Julio, I See You

If you're anything like The Cousin, you're an observer of life. You walk through the world like a hushed shadow, but your eyes are in a constant state of panoramic.  It's a comfortable way of being for her. It feels like an old, soft, washed-out pair of denims; the ones you want to wear every day, even if they haven't been laundered in a while...
Stop. Take notice. Process. Ponder. And for god's sake, perform these tasks in silence because when you're out in the world, the world is much too noisy.

I never was that kind of kid. I couldn't adhere to such characteristics in adolescence nor adulthood either. Speak first. Shove entire size 8 shoe into mouth after.

But as I enter what society has termed "middle age," I'm morphing a bit... Stop. Take notice. Process. Ponder. Listen. Bite tongue. Learn something.

When I look around at humans, I readily see both kinds: the observers and the engagers.
I want to be more like The Cousin. I've encountered so many people, whose names will go unmentioned, that tend to feel they have a lesson to teach us all. It's a common occurance. Have you ever been sharing something of your life; perhaps a situation, an opinion, a dream, and I'll be damned if "the engager" fires back with an answer (THEIR answer) which usually has everything to do with THEIR experience, THEIR opinions and THEIR advice. They seem to know that you'll be better off listening to THEM. It's as if, while you are speaking, you can almost see their response-words excitedly dancing on the tip of their moist little tongue, which is poking out of their half-opened mouth.  THEY ARE NOT LISTENING TO YOU! They're preparing, editing, revising their script for THEIR next reading, which translates to a lecture.

If you're not born with the gift of listening and observing, you have work to do. One of the reasons I'm interested in interviewing people, is I want to improve my listening skills. I want to cross over to the observer side of life. I want to follow in The Cousin's footsteps.

There's a man who sits on the brick ledge in front of the downtown post office. It's difficult to determine his age and ethnicity. People who live on the streets appear older than they actually are. Weather, I suppose. Weather and worry.
He's sun-drenched from years on the street. His face is leather brown, his hands boney and curled.
He's quiet. He doesn't have a sign with words like ANYTHING WILL HELP or GOD BLESS YOU. He's always hunched over in his layers of jackets, the color of Army fatigues. When he does look up, his eyes cut through me like the point of a serrated knife. Sometimes, I observe him from across the street. I notice people walk right by him. Most do not give eye contact.
They look right through him.
He's faceless to them.

They look down or pretend to be on their IPhones or turn their heads the other way.  It must feel more comfortable for them to remain in their own world; a world where hungry, homeless, drunk people do not exist. When I have a $5, I give him a $5. When I have a single, I give him a $1.
He always says, "Thank you." That's it.
I like that.

I know that my small amounts of money won't get him off the streets. I also know the streets might be exactly where he wants to be; as comfortable for him as the soft, old jeans I spoke of earlier. I know he may spend his money on booze or something else that makes some people hesitate to give anything. He's quiet. That's my draw to him. Something inside of him is shy, distant, discreet.  What was he like as a child? Did he start out lively, talkative, sure of himself, only to be hushed, crushed by someone or a chain of events?  If I gave him $20 bucks, if I knew his name, if I offered him a hot meal and a shower...It would all be a band-aid and yet, he sits in my neighborhood, hunched over and silent.

That nudges me to inquire about his story because he has one.  They/we/you/me...we all have one.

I pretend his name is Julio. I imagine he was once a vibrant child who loved to play with trucks. I wonder if he had dreams of being a football player or a musician.
I ask myself, is he a father, and if so, where are his kids? Did he abandon them? Do they hate him? Or are they looking for him but he cannot bring himself to re-appear in their lives, not in the state he's in. Was Julio in Viet Nam? Desert Storm? Did the sound of exploding bombs and the sight of death snatch his sanity?
Why do I give a shit? Why this unexplainable fascination of mine?
I actually don't know. Not really. Maybe it's because no one tells his story. You tell yours. I tell mine. We tell our stories everyday. We share our daily lives through social media, by phone, at cocktail parties, on long walks with friends.  How easily we forget that we are constantly sharing our daily lives, our "memoirs" if you will, with others and from that sharing, we get recognition, validation and even pleasure from the interactions with others...
Engage. Observe. Share. Listen.

