More Shelter, Homeless People Stuff

Don't really have a topic this morning, so we will see where the wind takes us. It has been a busy, long holiday weekend. Weird when you get to Saturday and feel you have already had your weekend. Thursday I went to a friend's mother's house in Indy. It was freezing, and a little awkward being around total strangers, but they were nice people and the food was great. Mostly it just made me homesick. Even more than usual.Yesterday I did what all the other homeless people did, go Black Friday shopping. As a result, I am wearing the first pair of jeans I have worn in five and a half years.

Some strange things have been happening at the shelter. On Thanksgiving Day, one of the workers came in and donated his time so the residents wouldn't have to get up and leave. It was a nice gesture, one that I don't think many took notice of or stopped to thank him. It was a fairly depressing scene for the people who had nowhere to go, especially because they had to sit and watch the people who had gatherings to go to get ready. I woke up around 8:30, went to Kroger's for coffee and doughnuts (Mmmm........ Jocelyn. They were so good. You should have one right now. This advertisement brought to you by the good folks at Krispy Kreme), ripped some CDs, and left at one for the feasting. I returned at 8:00 Pm, and many of the people were still sitting in the same spot they were when I left earlier. It was sad.

I get torn, you know, wanting to help people and wanting people to show some effort to change their situation. But I don't know all the facts. I am not them, so I can't live their life. I get shitty when they same guy bums cigarettes off me, day after day, while never seeming to run out of drugs. I get mad, but I know what it is like. I know how it is to like things like food, shelter, clothing, and cigarettes, but having an unfillable (I don't care if spell check doesn't think that is a word) pit in the center of your existence. So I give the cigarettes. The cigarettes my sister works hard for, putting up with the corporate banking world and all its bullshit. And on top of that, I try to make a conscious effort to seem like it really doesn't bother me, like I am happy to do it. People have enough guilt, you can see the shame in their eyes, I don't need to add to it. I am no better than anyone, and a lot worse than most.

Some of the things I have done, it amazes me that I can find anyone willing to talk to me. But we all have skeletons. We have all done bad things. Then you have to find some way to quantify all the bad things you have done. Well, I did X and that gave me three Bad Person Points, then I did Y and that gave me seven Bad Person Points, but this guy did the whole alphabet and accumulated more Bad Person Points than we can calculate. But what if X went off and started a chain reaction that spread across the globe ruining people's day? How do you calculate that? Which, I suppose is a serious flaw with Karma, unless there is some constantly running, super accurate, cosmic moral accountant, and even so, it would be worthless to our earthly record keeping. The point is, it is hard to judge your moral debits to those of someone else. It is also, ultimately, a waste of time. A way for us to feel superior, even when In The Grand Scheme Of Things we aren't, so it is an illusion. The best course of action, and, of course, the most difficult, would be to treat everyone as an equal.

I don't know. Maybe this is all a subconscious attempt by a person who has done lots of bad shit to minimize it all.
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Back to the shelter. There has been an influx of new blood there. Some of the people living there reached their four month max, some found apartments, some were kicked out for violating policy or just decided to go back to the streets, whatever the case there were a lot of empty beds. The people who have recently arrived represent the two polar ends of the homeless continuum.

The first group is the older, been on the streets for years, end of the continuum. This group saddens you because of their complete submission to what they see as their station in life, but has the best stories to tell. They have been everywhere and done everything. At least everything a homeless person does. Most of them have traveled the country. Most of them have been in prisons and jails. Most of them are alcoholics. They stick together, avoiding most of the younger people. There is a married couple among them, which should be an horrific omen to the younger couples. This group doesn't tend to last long, due to the fact that the shelter is not hospitable to the alcoholic lifestyle. There are Breathalyzer tests every night, so they have to wait until 9:00 Pm to start drinking, while watching the younger junkies blissfully go through their days.

The younger group is starting their journey on the continuum. They don't have many stories to tell, but they make up enough lies to cover it. Most of them have been nowhere. Most of them are junkies. Most of them have spent a night or two in the county jail, but have yet to make it to prison. They bum cigarettes, while nodding off. They pretty much annoy the shit out of everyone else. They walk around with the speakers of their phones playing some shitty music, which they think is talented and incredible until the new song comes out the next week. The young females are the most annoying. At least to me.

The young ladies have been conditioned by the young men, so it is not entirely their fault. However, they learn to exploit their powers, and attempt to use them on everyone. I don't give a fuck how many times you bat your eyes, I am not giving you a dollar or taking the trash out for you. These boys trip over each others dicks trying to win the ladies attentions, and the ladies get used to it. Then they exploit it. They walk around like their shit doesn't stink, and all I can think is, "Are you fucking kidding me? Have you once opened your eyes and took a look at where the fuck you are?"

Last night there was some commotion in the television room. I stuck my head in to see what all the noise was about. A new girl was checking in, and all the boys were in there competing to win her eye. The idea of looking for love in the homeless shelter still baffles me. And I am the horniest mother fucker on the planet right now. I haven't been laid in almost six years.

One little chick in particular drives me crazy. Her boyfriend is also a resident. While he is at work, she flirts with the other guys, and then tries to stir up trouble when he gets home. She is probably eighteen or nineteen. She walks around bitching about everything. She thinks she is the fucking princess of the shelter. She is always complaining about the dope fiends and the people who are alcoholics. She talks shit about the people who won't get a job. She talks about her job and how she has a home and doesn't need to be here. That is a common one. When people want to show off their superiority they talk about how they have money and aren't like the rest of the people there, how they are better. Are you fucking kidding me? Do they actually think it makes them look superior because they are living in a shelter when they don't have to? Makes them look like a fucking idiot. If they told me I could leave right now, I couldn't pack fast enough. One day I said to this chick, "You need to grow up and stop playing house with your boyfriend at the homeless shelter, and walking around here bitching about these people. You're right, you shouldn't be here. All the people you are bitching about are the people who live in these places. People who are on drugs, drunks, people who won't keep a job. That's pretty much what these places are for, so if you don't want to be around them, I suggest you straighten up your life right away." She has been much nicer to me lately.

So back to me being torn. I have half a brain. I have been in the situation. I would be a good candidate to know something about the solution to the homeless and prison problems. I am not. I don't know shit. The reasons for being homeless and the reasons for breaking the law are so varied, that the only way to deal with them is on an individual level. This is nothing new or smart, this is what case managers at all the agencies who deal with these issues try to do. There are people who will tell you all they want is a job and a home, them you give them both and the next week they are jobless and homeless. The factors that led individual to their present point have to be considered, and many times they aren't. It is like addiction. Addiction gets used as an explanation for the way certain people are, but what is the explanation for the addiction? You have to go, step by step, through a person's life to figure it all out. You still might not be able to. I have friends who belong to prison abolitionist groups and they look to me like I am obviously one of them, but I don't know. Prisons do no good, but what is the alternative. I have been around some guys that I would never want to be around on the streets.

I am going now. I have been working on a longer piece, maybe a novel, and I have to go devote some time to it. I need to change the name of my blog. I am terrible with names, and am open to suggestions.

Cavemen, Kumare, and Ultimate Questions

We often find ourselves on the verge of giving up. This could be as simple a thing as taking the lawnmower to the shop, admitting we are not the mechanical genius we fancy ourselves, or as complicated as debating the pros and cons of a Kool-aid and phenobarbital cocktail. Something comes along to helps us in our decision making. The universe points us, sometimes shoves us, in the right direction. We don't always want this assistance. Not at first, though we usually appreciate it later. This could be our significant other politely reminding us of our mechanical abilities, giving a detailed, itemized list of our past attempts to rule the mechanized world, all the near tragedies resulting from them. Maybe your phenobarbital connection is out of town. Maybe there is no sugar for the Kool-aid. (who wants their last drink on this earthly realm to have no sugar in it?) Something happens. We decide to take the mower to someone who is qualified to repair it. We decide to live another day of our miserable existence, hoping it will get better.

Sometimes, most times, we think of this as a Sign. A Sign from A Power Greater Than Ourselves. Even many of us who don't consider ourselves religious will use this line of logic. I even do it. I can understand religious adherents subscribing to this way of thinking, it goes along with everything they have been programmed to believe is true, but how do secular thinkers justify it? How can you allege to be against churches and their dogmas, ceremonies, rules, and rites, and borrow religious logic to explain unexpected events, something you degrade religion for doing?

Maybe you could say we are wired that way. We can't help it. That is the way our brains developed, and our natural mode of explanation for things seemingly unexplainable is to credit the act to the intervention of an almighty, all knowing being. This worked especially great when we were fresh out of the cave, trying to figure out the crazy, wide world we were beginning to explore.

Religious scholars have said that religion has always been in us, that it is innate to all humans, comes pre-installed on our hard drives. They say this proves the truth of their religion. They don't explain why God chose to pass out so many different versions of the software, many of them incompatible with the other versions, making information sharing impossible. If they are Christian, they will say we are all Christians, some of us just refuse to acknowledge it. If they are Muslim, they will say they same thing about their path. What ever religion they wave the flag of, they will claim is the One True Way, and we all know it, whether we admit it or not. Many of them also believe the earth is less than 10,000 years old, which makes the innate religion theory easier to accept, providing you are willing to ignore mountains of evidence to the contrary.

Many scientists say the first evidence of religion comes after man was able to conquer a few basic necessities, and settle down a bit. When man was able to produce and store food, acquire warmth, have fire and shelter, he was now in a position to try explaining things. When you are running naked around the Savannah, dodging saber-toothed tigers and other terrifying beasts who are looking to find out the culinary merits of your flesh, you don't have much time for signs and explanations.

