole Department has met with my sister, found out her ninety pound mastiff is a big softy, and is supposed to have some information by this afternoon. Again, if you are one who engages in prayer, put in a word for me.
I wonder if once I move to comfortable surroundings I will be able to write my usual depressing, miserable words? Will I lose touch with the streets? Become an apostate and start writing happy stories about content, stable, basically satisfied, suburban white people? Where's the drama in that? I think Bob Dole had the same internal conflict after he left the hood. I know Charles Bukowski did, because he often wrote about it, though his beef was with people who thought he had sold out after he got a little fame, without ever having the balls to go through what he went through. Maybe I could make a contact with one of the Wu Tang members and get lessons on how to stay raw and grimy.
Digression: Observations while walking to the coffee shop this morning.
One of the benefits of not having anywhere to go, probably the only one, is that you get to observe many of the goings on of your environment. People do some weird shit, not that I don't, but some of them actually make me feel like I am the sane one. This is a common problem with us geniuses.
Observation #1
Walking through the Kroger's parking lot this morning, towards the bus depot. I have seen this dude around plenty of other times. It is not hard to recognize the individual dope fiends and homeless in the area, because most of them, thoughtfully, never change their clothes. Makes your job easier, when you are into watching these things. And no, I don't feel guilty about any of this. I am not a grad student spending a week "On The Streets" to write his or her sociology dissertation. I am in the boat with them. At least those who can stay sober enough to pass a Breathalyzer every night and gain entrance to the shelter. For those who can't, all they need to do is switch from alcohol to drugs like all the other fine residents of the shelter.
Back to this dude. I have never seen him act like this before. I believe he was spun-out on meth or bath salts (more illicit, quasi legal, Chinese drugs). He was in a hurry, walking towards the front door of the grocery store. His head went back and forth in a 270 degree rotation like an owl. His arms did the tweaker walk, fingers splayed apart, arms rapidly moving front to back. He was yelling, but the only statement I understood was, "Three decades without my dick in it, and now you're telling me something else." That is a direct quote. I have searched my poisoned mind, but can't come up with a guess as to what that means. I think I could make something up, though, and will most likely do that one day.
Observation #2
Two college girls in unhealthily inappropriate clothing. Both wearing short sleeve shirts, one wearing short shorts. The other was about six feet tall, with four foot legs and a six inch skirt. This, I confess, is the main reason I noticed them. College girls usually offer nothing but aesthetic pleasure, but these two were on a mission. Oh, it was about forty degrees at this point in time. Their hair was exploding in every direction, but you could tell it had been made at one not too long ago point. I don't think they had slept. Smeary eye makeup. They were squatting down, searching through the bushes and ornamental foliage that beautifies downtown Bloomington. One of them picked up a block of wood and stared at it like she was trying to count the rings and guess it's age. I didn't stop, and neither did they. I don't know what they were looking for, or if they ever found it. I assumed it was an iPhone, dropped during a drunken misstep a few hours prior when the bars closed. It could have been something more nefarious. Her morning after pills? A gun? Bag of cocaine? I supposed it could have been her keys.
Observation #3
Off the bus, next to the College Mall, going to the coffee shop. An Arab man, smartly dressed, Columbia fleece, jeans with no holes, brown shoes, is walking through the Target parking lot. (What's with parking lots and insanity today?) This man has well groomed hair, and looks like he has been attending to all his hygienic needs on a regular basis. In short, he has none of the usual signs associated with weirdness. However, he is screaming at the top of his lungs in Arabic. Now if you're like me--white, American, given to bouts of paranoia--you're thinking terrorist. I apologize for this. I blame it on the aggressive, quick to sensationalize everything, Western media. It has been beaten into our eyeballs that any Arab displaying any behavior is suspect. This man was obviously not a terrorist. He was probably fighting with his wife. Maybe he lost his job, and was blowing off steam. An infinite number of explanations exist for his behavior.
I don't think I have ever mentioned the single biggest mind-fuck about the shelter. The other side of it houses women. There is a common kitchen and dining area. The cable is out on the women's side, so they are allowed to mingle in the men's television room until it is fixed.
Even crazier than that, there are couples who live in the shelter. Each on their own biologically designated side, but together. Active couplings. I can't even fucking imagine. (Note to any ex girlfriends reading this, at least I never brought you to the shelter. You may have been wrong about me. I may construct the second worst example of a relationship.) I assume it comes from a natural longing for intimacy, but I think when it got to the point of coexisting in a shelter it would be time to reevaluate the partnership. Might be time to go our separate ways and seek our fortunes.
And even worse that the previously established couples are the people actively seeking relationships in the shelter. A roommate of mine has been concerning himself, and being led around blindly, by a girl fifteen years younger than himself. I said to him, "I would like to ask you a question. You don't have to answer it, but don't you think you have enough problems of your own right now? If there ever was the time to be selfish, it is when you find yourself living in a homeless shelter, with a drug habit which far exceeds your income." I have known this guy for quite some time. An acquaintance from the Old Days. He came up for some excuses as to why he wasn't doing what I thought he was doing, and then went right along doing what I thought he was doing.
This is where all this is going. People ask me how I can write. They tell me I can, though many are family and friends and suspected of politeness. They ask me how I came up with the things I write about. How do I make it up?
And the answer is: How can you not write? Come up with what? Make up what? There's no need to make up anything. All you have to do is open your eyes and be a reporter. Write down what you see, and try to put your creative influence in it. Which I guess is the part people don't get. They don't think they can be creative. If an idiot with a GED can do it, you can. I luck out and bust out a few good sentences once in awhile, but most of what I put down is my demented view of the world. And not very good. I don't edit this. This is not polished writing.
My sister made the comment to me this morning that she was terrified to have children, because if it comes out a male child she is screwed. She said she looks at me and her boyfriend, and sees that we are both daredevils with no inhibitions. I spent much of my life with inhibitions. It got me into a great deal of trouble, trying to be someone and have people like me (Which is why I have so much sympathy for teenaged homosexuals. Have you seen the suicide rates? It is terrible that people would rather kill themselves than not be accepted by the herd.), and I don't have time for it anymore. I will admit my mistakes. Publicly, no less, and try to repair whatever harm I have done you. If that is not acceptable, then we will go our separate ways. I am getting too old and have wasted too much time to worry about whether you will accept my friend request or not.
So, writing is easy. You watch what goes on, pick up on the things you notice, and report them. For me, it is mainly women and drugs/shady situations that I notice. I see the people at the park huddled up as I walk by, and I know what they are doing, or at least what I think the are doing, which, in a solipsistic way, is the same thing. I walk by the Project School (An alternative to public school in Bloomington) every morning on my way to the coffee shop. I see the same teacher, scary beautiful, red hair (Red heads and cigarettes are the two addictions I have found no higher power successful against), green sweater smashing against her pale skin and making her blue eyes burst into supernovae. I want to go bicycling through the Hills O' Ireland with her. I imagine her compassionate and loving for teaching where she does. I want to lay my head in her lap and tell her what a terrible person I am, while she rubs my head and says, "Shush. You are beautiful." But that would be creepy, since I don't know her, so I write about it instead.
I'm sure this has helped no one. I have to step outside. There is a red head walking down the street, and I need a cigarette.
No comments:
Post a Comment