I have this fantasy about asking him to sit with me at a small outdoor cafe next to the post office. Have a lunch together. Tell him the truth; that I want to ask him questions about his life in order to better understand my own. I would ask him what he would charge for his time. I would ask him his name, so I wouldn't have to refer to him as Julio.
That's where I'm at. I almost did it Tuesday. Then I chickened out. Today I have free time, but there's laundry to do, and there's always tomorrow.  Right? You see, these are the hiccups that stand in my way. If you told me this exact fantasy, I would whole-heartedly encourage you with a zealous GO FOR IT! I would tell you there's nothing to fear but fear itself and all that bullshit and I would be behind you 110%!  Yet, here I sit in my own angst puddle of uneasiness and self-doubt, while thousands of folks' stories go untold...

~tpg

How’s Your Moral Compass?

I work part-time at a Japanese teashop.  This is where I dust, vacuum, arrange unique gifts, greet and assist customers and the way cool thing about this job,

is I also get to read a lot, write a lot and meditate; well, my own special kind of meditating that emerges from being an open wound out in a ferocious world.  Basically, I get to turn it all off and sip Genmaicha Extra Green.

It was a slow day at the shop Monday.  I’m hoping the reason being that Americans were gathering, marching, honoring Dr Martin Luther King; whose words insisted on action; whose bold passions cost him his life.  The part of me that is optimistic accepts those possibilities and in doing so, suddenly I am able to walk a little lighter on the planet. 

January 16, 2012 was somewhat boring of a Monday and I found myself, after completing my required “shop duties," passing the time by reading, writing, sipping tea and trying, with full-force effort, to not eat the matcha shortbread cookies.

Staring out the window at the bushes and trees surrounding the closed post office,

I noticed a large man seemingly setting up tent amidst the foliage.  He wore layers upon layers of filthy rags.  His jeans were several sizes too big.  His hair was matted.

He held up his pants with one hand and drug an old sleeping bag through the dirt with the other.

Suddenly it occurred to me that he was seeking privacy to relieve himself; a simple corner of dirt where the bushes could serve as bathroom doors.

I watched the few passersby’s try not to look at him.

It’s uncomfortable to see homeless people, isn’t it?  Especially in a touristy town such as ours.  As he ducked down, I found myself hoping hard that no one would call the police.  “Just let him take a leak in peace god damnit.” I kept thinking.

And then I thought of Dr. King.  His messages that now are simply quotes to ponder.

I watched him make his way to the inside of the parking garage, where he stuffed his sleeping bag behind a set of lockers for safekeeping.  He pulled tightly on his pants and continued walking up the street.  He mumbled and scratched his head a lot.  In fact, he scratched his entire body a lot.  He needed a hot shower and a toilet.  Pretty basic stuff, eh?  Yet, it’s all uncomfortable to witness.

I went to the steaming pots and made him a cup of our finest Gyokuro; the tea that has a velvety aftertaste.  Then I grabbed a bag of shortbread and $5 from my wallet, closed up the shop and walked at a fast pace to catch up with him.

 “It’s not much but it looks as if you could use a little help today.”  I said.

His hands were rough and swollen; his face gnarly; yet, I saw a glimpse of a once handsome boy.

“Thanks.  I spent last night in Salinas police station …they beat the shit out of me…I just wanted to go to church…you know, mass.  When I was an alter boy they hurt me but I still want to go…”

He may or may not have been abused by Catholic priests.  You and I know there’s a good possibility he was, but regardless if the whole interaction was fantasy or non-fiction, clearly; Timmy needs basic 411.

I wished him well which felt like an absolute sucky thing to say.  We parted; heading in opposite directions, heading to opposite worlds.