Of course, if you think man never went through this evolutionary process, believe man started in a garden in an undisclosed Mideastern oasis, was summarily evicted, took the old lady to a new spot, and settled down to produce 7 billion Walmart shopping, Facebooking, Coke drinking and snorting, Super Sizing, addicted to everything from cat videos to porn videos to refined, white sugar to heroin to smart phones to bowling, fucking ancestors, then you and I will have to agree to disagree. And since this is my turf, that is too bad for you.

So, there is man. He has gotten some shit done. He learned to get along with his neighbors long enough so that they could kill a mastodon, learned how to salt and dry the meat, and has plenty of food stored up. He has fired mastered. He has a sturdy shelter built. He is kicked back next to the fire he built taking a well deserved break. The old lady is off hi)s back since he got her that fur coat, like the one she saw the neighbor lady wearing. The kids are outside, smashing things with rocks. He has everything he needs. He is content. Suddenly, he thinks "What am I doing here? Where did I come from. What is this all for?"

There is the beginning of philosophy. He didn't write it down, because he had no alphabet. He left the glory for the ancient Greeks. Let one of them, some Pre-Socratic, take the title of "World's First Philosopher". He wasn't a vain man. All he wanted was a day without the threat of some awful death, a fire, a piece of dried meat, and some pussy from a pretty cavelady. A simple man, who now had the luxury of being reflective.

As you might be able to guess, I don't think religion and philosophical thinking is innate in man. I think it was added after all our other needs were met, when we could afford to waste time and energy on it. I would like to think it would be the first thing abandoned in a critical situation, which called for clear, rational thinking, but whether or not it is innate, it has now become so much a part of our characters and thought processes that even an Atheist will "Swear to God", though he doesn't know what or whom he is swearing to.

I watched a documentary last night. t was called Kumare. You should check it out. The director is a man of Indian descent (Gandhi not Tonto). He was born and raised in New Jersey, though all his family is from India, and practicing Hindus. He went to college for a Religious Studies degree, then hit a brick wall. He traveled to India to see if a journey to his ancestral homeland would spark something. He wandered through India taking part in various rituals, and studying with several Gurus. Nothing. He said none of them would tell him what he wanted to hear, and that was that the Gurus were no different than anyone else. That we were all our own Gurus, held the key to our own happiness inside of us.

Of course, the answer to why religion doesn't tell you that you are the source of your happiness and well-being, at least not the ones that survive, is obvious to me. There is no money in it.

The man's plan was to pose as Kumare, a Himalayan Guru, gain some followers, show them they held the key to their happiness, and then reveal the punchline. He started out in Phoenix, an excellent choice, with all its amateur, desert mystics and ex crystal meth addicts, both groups predisposed to latch on to some new way, no matter how far-out it is. In terms of the lengths they are willing to go and the insanity they are willing to accept as truth, it is hard to out crazy a meth-head. Not to say they were all junkies, but a couple brought it up, and there were probably a few who remained silent.

Kumare puts his plan into action. He travels to Tuscon, on the invitation to teach some Yoga classes. All his prayers, meditations, and Yoga are made up. Mostly nonsense. Jibberish. People talk about the connection they instantly had with him, the power they feel when he is around. They talk about how his Yoga moves and prayers are superior to the other Gurus they have seen. Kumare gets invitations to organic farms, religious communities, other Ashrams, health food stores, anywhere the New Age Hippyish Yuppy Seekers of the Truth can be found.

Both women and men love Kumare. They invite him into their homes. They want to visit him in India. (Though he does't live there. They can't see through his fake accent.) Pretty, young ladies want to leave their husbands for Kumare, or just have an affair with him. His plan works better than he had hoped.

Kumare gathers up fourteen of his staunchest adherents. He plans a retreat. A week of meditation and prayer, soul-searching, Yoga, bonding, and the revealing of his true self on the last day.

I forgot to mention, he hasn't been totally on his own through this. He has two women who are his assistants and first "Followers" to aid him. One is plain old white, the other is ethnically Indian. Both are American, though the Indian woman uses the same fake accent Kumare uses.

Everything is in place. The retreat is at his home and Ashram in phoenix. The retreat goes off without a hitch, right up to the reveal. He can't do it. These people have reached out and connected with him, and he can't tell them the truth. He does, like he has through the entire process, say that it is all an illusion, that he isn't a Guru, and is not who they think he is. They just believe he is being mystical and metaphoric. They are blind to the truth, even when it is directly told to them.

The retreat ends, everyone goes about their business. Kumare stays in touch with his followers, talks to them on the phone. They miss him and love him.

After some time, a reunion is planned. The fourteen disciples are gathered in phoenix. They are shown a video of Kumare revealing his true self. He is from New Jersey. He is American. He is not a Guru. Then, freshly shaven and hair cut, Kumare walks in. He explains his theory, how he wanted people to see they had a Guru inside of them, and didn't want to hurt anyone. He tells them how close he grew to feel with all of them. A few people walk out. Four of the fourteen disciples refuse to talk to him to this day.

I had two questions. (Well, three, but "I wonder if I could do this?" we will save for another discussion.) One is, "Did it make a difference that he wasn't a "Guru"? Two is, "Why did these people fall for this?" I doubt I have the answer to either, but I have something to say about both.

Basically, nothing had been changed by Kumare's revelation that he wasn't a Hindu Mountain Man. He told everyone from the start that it was all an illusion. He told them he wasn't a Guru. The fact that they chose not to believe him, or chose to believe that he was speaking mysticism, some parable about the unreality of the universe, doesn't change the truth. People choosing to believe the earth is flat does not change the reality that it is round. People got pissed, felt cheated, walked out, all because they were believing a lie, when the truth was told to them. How were they cheated? Kumare told them the only Guru they needed was themselves. His teaching never changed from day one. They weren't led to believe anything. They, themselves, chose what to believe. Why did it matter that he wasn't who he said he was if the teaching worked? They all claimed to feel better, and have better lives. That was the whole goal.

And that leads me to my answer to question two. People have to believe, it seems in something Supernatural. We see how fucked up this world is, and we can't fathom that a possible answer to our serious questions could come from it. Not all of us, but many. Most, really. How could us humans, who have created all the problems, cure them? I suppose the easiest answer is: In reverse. Unmake the problems. Work backwards to the solution. These people believed Kumare was helping them when they thought he had some Other-Wordly guidance. When they found out he didn't, what then? The problems they had were still gone. They would rather bring their problems back than admit another human had solved them.

We need to feel taken care of. Freud or Jung, someone like that, said we created God to replace the father we lost. Or that we needed an Ultimate Father of Humanity. Kind, loving, strict, supporter, giver of life, taker of life, provider, intelligence-- all the things we think of when we think of a father, we think of when we think of God. "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it." Someone who is looking out for us. He has our best interest in mind, but we might not know what that is, because we can't see what He can.

These people loved Kumare when they thought he was a mystic, and some of them hated him when they found out he was a regular guy from New Jersey. But nothing had changed. That is the craziest part. If a doctor, whom you believed went to Harvard, cured your rare disease that no other doctors on the planet knew what to do with, then told you he hadn't went to medical school, but studied on his own, would you want your disease back?

This could go on for days, and will probably get brought up again and again.

The Monroe County Library and Discretionary Policing.

While I was looking for a quiet, lonely corner to set up shop and do some writing, I happened upon another fine example of hypocrisy and selective policing. Always nice when the people with the authority arbitrarily chose how to use it. I was walking around the outside perimeter wall of the library, looking for an open desk that isn't in the middle of a crowd, preferably one with an outlet, and saw a man passed out on one of the comfortable chairs next to the wall. He looked perfectly content, his legs splayed out in front of him, a little drool on his chin. There was an employee of the library walking ahead of me, and one behind me. There was no way the didn't see him. There are also several security guards who do regular rounds, every few minutes, looking for this sort of thing. Still he sleeps. One of the security guards just walked past me, heading in that direction, one who is constant in her enforcing of the rules, and I can guarantee you he is still sleeping. If I wasn't nervous about leaving my laptop and gear around, and too lazy to put it up, I would go check.

This same thing happened two weeks ago. I was sitting at my computer, writing one of my incredible blogs. I looked over ad there was a little Asian girl passed out and drooling on her Air Mac. It was pretty obvious she was a college student, but you never know. Sometimes people I meet in here ask me what I am taking at school. Three security guards walked by, saw her, and kept going. Two other employees were helping someone look for a book about eight feet from her. None of them said anything.

What they had in common is that they both appear to be not homeless. Ironically, they were both Asian. (note to all the homeless in Bloomington: If you want to nap at the library, make yourself Asian) They were well dressed, wearing clean clothes, not  seeming to be under the influence of any intoxicants, looking fine and respectable.

So what does this mean?If you have a place to live, it is okay for you to sleep in the Monroe County, Indiana library? If you don't have a place to live, you can't. Is this fair? Is this ethical?

Background for those of you not familiar with homelessness or libraries, and, in particular, the library in Bloomington, Indiana. Lots of homeless people spend their days in libraries. They are generally warm and dry. There are computers, books, and magazines to help you pass away the day. Being in the library is much better than being freezing and bored out on the street.

I don't know about other libraries, but the library here in Bloomington doesn't particularly enjoy the fan base they have in the homeless community. I have seen someone who is homeless, or who has met the standard this library has for profiling homeless people, close his or her eyes for thirty seconds while sitting at the computer or in a chair and at least one, if not more, security guards will wake him or her, sometimes threatening to call the police.

I guess my question is why all this arbitrary policing. People in authority have too much wiggle room and discretion when enforcing rules. This isn't even a homeless/not homeless issue. It isn't deep. It is black and white. Is sleeping in the library against the fucking rules or is it not? If it is, wake everyone sleeping up. Throw them out. If it isn't, leave everyone alone. The same thing happens on the streets. the police decide who to arrest for certain things, who to pull over, who to search, who to harass. Too much gray area. Too much discretionary use of authority. Something is against the rules/laws or it isn't. Take that discretion out of the hand of the enforcers, and make them treat everyone fairly. Not by race or sex or clothing or creed or whatever else makes us diverse, unique individuals. I have on clean clothes, I take showers, I shave, I have a cellphone that wasn't given to me by Obama, I have a laptop. Do I get to sleep? Do I look homeless?

I went to a community meeting the other night. Thursday night, to be exact. The topic for the meeting was: The Indiana Penal Code Revision and its Impact on Homelessness and Prison and Jail Populations. A long name for a broad topic, which is hard to cover in a two hour period. Broad, far-reaching topics seem to be the trend in meetings right now. At least the meetings I have been going to. It is like the best way to ensure you won't have to worry about not getting your topic covered is to make it so general you couldn't possibly get it covered. No one is let down that way. This meeting had the best of intentions, but quickly went in directions not on the itinerary.

Indiana just revised its penal code for the first time since the 70's. The felonies went from classes A, B, C, and D to Levels 1-6. So there are now six classes of felonies to cover the laws and sentencing in the state of Indiana. The main goal of this revision is to supposedly reduce the number of people in state prison.

One good thing to come out of all this is that the penalties for drug possessions have been greatly reduced. Many of the lower level infractions have been changed from felonies to misdemeanors. This was done because people sentenced for misdemeanors are the responsibility of the county and not the state. The county can't just sentence them and pass them on to the Department of Corrections to deal with. The county will now have to pay for the offenders incarceration. Suddenly, locking someone up for that $20 bag of dope isn't as attractive.

The bad part is that the good-time credit earned has been changed from 50%  between 25 and 0%, depending on your crime. Again, the main goal stated by the legislature for the revision was to reduce the number of non-violent drug offenders. It used to be the case that if you were sentenced to eight years, and stayed out if trouble, you could be out in four. You received a day for a day good-time credit. You would then have parole for up to two years, and if you screwed up in those two years, you returned to finish the time of your sentence you were awarded off for good behavior. Now you are doing between six and eight years on an eight year sentence. One study has said that any reduction in the number of people in prison brought out by the restructuring of the penal code will be negated by the changes to the amount of good-time credit awarded.

Changes were also made to the time-cut programs, Inmates can complete educational and rehabilitational programs to earn an additional amount of time off their sentence. This credit used to some off the amount of time the inmate was expected to do with good-time, not it comes off the total time the inmate is sentenced to.

Confusing?

I will use my case as an example. I was sentenced under the old guidelines to twelve and a half years in prison. Without any infractions to take away my good-time credit, my earliest expected release date was in six years and three months. 50% of the time I was sentenced to. I completed a Department of Labor Apprenticeship and earned a six month credit off my earliest expected date. I also completed a program called the PLUS program, which was basically forced Christianity, but for the six month cut, I will pledge allegiance to anyone you want me to. So that is a year of cuts off my earliest expected release date. I stayed out of trouble, and got out in five years and three months.

The way that would work out now is this: I get sentenced to twelve and a half years. Say I am at the high end of the good-time scale, and am earning 25%. My earliest expected release date is in eight years and four months. If I don't get into any trouble. I can take programs, but he programs dome off the total now, not the earliest date, so I get the same programs and the same year time-cut. It comes off the twelve and a half years, so I now have eleven and a half years. I have to do 75% of that, or eight years and seven and a half months, instead of five years and three months. Fucking glad I got that out of my system before the changes.

Another problem I think will be created by all this, and I haven't heard anyone talking about, is the lose of control. When you take away an inmate's chances for good-time credit, you lose the control you previously had over him. You take away his hope. You lose your only bargaining chip. Good-time is dangled in front of an inmate like a carrot in front of a stubborn donkey. A guy will behave when he has something to lose if he doesn't. Nothing to lose, no reason to follow rules. What can they take from you? The legislature has created a dangerous situation by this, and I believe I will blow up in their faces. These changes went into effect on July 1, 2014, and only pertains to laws broken after that date. It will be awhile before the prisons start filling with people doing 75 to 100% of their time. When it happens, it will be a dangerous place for inmates and officers, even or than now. One thing I am sure will go up is assaults on staff, when people can vent their frustrations with little consequence.

We went over all this at the meeting. People were invited and encouraged to share their experiences in homelessness and of their dealings with the police. This quickly got out of hand. There were some homeless people at the meeting, most of the people were not. Most of them worked for groups which work with the homeless and felons or that were from groups trying to aid people in those situations. There were two homeless people in particular, lets call them Richard and Mary.

Richard is being called that because he was, and usually is, acting like a Dick. he was wasted. He wanted to cut everyone off, yelling about how they didn't give a shit and weren't doing anything. He wanted to fight people. This is his usual M.O. He is capable of working, but he chooses to get drunk instead. He was a disruption to a meeting where people were trying to think of ways to help people like him. He insulted the people who were working for him, doing more than he would ever do on his own to change his situation. Mary is a sadder case. She is an old woman, though probably not as old as she looks. Years of drinking and being homeless have not been kind to her. She is usually sitting downtown in Bloomington with a sign, asking for spare change. She will sit there until she gets enough money for a drink, then disappear, returning again when the bottle is gone. Mary had everyone tears, was crying herself, while she told her stories about being homeless, being harassed by the cops, and being unable to find a job. She told how she and Richard aren't allowed in the library, the cafe at the Kroger Supermarket, and the downtown bus terminal, all hotspots for the homeless to hang out. She had people ready to boycott Kroger's. The problem is, Mary and Richard are most likely not looking for jobs. I do believe there are times they are bothered by the police for no reason, because they are well known to the police. The are not kicked out of those places for being homeless, they are kicked out of them for constantly being drunk and constantly causing a scene. Myself and the rest of the people who live in this shelter patronize those places on a daily basis, with little problems.

This is a deep problem. Addiction and homelessness go hand in hand. Most homeless people do not get drunk or high and cause a scene everyday. There are even some people who have other reasons for being homeless. Mental illness, abuse, loss of family, there are a lot of ways it can happen, but in my experience, addiction is the numero uno cause for a person to become homeless.

But I don't think that means you give up, that they are lost forever. People come around when they are ready. I was a lost person for the past fourteen years. When I wasn't locked in some type of institution, I was a hopeless dope fiend. Still, I think I have more to offer society then some supposed "Good People". A person is also more likely to turn around when they have something to turn to. A job and a home might make someone more receptive to recovery, and where do you place the value? One life saved is worth how much?

This is a broad, far-reaching topic, and I have run out of time. More later.

Willa Cather, the Buddha, and Free Will

To my French reader, in my mind you are a gorgeous, French model with the most adorable accent. But if you aren't, that is cool, too. As a sometimes chef, I have a great deal of respect for your land.

The other day a friend sent me a quote by the writer, Willa Cather. I don't remember the exact words, I could look it up if I wasn't so lazy, but the idea was that, as writers, all the material we have to work with was given to us by the time we reached the ripe old age of fifteen. I don't dispute Willa Cather's intelligence or writing prowess, both obviously superior to mine, but I don't agree with that claim either.

So what do I believe?

I believe we are constantly evolving creatures. Physically, the process of evolution is much too slow for our insignificant life spans to get any meaning out of, or to even process with any real understanding of the delicate workings. We (the biologists of our race) can approximate and hypothesize, offer examples to the layman, and build a pretty solid case for the physical side of evolution. I believe it is indisputable, when looking at the facts with an open mind. But that is not what this is about, and I don't want hate mail from any creationists. This is about our mental states. Our personalities.

I don't know much about what I am getting ready to talk about, so if anyone does, they can feel free to correct me. I am always open to being educated. Reading a couple of articles doesn't make you an expert, and that is about the extent of my knowledge when it comes to psychology. However, anyone who pays any amount of attention to the day to day habits and functions of their fellow humans has at least an idea of the concepts talked about in a psychology textbook. We may not know the terminology and other esoteric nuggets of the trade, but they are talking about humans and the way we think, and we all know something about that. Unless you have been in a cave by yourself for your entire life, in which case you aren't reading this anyways. And even then, you would have an idea of how your own mind works.

It s my understanding, limited I admit, that there are two major schools of thought in psychology. Or at least there were the last time I bothered to look in an Introduction to Psychology book. Or Psychiatry for Dummies. Something like that. Anyways, I think the opposing views are called something like Behavioral and Environmental. One of them thinks our personality is predetermined, coming to use as a result of breeding. The other one thinks our environment shapes the way we behave. I lean towards the later in my belief.

There are two reasons why I am more inclined to accept the views of the environmentalist school of thought. One is that my experience in my personal life, and the lives of others I have had the opportunity to observe, pushes me in this direction.

The second is that it is too easy to form a racist or exclusionary philosophy from the views of the Behaviorist. It is no great stretch of the mind to go from better problem solving skills, language use, mathematical ability, to plain old bigotry and racial superiority. I have seen it done several times, mainly by people with well-known racial agendas, or who are allied with people who do. And they do what anyone offering examples and statistics to prove their point does, use a limited amount of data, citing only examples they believe prove their point or enhance and strengthen their position. Statistics can be skewed in any direction, and most people take them at face value without looking into them, especially when given by a supposed reputable source. In philosophy this might fall under, "The Fallacy from Authority". Someone is believed to be an expert on everything just because they hold some title or position. Would you take automobile advise from a brain surgeon over that of your mechanic? I have done some reading up on the Creationist movement, because it scares me to think that people with enough money and influence can have our children learning complete horseshit in science class, and one of their leaders falls right into this category. Them man is a lawyer, without any scientific credentials whatsoever, yet spurts out complex biological, geological, and cosmological theories. (All half understood by him) His followers take this bullshit as the gospel. Another way I have heard the weakness of statistics expressed was this: Take the statement, "There are more people killed by hogs in Indiana each year than by sharks." This statement is true as written, but what is being implied may not be true. There are no sharks in Indiana. No one gets killed by sharks in Indiana, so the statement is true. The implication that the ocean's waters are completely safe, carefree swimming holes may not be true. Depends on how much risk you are willing to accept.

So, the racist love the Behavioral theory. They will scrounge around for the one or two examples they can find where a kid was born in a low income area to a minority couple, preferably unmarried, preferably some type of criminal background, preferably on government assistance, and given up for adoption. They look for these qualifications in a child who was then adopted by a rich, preferably white, preferably educated family in Beverly Hills or Manhattan. They are only interested in the kids who failed to become a success with all these great environmental factors in their favor. Then they can turn around and say, "See, it's in their genes. They were destine to fail." They choose to ignore the huge number of children from the same background, in the same situation, who bloom and prosper. They also ignore the huge number of children with alleged "Bad Genes" who go on to college each year without the benefit of being adopted by Mr. Drummand. And they also ignore the huge number of children with "Good Genes" who end up on Skid Row, with a bottle lying next to them or a needle sticking out of their arm.

So, I disagree with Willa. I will concede that our early years and experiences can have some influence on how we view the world, but so does what happened to me yesterday, and the day before that, and ten minutes ago. Our worldview is constantly changing and evolving with the rest of our personality. You hear all the time of people having a life changing experience. Allegedly, the Buddha, Prince Siddhartha Gautama, had one that changed not only the way he saw the world, but would shape the worldview of millions of people, over thousands of years, and impact the human race as only few other people have.

The Buddha was an Indian prince who led a sheltered life. He had everything he could ever desire. He spent his life inside acres of the most beautiful gardens and jungles. He was in a walled-in utopia. He knew nothing of the outside world and its suffering. His worldview was that everything was beautiful and everyone was happy.

According to the legend, one night the young prince felt like doing some wandering. He dressed in some servants clothes, and went for a walk that would change the face of the planet. On this walk, the Buddha is supposed to have seen his first suffering. He saw beggars and starving children. He realized that life wasn't as beautiful as he was led to believe. He went back to his palace, said goodbye to his wife and son, and left. He never went back. He spent the rest of his life trying to find a way out of suffering, and help other people to do the same.

I am not saying the Buddha was right, or that you should follow him. That is your decision. I am saying that what we believe today might not be what we believe tomorrow.

Another one I used as a dual challenge is FBI profiling. I have used this when arguing against both people with the Behaviorist view and when trying to challenge the idea of Free Will. If environment has no impact on us, how can the FBI predict, with amazing accuracy, where an unknown person is likely to live, what their hobbies are, what kind of car they drive, what they like to do, what type of breakfast cereal they eat, what line of work they are in, etc? Same argument for free will. The answer to me is that the environment, which also encompasses our living situation, occupation, leisure time, and on and on shapes the person. If you know what type of person you are looking for, you work backwards to develop a theory on what they do and how they live and what type of choices they make. So, if we have Free Will, to me it is a limited version. We are free to choose within the parameters of the choices offered. If the store has only chocolate and vanilla ice cream, it does us no good to choose coffee chocolate chip gelato.

This is getting dangerously close to a whole different, more controversial talk, so I will stop here. I doubt I have answered the question posed to me, as to why I don't agree with Willa Cather, but are any questions ever really answered? The answers usually just bring more questions if you look deep enough into them. There are no guarantees around here, no reassurances.

The Madness Continues

I come back from the store at about 8:30 last night. I go to the dining area and eat my gelato. So, i am floating. That shit is so good I feel high. I head out to the smoking area for a post-gelato smoke, then go back into my room.

The light is out. I have three roommates. Two are sleeping in their beds, which is where they were when I left. One of them does an incredible amount of drugs and works the night shift, the other is Just depressed. There is a string of clothes from the lockers to my bed. I sleep on the top bunk. The guy who sleeps on the bottom bunk is kneeling on the floor, no shoes or socks, shirtless, face first on the bunk. His face is lying in a pile of Xanax bars and cigarettes. There is an empty cigarette pack and various papers there as well. He is making snoring/gurgling sounds, so I know he isn't dead.

"This is going to be exciting," I think to myself.

How to go about this? What to do? Luckily, this is my forte. I have almost as much experience as a trauma doctor in a hospital in a low income neighborhood when it comes to overdoses, near overdoses, and just plain old over-consumption. I have been here many times.

"Blank," I say. (Name omitted)

Nothing happens.

Off topic. A little side question here, because I just stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. I have noticed the little skater boys wearing these pants lately, which are skin tight in the legs, but saggy in the ass. How do they accomplish this? Do they put extra material there, or do they have no ass? Note to my old school skaters out there, if I see you wearing these I am going to laugh so hard, humiliate you any way I can, maybe want to kick your saggy ass. Back to the story.

"Blank," I say again, this time adding a kick in the ass, hard enough to rouse, but hopefully not to inspire violence.

"Ooommmphahagrdgdgdgsgsgseedsaahhhhh," he says. He moves a bit, slowly, scattering pills, papers, and cigarettes.

"Blank," I say. "Get the fuck up and clean this shit up before someone sees you. Get into your fucking bed."

There is no door on our room. There used to be but people were smoking after hours, so the doors were removed. Any staff member walking down the hall could clearly see the half naked, half on his bed dope fiend. This is a serious violation of the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy regarding drug use at the shelter. They breathalyze use once a night, at the same time every night. If you want to drink, you wait until after 9:00 pm. Drug use is a little different. Nearly everyone there is fucked up. As long as you don't stumble around causing problems, or openly display drugs or paraphernalia, you are in the clear. This scene was too blatant for even the loose policing to ignore.

"Blank," I say louder. "Get the fuck up!"

He stands up and stumbles around. Bounces from foot to foot. I don't even know if  he sees me. His eyes are glassed over like he just got hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat. I step back to give his wobbles some space.

He kneels back down and starts going through the pile of shit on his bed, all with the slow, deliberate, unsure movements of the overly indulgent. "Fuck," he says. "Where the fuck is it?"

I don't know exactly what he is looking for, but I can guess. Blank is an opiate addict. Suboxone and heroin when he can't get the cheaper, longer lasting Suboxone. I have known him for years. We have shot dope together, back before all this other stuff came around, back when we were all heroin purists. I remember when he overdosed in the bathroom of the ice cream parlor across the street from the park, and everyone got mad at him because the owner started locking the bathroom and it was the closes place to the park, where you scored, to shoot your dope. I figure he has lost a Suboxone strip or a bag of heroin.

"What the fuck," he says. He starts patting his pockets and searching through them. He walks past, bumping into me. He starts digging through the clothes scattered on the floor. "Come on. What the fuck," he says.

I decide to just step back and watch. He is breathing and moving. He isn't going to die any time soon. This could be entertaining.

He's on his knees now, going through socks and shirts. "Come the fuck on," he says. The anger, which was previously in his voice is changing to desperation. I expect at any moment he will be like the guy in the movie, on his knees, fists clenched, looking skyward, wailing, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO..................." I expect him to start crying at any second. Flailing on the ground, speaking in tongues.

He stands up, stumbles to the lockers, bounces his head off one, steps back, and straightens up. He shakes it off and opens his locker. By now, he has woken up the two other guys in the room.

"This is going to get good," is what I am thinking.

He starts digging through his locker. "Where the hell is it? Come on, Jesus," he says.

I know I am not the most civilized, religious person, but I am pretty sure Jesus has better things he could be doing than help some junky find his misplaced drugs. I could be wrong here.

His phone rings. It takes him a minute to find it, and another minute to look at the number and figure out how to answer it. "Hello," he says. "I don't fucking know. I am looking for it right now. I had three quarters. Had a half I was going to hook you up with and now it is fucking gone."

This has narrowed down the mystery. It isn't a bag of dope. Must be a Suboxone strip.

"I don't fucking know. I gave Blank a quarter, and that was the last time I saw it. I'm going to call him right now and see if he held on to it. I don't fucking know. I have to go," he says. He hangs up, wipes his nose, scratches his arm, starts dialing.

Anyone who knows anything about this knows it is over with. Nobody has ever given anyone more drugs than they intended and had them returned. What is this guy going to say? "OH yeah, I was hoping you would call. I wanted to give the rest of this back. You gave me an unfair amount." No. He is going to say, "I don't know what you did with it. You gave me mine, then you put the rest in your pocket and left."

He speaks into his phone. "What did I give you? Did I give you a half or a quarter? Blank says I gave you a half," he says. Pauses to listen. "What did I do with the rest?" Pauses again. "Well it's fucking gone. No I don't know where the fuck it is. The last time I saw it was with you." He listens for a minute. "Just look around there. Maybe I dropped it. I gotta go look for it," he says, then hangs up.

He starts digging trough his stuff again. First his locker, then the pile of shit on the bed, then his backpack. He finally cleans up all the pills, stuffs them into his cigarette pack, and puts the pack into his pocket. Then he pulls the pack out and checks his pockets again.

Another resident comes to our doorway. "Blank," he says. "Someone is out in the parking lot looking for you."

"Fuck. Shit. Goddamn," Blank says. He stumbles down the hallway and out the front door.

I get up on my bed, put a DVD in my laptop, "Untold American History" or something like that, an Oliver Stone documentary. I put my headphones on. After about ten unfocused minutes, I go outside to have a cigarette.

Blank is off to the side of the parking lot. I can see him and another guy talking under the streetlamp. There is another person sitting behind the wheel of a brand new Nissan. Blank is wearing a coat that is not his and he didn't have on when he left. He had only a T-shirt on. It is below freezing at this point. Blank is making animated gestures, waving his hands around, trying to smoke a cigarette. His little girlfriend has come out to witness the scene. Blank leaves the guy he is talking to, and the guy goes to the passenger side of the Nissan and gets in. Blank talks to his girlfriend. The guy comes running out of the Nissan. "Blank," he says. "My coat."

"Oh yeah," Blank says. He takes of the coat, hands it to the guy. He kisses his girlfriend and stumbles in the front door.

I put my cigarette out and head back in. Nothing has changed. Blank is frantically searching and cursing. "This fucking guy got my shit and we're going to have a big problem," he says, to no one in particular. "I'm going to kick his ass."

I get back up on my bed, put my ear buds back in, and hit play. Oliver continues his conspiratorial narration.

Blank stumbles around some more. Curses some more. He has turned the light on and everyone in the room is fully awake. Another person comes to our door. "Blank, there is someone in the parking lot for you," he says.

"What the fuck? Again. Are you fucking kidding me?" Blank says.

"I'm just the messenger, brother," the guy says, and walks away.

"What the fuck. Leave me alone. I'm going to fucking kill somebody," Blank says, and heads out the room. This time he remembers his coat.

I'm watching Oliver Stone tell the real story about World War Two, or what he perceives to be the real story. Who knows for sure? There is a lot of years and room for ambiguity there. I can't take it any longer. I have to see what Blank is up to. I pause Oliver and head outside for another cigarette.

He is off to the side of the parking lot again, this time with a different person. He is as animated as before, maybe more so. I catch bits and pieces. "Was going to hook you up.............Mother fucker robbed me..................Kill that son of a bitch...............Go find him." I get bored, head back to Oliver.

I am on my bed. Blank comes in. He grabs his backpack, puts it on, and leaves. "This mother fucker robbed me and I'm gonna find him." is the last thing I hear him say. This is at 11:00 pm. The latest you are allowed to enter the shelter is 10:00 pm. I don't think Blank can stand any more AWOL's, and is probably going to be kicked out.

I settled back with Oliver, content the madness was over for the night.

I was wrong.

I notice that one of my other roommates is standing up by the doorway of our room. The light is out. No one else is around. I don't know what he is doing. He comes over by my bed, and I take out one of my ear buds. "This old mother fucker is talking about me back there. Thinks I can't hear him. Wants to talk shit. Tonight isn't the night."

He goes back to the door. I put my ear bud back in. He yells, "That dude isn't in here. He went AWOL looking for some dope. Get the fuck out of the hallway and go to sleep."

Obviously Blank's girlfriend is at the end of the hallway. The women aren't allowed in the men's section.

He said this loud enough so everyone, including the staff member on duty, could hear it. Someone from the backroom says, "Listen to him fucking snitching now."

My roommate runs back. "You got something to fucking say, say it to my face."

"You're going to get your ass fucked up," the voice in the back says.

"We can take this outside right now," my roommate says.

They are both getting louder and louder.

"You're going to get your ass stabbed," the voice from the back says.

"Bring it on. Let's go outside," my roommate says.

"HEY YOU TWO," the staff member yells. "Knock it off. I'll kick you both out."

They continue to yell. The staff member yells. My other roommate jumps up and joins the yelling. The staff member gets them both into the office, tells my other roommate to go to bed, and closes the office door, but the yelling doesn't stop.

I shut off Oliver, pack up my laptop, and put it in my locker. I have had enough excitement for one day. Just another night at the homeless shelter, chillin' with my peeps, while my cozy, warm apartment sits empty in North Tonawanda.

Good time to double steal a quote. Originally a Warren Zevon lyric, but Hunter S. Thompson used to use it often. "Send lawyers, guns, and money. Dad,get me out of this."

The Submit Button

I am tired, not only physically, but mentally. Emotionally. I grow more weary with each information-less day. I am like a condemned man, waiting for a pardon. Except, I know my pardon will come, it is just a matter of when. So I should be happy, right? I have a way out. There is light at the end of the tunnel. That is correct, but every time I begin to see the light, and think I have reached the surface, the tunnel stretches. The darkness takes back over.

My life has turned into a series of ups and downs, and that is the most difficult part to deal with. If you are down, you figure out what is making you that way and change it. Or try to. My problem is the highs and lows come to quickly to deal with. By the time I have identified a low, I am back on a high. I can't keep up. I am on a low right now. Friday my Interstate Compact wash refiled, the correct way, and Friday afternoon my sister received a call from Albany NY, and the guy there said he could see the compact in the system. So I was on a high. He said we should hear from the new officer soon. I'm floating at this point. No call Monday. Tuesday is a holiday. Wednesday, no call. My sister calls the guy from Albany this morning. Thursday. The man in Albany says he can see where my officer has reprocessed my compact, but her supervisor failed to hit the "Submit" button! This is my fucking life! Being held up because someone forgot to hit a button! Back on a low. My life is becoming a goddamn Kafka story.

Something has to give. Something has to go my way. I sent a text to my parole officer to advise her of the mistake. She has actually been the one helpful person through all this, so hopefully she gets this remedied. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Trying to remain optimistic, trying to stay off drugs, trying to get my life back together, trying to focus on the things that really matter, trying to do all these and more, and getting one setback after another. All of them outside of my control.

People write and tell me I am so close, it is almost over, stick with it, you're doing great. After awhile, I can't take it. I talk to people in spurts. When I am riding a crest, I text back and forth, joke around, and then the low comes. I stop talking. I can't deal with it. These people are offering hope and support, and I don't mean to shun them, but I can't help it. We will be exchanging messages and I will disappear. I will get the "Are you there?" and "What happened?" and "Are you okay?". I get to the point where all the optimism makes me feel worse. I feel like I am going to say something I will regret if I continue our conversation, so I stop it. At least my part. Some people keep sending messages long after radio silence has been established.

I need a break. I will try to get a pass for the weekend and get a hotel room. I have to make sure my bed will still be available after the weekend or I won't be able to go, because I don't know when I will get out of here. I need a day or two where I don't have to worry that it is sixteen degrees out and 7:30 in the morning and I have to figure out what I am going to do with the next ten hours. It is exhausting. Physically and emotionally.

It is such a weird situation. If it was different, if I was homeless for real, it would be easier. I could have had a job by now and moved into an apartment. I would have school and employment to fill my days. I would seek permanent relationships with people. Right now I distance myself. I am not looking to put any roots down in this community I am not looking for a job. I am still registered for school here in January in case something goes terribly wrong. I volunteer with the Midwest Pages to Prisoners Project, sending books to incarcerated individuals. Even that, something I feel strongly about, gets old. Everything gets old. Writing is the only thing that keeps me from drinking a quart of bleach,and I struggle getting the motivation to do it. I know it is depression. I know the way out is to keep going, forcing myself to keep doing the things I know will make me happy. I don't eat. Here it is, 11:21 am, and I have consumed nothing but coffee and cigarettes. I was going to go eat two hours ago, but have yet to get motivated. I don't sleep. I stay up all night, watching DVD's or dicking around on Facebook or both. I know I have to be up in the morning. I know I need my rest. I still stay up, because, as crazy as this sounds, when I get back to the shelter I can finally relax. I don't have to worry about where I am going. Home sweet home.

Part of the reason for my slacking is the fact that once I get motivated to leave a place I figure to figure out where I am going and where I will go after that. I was walking by the store this morning, where I buy my cigarettes. I only had about six left in my pack, but I thought, "That will give me something to do later. If I buy cigarettes now, that is one less thing I have to do." I don't have to worry about managing my time, I have to worry about how to mismanage it. Get the least amount of efficiency I can. The other day I had to get something to eat. it was about 3:30 pm. I was right next to the grocery store, but I walked all the way across town because the shelter doesn't open back up until 5:15 pm. I had a couple of hours to burn. That is how I spend my life right now, figuring out the best way to waste it.

And I have been in this situation before. The last time I was released from prison. I stayed in the same place. I got a job right away, and moved out in less than a month. This time is different. This time is a waiting game. I have to stagnate until I am given the word that I can move forward with my life. I have to wait for someone to remember to hit the fucking SUBMIT button, and let the computer know I am ready to start processing my life.

And, because I have been in this situation before, I am losing patience with my fellow residents. It is getting increasingly difficult to remain compassionate and understanding. Some of these people have jobs, some of them are looking, and some of them never will. The hardest part is keeping myself from getting angry with the people who have jobs but waste all their money on drugs and the people who won't look for a job. I am supposed to be helpful. I did a fucking radio show trying to support these people. I volunteer with other projects with the goal of helping the incarcerated and homeless. And then I talk shit about them. You are allowed 120 days at the mission during each calender year. Some of the residents have less than a month left, have had a job the whole time, and don't have a dime in their pockets.These people are days away from being out in the cold twenty-four hours a day, and have made no preparations.

I understand there are problems I can't see. No one has had an easy life, especially no one currently residing in a homeless shelter. But you have to step up to the plate at some point. There could be abuse issues or depression, things I can't see, so I try to keep that in mind. Most of them have addictions to feed. Even if they were to get a job, they wouldn't keep it. People don't quit until they are ready. And if spending a few nights in the cold saves the rest of their lives, then I guess it is a good thing. I took a painfully fucked up path to my understanding, so who am I to judge?

And I can't even motivate myself to go to the grocery store and pick up the money waiting for me at the Western Union, or go eat breakfast. How can I talk about anyone else?

So that's it. A little explanation for those of you who were wondering. I will go on vacation this weekend, get a room, try to relax, maybe write something better, meditate, masturbate until I can't move my arms. AH, good times will come again.

Dissatisfaction

We find ourselves in a vulnerable position and we become clingy, ready to latch onto anyone or thing which shows us any attention. This could happen after any major, life-altering event. A divorce, or just a break up after long relationship. Maybe not even a break up, but a fight or a change in the atmosphere of a romantic relationship. A death of a loved one. A move to a strange location. Loss of our source o financial stability. Release from prison. Add whatever reality bending event you want to this list.

I am in just such a position. I am bored and dissatisfied with my life. My weakness is at an all time high. I don't even know when I will be able to return home, for Christ's sake. I wander the town like some alms begging monk in search of enlightenment. Sometimes I am rewarded. Sometimes the veil is lifted, and for a few brief moments I understand. Usually I am in a fog.

People break through this fog. They come out from their hiding spots in the distant past to offer some comfort, a needed respite for a weary traveler. But some of them want something in return. Some of them want things I can no longer provide.

Is it because misery loves company? People are dissatisfied with their lives, so they seek out like minded individuals with the hope that two miseries make a comfort. It doesn't work. I can tell you that from experience.

But you feel for these people. You are weak yourself. You think maybe, so you get caught up in what ifs and if onlys. This is especially true if you and this person have a shared romantic past. This makes the situation harder to avoid, and easier to get stuck in once you have taken the bait. You can't shake the hook. You get involved in late night messaging sprees, waking up in the morning hoping to see their name when you check your messages. maybe you click over to their Facebook page several times a day to look at their pictures, conveniently overlooking the pictures of them with their significant other, smiling, arm in arm. because the pictures don't tell the real story, this person tells you. There is no joy. There is no love.

The future and the past are the only topics in these situations, because there is no now for you. If only we had done this in the past, you say. If only we had done that, the other person says. We will do this differently in the future. We will be different. It is going to be great. We will live happily ever after.

This is why these relationships are not real. Reality happens in the here and now, and if you have no here and now, you have nothing. The past is an illusion, painted whatever color suits the purpose of our memories. The future is pure speculation. Speculation and illusions are the domain of dreams, not reality. You can't base a life on them.

But what if it comes true? You say to yourself. These things happen. You also tell yourself that these things don't happen more often than they do, but you don't listen to that as easily. It is easier to live than to dream.

I have found myself in this same situation more than once in the past month. I guess it is a product of coming to social media at a much later date than all your relatives, and all the people you grew up with. It is not limited to romantic fantasy either. People want all types of emotional band-aids, and come looking for people to apply them. And I try, but I can't always do it. I have my own problems right now, too many of them to try fixing someone else's. It is difficult. There is a fine line between compassion and the over exertion of your emotional muscles. I tried to walk that line, but I don't know if I can. Too hard to not care.

Oldie but a Goodie

This is an old one. A couple of you still around from the Myspace days may remember it, but I couldn't weave a tale back then like I can now. A couple of you are more intimate with the story. My sister will roll her eyes at having to sit through it again, but I can't help it. It is a good story.

I was working at Mother's. The late shift. I went in around 6:00 pm and closed the kitchen at 3:00 am. This particular night I wasn't feeling too good. I had shot some dope before my shift, but it was starting to wear off. It doesn't last long enough. Never does. It was about 12:30 am when the story starts.

I went out to the bar to see what the dining room looked like. Even though we were open until the wee hours, on the weekdays we rarely had any action after midnight. My father was sitting at the bar. I went up and started talking to him. Things were not going so great at the time. I had recently left Indiana, my sister coming to pick me up and bring me back home. I was living with her in Riverside. (Anybody notice a pattern here?)

I had a good conversation with my father, though most of my part of it was lies. I felt guilty, but that only goes so far when you have a heroin addiction to feed. You feel things like guilt and remorse, but you can't act on them. Guilt and remorse, if acted on, will stop you from achieving you goals. OS you block them out. We talked about me turning it around, the old other side of the leaf talk. He told me I could do it, but it was up to me to be honest and quit with the bullshit. He asked me how I was getting home, and I said probably walk. Mother's is on Virginia Street on the West Side. It is a long walk to Riverside. In those days, I would usually head over to the Old Pink after work, find a friend to give me a ride home, or, more likely, find some kind, drunk woman who was willing to share her bed with me. If I struck out, I waited until 5:00 am, when the buses started running. He gave me $20.00 for a cab.

To this day, I think my father knew what I would do. All my lies weren't bullshitting him. He is an old pro. Maybe it was a test? Maybe it was a sympathetic gesture. I don't know.

I finished cleaning up. I was ready to go by 2:30, and stared at the clock for the last half an hour. The anticipation was evil.

I left and walked a few blocks to this guys house, someone I had met, who always knew where to find dope. He was nodding out on his couch. He told me the usual spot was closed down for the night, and to just hold on for a couple hours until the McDonald's on Niagara Street opened. There used to be a couple of old guys who sat there every morning from six in the morning until they sold out for the day, usually around nine. The usual spot never closed down, but he didn't need any dope, so he wasn't going to go out of his way. Had he been sick, he would have jumped up.

Dana (real name, sure he will never read this, even if he is still alive) said I could always go to Sisco's (also real name, same circumstances). This was a sketchy idea at best. Dealing with Sisco was always an adventure. The last time I had been there, he was hanging out his window (the same window which will feature prominently later in this story), pointing a shotgun at anyone who happened down that particular stretch of Maryland Avenue, and talking about how "They" were coming to get him. But, he had a shitload of crack, and was being very generous that night. Before long, I was pointing out suspicious parties for him to train his shotgun on.

Some background on Sisco. Two weeks prior to this night, at about two in the morning, I was sitting on Dana's porch, enjoying the warm spring night and the heroin strolling through my body. Because that's what it does: Strolls. People always say coursing or rushing through my veins. That is crack or meth. Heroin strolls. It is a thinking man's high. A gentleman's high. Anyways, we were sitting there, on the porch. A few blocks down a man was crossing Maryland. A car comes, slowly, around the corner, lights off. Anyone who has ever seen Colors or Boys in the Hood, no matter how white you are, knows what it means when a slow moving car is cruising around the hood at two in the morning with its lights off. When the car got parallel with the guy crossing the street, a flash and a loud burst, then the squealing of tires. The guy flew from the middle of the street to the sidewalk. One of his shoes was still in the street. he was dead before he landed. Point blank shotgun to the chest. This was about a week after I had sat at Sisco's watching him wave a shotgun.

The next day the rumors started. And they weren't too hard to believe. The one part that I know was true is that the victim was Sisco's little brother. His brother was a higher up in the local drug game. More truth was that Sisco's brother had been fronting him large amounts of drugs, and Sisco had been doing more than he had been selling. The rumor was that Sisco had pulled the trigger to erase his debt, and now his brother's boys were coming after Sisco.

So, this was a sketchy proposition to go to his house at 3:30 am. This was always a gamble as to what insanity would be going on, and now it was a potential homicide scene. And I would be the only white boy for miles around, not the type of witness likely to be left living.

But Sisco always had dope. I needed dope.

I walked down to Sisco's, walked up the stairs, and knocked on the door. After he asked who I was, he let me in. He kept a beam across the door, and only opened it for people he knew. Everyone else put their money through a hole in the door and got their drugs the same way. I was one of the privileged frequent shoppers.

I got my dope and started to cook up a shot. When I was done with my shot, there was a knock at the door. Sisco asked who it was. "Mike," was the reply. Sisco must have known this guy, or at least thought he did, because he removed the beam and opened the door.

Mike didn't look exactly happy or sane. He was pointing a shotgun at us. He was a fat black man with nappy looking dreadlocks and gold teeth. He had a glassed over, been up for too many days smoking crack look about him. This was not a good situation. I have had this experience a couple times in my life, and it is not something you get used to. Maybe if you are a Navy Seal or a trained assassin, but I doubt it.

Sisco stalled, then started wrestling around with Mike. I went to the living room and out the window the shotgun was usually pointing out of. There was a wooden awning over the front door, and I stepped down onto it. I jumped off the awning, maybe eight feet. I hit the ground, fell, and knew something was wrong, but the adrenalin and dope kept me going. For a minute. I stood up, ran about ten feet, felt the worst pain of my life, and fell flat on my face. I couldn't stand back up.

I crawled around the house. The shotgun went off. I had visions of police, crime scene investigators, that police tape strung all over, and Mike coming upon me in the backyard, while making his escape, and finishing me off. I crawled to the end of the backyard. No police came. No Mike. There was a fence and a telephone pole at the back of the yard. I had to climb up the telephone pole, get on top of a garage, then hang and drop, trying to avoid my feet. This was the worst pain I have ever been in. When I dropped off the garage, and hit the ground, I thought I was going to pass out. I had to crawl the block and a half to Dana's house. It took me about two hours. I had to stop every few feet to keep from passing out. I heard sirens nearby and hid under a car, but they passed. When I came out from under the car, some chick was walking by. It scared the shit out of the both of us. All I could say was, "I think I broke my ankle."

I finally made it to Dana's and convinced some guy to drive me to the hospital. My ankles were the size of my thighs. Swollen, angry purple and black.

When I got to the hospital, they made me sit until eight when the orthopedic surgeon came in. He looked at my ankles and said, "Oh yeah, they're broken." Finally a nurse came in with a gigantic needle. "You're not allergic to any pain medicine, are you?" She said. "No. Please hurry," I said. She gave me a shot in the ass, and I drifted off.

I had shattered my left heel, broke my right ankle, and broke my right foot. The doctor said it was the worst break he had seen in quite some time. All from an eight foot drop. I would dive head first off shit like that when I was a kid.

Where does it all come back to? You guessed it. My sister. The nursing staff had to call my sister into fill out my paperwork. Due to the huge amounts of opiates required to control my pain, which was due to my inhuman tolerance to them, I couldn't hold a pen or answer basic questions without falling asleep.

Good thing you don't have any kids, Jess. They wouldn't get much attention with me around.

Hopelessness and optimism

I'm not sure where this is going today. I am in a weird mood. I am depressed and tired, yet I am happy and optimistic. Maybe I need some fucking Prozac or something similar. Maybe I am manic depressant.

Tried to do the Old Tyme thing and switch to rolling my own cigarettes. Purchased a pouch of American Spirit 100% additive free, 100% organic, American gown tobacco. I figured I could save a few dollars, help the environment, and support independent farmers. Three things I am all for. Down side: I feel like I am going to throw up every time I smoke one, and I can't roll a cigarette to save my life. So much for being Old Tyme and compassionate.

I am tired. So tired. I am tired of living in a homeless shelter while my apartment sits empty, waiting for me. I am tired of wandering around all day, bouncing between coffee shops and restaurants, wasting money. I am tired of trying to portray a happy, hopeful man, while I am giving up more and more with each passing day. I am tired of the government and all their red tape. They won't have to worry about transferring my parole, because, by the time they get around to it, I will be discharged. It gives you a good understanding of the thought process behind the mind that decides to take a U haul truck packed with ammonia nitrate, blasting caps, and a timer and park it in front of the closest government building. (To my friends under the mountain in Utah, I don't condone that type of activity, just blowing off steam.)

The madness continues at the shelter. The moods and attitudes vary with the types of drugs available and the financial stability of the residents. when the drugs aren't around or they are out of money they mostly sleep. Other days they can't sit still.

The thing that still gets me the most confused is the couples living there. I can't even imagine. One couple in particular. They are both super nice and super caring. They ask me how my day went, and take time to listen to my problems, when they have enough of their own. They are undeserving of the hand life has dealt them. They were married in the beginning of July and lived with her sister and her sister's husband. At the end of July (two weeks after the wedding), the sister split up with her husband and they were kicked out. She works at a fast food establishment and he is on disability. He just found a job where he is allowed to sit down, and they are working with an agency to get an apartment. I saw them yesterday morning walking down the alley, arm in arm. They looked like any other adorable couple, then I remembered their situation and my heart broke. I wish I had the money to help them out. They deserve better.

Why is it that the hottest chicks are always with the biggest tools? There is a chick in here who is so incredibly beautiful I want to rip my heart out, walk up to her, and hand it to her. She is with a cowboy boot wearing, state trooper looking douche bag.

So I try. I plod along. I put one bored, miserable foot in front of the other. Time passes, I get older, hopefully wiser. I think about the positive. I am having dinner with my beautiful daughter tonight. I have people who support and care for me. This will pass. I will come out on top. There are people who are worse off than I am. I have a way out.

But it doesn't always work. Sometimes the demons creep in. I look around my surroundings. There are people who have been in the situation I am in for years. I don't know how they do it. There are younger people who are just starting out, but will probably bounce from hopeless situation to hopeless situation for the rest of their lives.

This is short, but I am done complaining. And I have another post almost done and ready to go, so I will most likely put that up today too.

Prison

How about some prison stories to get rid of my new, softer image? A little incarceration goes a long way when looking to rebound your street cred.

Some common misconceptions.

The average outsider has two ideas about prison. The first one is of the old school penitentiary with thirty foot, stone walls, castle looking, tiny cells that are filled with rats and filth. They imagine this place as damp, dark, and dangerous. A place with roving bands of white men with swastikas on their foreheads and kill whitey black Muslims, looking for innocent rape victims. They think you run the risk of getting stabbed to death on your way to pick up your breakfast tray each morning. Death and destruction lurk around every corner.

The second idea is of the feed the deer, play tennis, live better than most people on the outside, Federal Penitentiary. Golf courses, swimming pools, lobster and steak in the dining hall. The place where corrupt judges and Martha Stewarts go.

The reason for these images is the media. This is what they choose to show when they are covering prison. This is where the drama is. These are the places that will boost your viewership or readership.

These places, or something similar to them do exist. The are the opposite ends of the prison system continuum. Most of the thousands of people entering prison each year will never see anything like either of these places. Most new fish will end up somewhere in the middle of this continuum.

The average medium security prison may or may not have guard towers. If it doesn't it may have an electric fence to go along with the chain link and razor wire. There aren't any cells. You live in an open dorm the size of a small gymnasium. There is usually anywhere from 150 to 300 people crammed in there with you. Third World conditions. Every body odor imaginable, from feet to breath to ass to armpits fills the air. Many of your roommates aren't super big on maintaining basic hygiene. Many of then don't wash their clothing or bedding. You get so used to the funk inside the dorm that it starts to smell weird outside to you.

Boredom. This is why they don't make HBO series about places like this. You spend most of your day just sitting or laying around.

You can get a job or work some program. For most of my tears I held the same job, not the same job, but in the same area. I worked in the prison industries building. You have three options in prison you can not work, you can work for the facility and get paid $0.98 per day. Yes, that's cents. For this princely sum you will be expected to scrub toilets several times a day or bust your ass in the kitchen, for the Aramark Corporation, for eight hours a day. You can choose to not work, but most of the jobs are tied up with the time cut programs, so if you want to get a reduction off your sentence you will work, even if you are independently wealthy.

A little diversion. This is getting boring anyways.

I am at the Yuppies, Huey Lewis and the News on the house music coffee shop and bakery. I came here for a cup of mushroom and chicken soup and a chicken salad sandwich. I come here a few times a week. There is a guy sitting next to me, in the same spot he is always in. I am also in my usual spot. The reason for this is that this place has a limited supply of electrical outlets. This man is writing a novel on his laptop. He types for a few minutes, then stops and reads out loud what he has just written. Then he picks up his phone and calls whomever it is he calls, and rereads what he has just written. He talks about what he has done, what he is trying to do, and how good it is all going. The book sucks. His writing is dry as a plain saltine. The main character in the book is a boy named Ogden. What the fuck exciting and entertaining have you ever heard of happening to someone named Ogden? He named his main character after a Yuppie skiing village in Mormon controlled Utah.

Had to get that out.

This was the most awkward, uncomfortable time of my career as an inmate. There was a couple days of some serious racial tension. These things happen from time to time. The prison administration had even called in extra guards. I don't remember what this particular incident was over. Could have been drugs and money, could have been a gambling debt, could have been something even stupider. Anyways, the night before this discomfort, I had eaten a big bowl full of nachos, covered in jalapeno cheese and jalapenos. It was time for all this to exit my body. The Vice Lords (African American gang from Chicago, big in Midwestern prisons, for the uninitiated) were having a meeting in the bathroom. The bathrooms in prison being the place you go to do things you don't want the guards or cameras to see. So I tried to hold it. But I couldn't. The bathrooms in prison are wide open. You shit, shower, and shave in front of anyone in there. There were about twenty-five Vice Lords in there. The prison was in the tailgate party for a potential race war. I had to shit. When I couldn't hold it, I went in. All the talking stopped. I walked over, dropped the sweatpants, and took a seat. Now, I am cool with most of these guys under regular circumstances. I was fairly close with their Shot Caller (leader), but these were not regular circumstances. When the line is drawn in prison, everyone knows where they stand. They went back to whispered talking. I let out an ass burning dookey. Had I been a rival gang member, or someone who was known to hold racist beliefs, it would have been a bad situation. I would have shit my pants before I went in there.

Murderers. That is the question I get asked all the time. "You weren't in a place with, like, murderers and people like that were you?' Yes. Some of the nicest people I have met in my life were murderers. That is the answer I give. Ninety something percent of the people who enter prison in this country will be released, which is why this country is stupid for cutting educational and rehabilitation programs in its prisons. Do you want thousands of uneducated, unskilled felons returning to society each year? I don't.

As usual, this has gone off topic, and not made much sense. You are used to that. I just felt like I needed to get a little toughness back after all these sentimental posts. I have been focusing on women too much, which is why I had to send a shout out to one of the bros yesterday.

Which brings up another point. My writing can be obsessive and somewhat objectifying when it comes to women. Much of it centers on what a fuck up and how unreliable to women I have been. Here is the part I don't understand: The worse it gets, the more women seem to write me and tell me how much they like my writing. It's like all those years you were telling me you just wanted me to open up, you weren't lying...................................................................................

Bardos (An Ode to Lincoln Shivers)

First I would like to give a warm welcome to my newest international readers. The Italians have come on board. A warm welcome. Feel free to send me some truffles and a bottle of 100 year old Balsamic, if you have any lying around.

An early morning text from Lincoln Shivers has given me today's topic. Dan, you continue to inspire me.

In Buddhist philosophy there is a Tibetan word: Bardo. Like most Buddhist terminology, it has a Sanskrit cousin. Probably a Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Nepalese, and several other translations in several other languages. Also, like most other Buddhist concepts, it has more than one definition. We are concerned with only one of those today.

A Bardo is a window or door. More accurately, windows or doors. They are important, specific locations on the space time continuum. Opportunities for major Karmic impact. A crossroads for all the blues and Ralph Machio fans. They are a point where you have a decision to make. You may have only two options, or you may have several. But they are more important than what flavor nondairy creamer to use to attempt to make your crappy gas station coffee taste good. These are decisions that are going to affect your life or the lives of others or both. Cosmic scale decision making.

Bardos vary in their weights and potencies, their impacts adjusted accordingly. Some we never notice, and some have us wondering what the fuck we were thinking. Most are somewhere in the middle. The two major Bardos of Buddhism are birth and death, but we are talking about the lesser variety. All affect us whether we realize it or not.

It is not too difficult for us to look back through the years and observe the major Bardos of our lives. Maybe you're like me, prone to rash decision making, and you regret most of them. Maybe you have been smarter with your choices, and have no regrets. Or you could be one of those liars who say, "I have no regrets. Everything happens for a reason." Save the bullshit for someone else. We all know you have things which haunt you whenever the lights are out and your head hits the pillow. You are not human if you don't.

I happen to share the major Bardo of my life with my friend, Lincoln Shivers. I believe he would consider it his, too, which makes it even more special. Two friends sitting on the cusp of a momentous decision and making it together. There is chain link connecting the two of us that no bolt cutters could ever sever. If we live a million lives, that chain will stretch on into infinity, affecting all those eons of existence. And it all started with a shared hit of acid at the Old Pink.

Shivers and I were hanging out. Neither of us was doing anything worthwhile at the time. He was working at the Red Lobster by the Transit Town Mall, and I was sort of working  as an ironworker. Dan was living with his father, and I with mine. My heart had recently been broken when Nikki Mitchell decided to dump me for another guy. (Everybody send her vicious, slanderous messages. No don't. This would never have happened if she hadn't dumped me, and we wouldn't be here. Everything is connected.) We were your basic 1994 early twenty-something slackers.

This seems to be the theme of my life lately. You can't escape the past, especially in this day and age. Could you ever? In the cyclical version of time, there is no past, present or future. There is only now. Everything goes in a circle, is connected, so who is to say if what you're doing now came before or after what you did yesterday? The future we are waiting for could have happened in the past, we are just now catching up to it. Sit and think about that at night while you lay there listening to your partner snore. Give you something to do besides wish you had been more selective with the person you chose to spend eight hours a day in bed with.

So Shivers and I share our major Bardo. Copilots in a barely running Mustang LX that made it all the way to infinity. That one decision, made over a communal hit of acid, set the direction for the rest of out lives. I suppose you could say Nikki's dumping me led to the decision to move, but I didn't make that decision, Nikki did (Bitch!), so it can't possibly be my Bardo. The thing about them is you have to be the person making the choice.

This is great, Shivers. I wake up to a mile long message on my phone, and now I am thinking. Teaching even when you aren't.

Some highlights of the trip:

We didn't actually leave that night. It wasn't completely spur of the moment. The decision was, the execution wasn't. But we had decided to go, and we stuck with it. We spent a couple days with Carrie and Sandy, both of whom are wonderful ladies I haven't seen in a long time.

We went to my father's house to grab my clothes. We went to Dan's father's house to get his. We also grabbed a cooler and raided the fridge. We took a bottle of Absolut Vodka from the liquor cabinet to drink upon reaching our destination, Key West, Florida. The end of U. S. Highway 1. Mile marker 0. Where the sidewalk ends.

We stopped at a rest area in North or South Carolina to grill some boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Dan had one of those small, gas fueled grills in the trunk of his car. I think we had some mayonnaise and cheese. Cars flying by us. The sun out.

We made it Key West in the middle of the night. We pulled off the road, onto a fishing spot on Stock Island, and slept. The next morning we drove into town, discovering the Foot of Simonton Street. There is a tiny beach, a boat launch, and a public restroom there. It is on the Gulf side of the island, and probably the nicest swimming hole in Key West, made even nicer because the homeless people gather there to bathe, us the restroom, and get intoxicated, scaring all the tourists away. We pulled the grill out, cooked some brats (I think), and busted out the celebratory bottle of vodka. It was fucking water! Dan's brother, Ken aka Captain Freedom, had previously drank all the vodka and replaced it with USDA Grade A water.

We met too many people to do a roll call. The first person we met was Brian, who showed us around pointing out the places where the locals hung out for cheap booze and food. He showed us the Southernmost Deli, which would become our daily hangout. We met Bernadette, who hailed from Perth, Australia, and I would end up dating after she joined Dan and I on Fall Tour 94. We met Barbara The Lady of Ill Repute. She had a liberal moral agenda and unique social skills.

But this isn't about what we did or who we met. That story is around and will be told one day, but this is about the fact that we did something, not the facts about what we did.

I am so easy to go astray and off topic.

Dan and I changed the future with one unsober decision. We are bound together by that decision, for better or worse. No court of man can divorce us from it. Our lives went on from their. We separated, had brief reunions, and soon will be reunited for what will most likely be a long time. We are partners on this journey because of our choice to choose together. And he is a pretty good travel mate.

Mood Today

I am in a mood today, not sure what kind yet because I am only half way through my first cup of Black Beard's Blend organic, fair-trade coffee, but I think it is going to be a good one. My spirit is optimistic. One drawback: I am at my favorite coffee shop, where I am the only person, it seems, without a little white or pastel or silver, sticker covered Air Mac. I need some stickers for my laptop. Not looking rebellious enough, and the heater in here must be set on sweat lodge. the coffee and atmosphere are excellent as always, though.

Some things I have been noticing lately:

Wasn't I excited to find out I was released from prison in the middle of a full-blown tight pants epidemic! They are everywhere. Soccer-moms, tiny Asian girls, yuppies, red-necks, punk rocker chicks, hipsters, cheerleader types, big girls, skinny girls, bag ladies, women going to church, women going to hell, women in the coffee shop, women at the bus stop, lawyers, Wendy's register workers, black girls, white girls, all the shades in between girls, every woman, it seems, is in the tightest pants she can squeeze into. Black stretchy pants, multi-colored stretchy pants, jeans, cords. Nine out of ten pairs of pants are skin tight. Some of them uncomfortably so, it looks. Ladies, I am totally on board. This is the greatest idea since man decided to climb down from the trees and give cave dwelling a go. (creationists, please no evolutionary debates) I'm with you when you ladies on this one. Not too often we find something we 100% agree on, but maybe this is the start of a new trend.

Speaking of women, the red head who works at the school I walk by every morning hasn't been there all week. Perhaps she is on vacation? Perhaps she is conveniently busy at the same time I walk by each morning? I am not a stalker. I walk by, keeping the same pace, glance and admire, and continue on. I believe the statutes require more than a once daily passing to show Intent to Stalk. If there is such a law, which I am sure there is. Maybe Conspiracy to Stalk?

My chore this morning was to clean the bathroom. The suspicious pile of toilet paper was in its usual spot, wadded up next to the toilet. The bathroom closes at 7:30 cleaning. This is the time most of the residents remember they have to take a shit or brush their teeth or take a shower or masturbate or shoot their dope. Everyone wants to bitch that the bathroom is always dirty, but no one wants to stay the fuck out of it for five minutes so it can get cleaned. Communal living is so much fun! Is your family like this? Insanity and addiction makes for the funnest mornings.

Yesterday, I am at the library. There is an Asian girl passed out on the desk she is sitting at, drooling on her Air Mac. Even snoring gently. Three security guards walk by. Two library employees are helping someone find a book five feet away from the sleeping lotus flower. Nobody says a thing. I have seen homeless, or what you would associate as homeless-- dirty clothes, lots of them, bag of scavenged cigarette butts hanging out of pocket, given up, hopeless look in their bloodshot eyes --person close their eyes for thirty seconds, and no less than two employees will be hovering over them saying, "If you close your eyes again we're calling the police." Maybe the homeless should start disguising themselves as beautiful, young lotus flowers.

There is a proportional equation which can be drawn up to calculate the link between the dropping temperatures and the dropping numbers of the bible and dead fetus picture waving people outside of the Planned Parenthood location here in Bloomington. I guess the lesson here is, if you want to have a slightly less stressful abortion have it in the winter.

I spoke to my childhood best friend, Tristan, last night. I sent him a message with my number a couple weeks ago, and hadn't heard from him, so I imagined I wouldn't. He is not on Facebook much, was the reason. We talked for two hours. I have had my phone for a month now, and haven't talked a total of two hours. Texted yes, talked no. It was awesome. It was like the years of separation hadn't occurred. It blows me away that the bond that was formed thirty years ago, over BMX bikes and Duran Duran posters, is as strong as ever. This has been happening to me fairly regularly lately. This is the one benefit to Facebook for me. (Other than posting my worst moments for all to read, pissing people off, making fun of Joe Hollywood, flirting with Taco Person, etc.)

I have an address now. A homeless person who has a home. It is on seventh street in North Tonawanda. I have a parole meeting today at 2:15, and hope to get this mess moving in the direction of me going to my home. I will not tell you the address, because I sometimes say inappropriate things to people's wives. I am sorry. I can't help it. I am sure she still loves you and her late night texts to me mean nothing. Husbands, please don't beat me up. God made me this way.

I feel loved, which is something I haven't had to deal with in a long time. I forgot what a pain in the ass it is. Seriously, I have had so many people-- relatives, old friends, ex-loves, people I barely remember-- writing me to offer their support. It is getting hard on this old skeptic to remain a skeptic.

But there will be madness, don't worry. I am in a reflective spot in my life right now, and mood affects my what I write about. I wish I hadn't sent my prison journals back to Buffalo with my sister, sure there are some fun tales in there for your reading enjoyment. I feel like I am pussing out on you guys, but bear with me. Things will get back to their normal insanity inspired ways. Hopefully I will find something out today, which will be a big relief.

For now, there is beauty and reflection everywhere. On the B-Line trail this morning saw a breathtaking red head walking two Dalmatians and wanted to cry. The woman who manages this coffee shop-- long, dark hair, pristine, milky skin, nerdy glasses --is so terrifyingly special to look at that I fumble for my money and say, "Mug, please." I can barely look her in her quicksand, blue eyes, for fear I'll never look away.

It is 10:00 am and the coffee on an empty stomach is getting to me. I need to go eat. Once this parole meeting is over, and I am hopefully feeling optimistic, I may have to write some insanity. My sister has sent me a dohicky to get on the internet back at the Funny Farm (have any of you readers ever wondered where I would be without my sister? I have.), so I will be able to observe the insanity and write about it in real time.

I'm out of here.