Then I went online, only to discover a quote from the smartest man on the planet and it's such a right-on a message:

Clearly, Timmy didn’t cause our deficit.   Check out this article (and don’t skip the graph) put out by Center on Budget and Policy Priorities.  All the stats are based on 2010 and future taxpayers will pay people these debts for years to come for sure!

http://www.cbpp.org/cms/index.cfm?fa=view&id=1258

Timmy gets very little.  Timmy may get a free meal, once in awhile, if he can get to a shelter on time.  But his head’s so fucked up, he doesn’t even know how to tell time anymore.  If he’s lucky, he might get a bed; suffice to say, if he’s in a town that even has a shelter.  For sure, Timmy will get taunted, harassed and possibly hit with bottles; that is, if he doesn’t get the shit beat out of him.  It’s all in a day’s work for Timmy.  And whether Timmy was molested by Catholic priests or saw Viet Nam or has a severe alcohol problem, you can rest assured that your tax dollars, are not going in great excess, to care for or enable Timmy. And if we don't give a damn about the                                   Timmys of the world, we become face-less shells;  

wig head by Bridgett Spicer

nothing short of soul-less, moral-less casings.   

Now, hold up, little buckaroos! Let’s take out our moral compasses and position them straight ahead.  I do believe, even with increasing crime, poverty, abuse, wars…we all have one.  
Dr. King had one, though he was no saint. 

Hopefully, we all have a natural feeling that makes us know what is right and wrong; guiding our actions as to how to behave.  I try to take out my moral compass everyday.  Some days, it’s out when I first open my eyes, while other days, quite honestly, I forget about it briefly.  Then some situation or some person reminds me to take it out of my pocket.  
And I do. You do too.  We have to because if we don't, our skin turns to steel, our hearts to foil and nothing matters but the paycheck, the new pair of brand name boots and The Super Bowl.  

Our moral compasses guide us to the very face of humanity, all the while, allowing for a plethora of free choice opportunities… 

To the north: a trailer park filled with lonely elderly folk on fixed incomes.  

To the south…tortured and starved greyhounds, no longer able to race, tossed by the side of the road. 

To the east…millions of homeless families whose houses were foreclosed upon.  

To the west…kids going to school in space suits in order not to breathe the radiation in their air.  Across your street…someone like Timmy.  

Under your feet…a spider to crunch or spare.

Westerners consider the Dalai Lama as a man of abiding wisdom and compassion, an inspiration and moral compass.

But, like Dr. King, Dalai is no saint. (Uh oh…stepping on Buddhist toes.)

The Beacon of Calm in a frenetic modern world and I disagree on a couple of compass directions; specifically, abortion and homosexuality.  In his 1996 book, Beyond Dogma, he was strikingly explicit in his sexual prohibitions: "A sexual act is deemed proper when the couples use the organs intended for sexual intercourse and nothing else."  Hmmm…sunset on that.  Moving right along…

Although I’m often in your faces about rednecks, some do have moral compasses.

Joke (sort of)

The out-of-state couple is camping on the shores of a creek near a tiny hamlet.

The young wife, stunningly built, decides to give the local town folk a thrill by sun bathing in the nude.

"That's OK with me, honey," says her husband. "I'll go get some wood for the fire."

About thirty minutes later, the husband returns to the campsite and finds his wife in tears. One of her breasts has been painted green, the other red and her ass is blue.

"What on earth happened to you dear?" he asks.

"Some of those rednecks from the trailer park came over and told me they don't allow any nakedness around these parts.

Then they gave me this paint job!"

"Damn those assholes! I'll fix them!" the husband shouts.

He rides into town and finds the rednecks at the local bar.

"Who is the SOB who painted my wife red, green and blue!"

he shouts.

A huge redneck, about 6'-8," steps forward, a shotgun in his hand. "I did it," he bellows. 

"What you got to say about it?"

The husband answers meekly, "I just wanted you to know the first coat of paint is dry."

In seriousness, if you don’t have moral compasses, Getchooosome!

There’s a quote by John F. Kennedy that stands out for me.  It’s what I’ll end today’s blog with and it’s one we can all hopefully chew on a bit in the days to come.

“I look forward to a great future for America - a future in which our country will match its military strength with our moral restraint, its wealth with our wisdom, its power with our purpose.”

~tpg

P.S. Oooh and if your moral compass is for the birds, make one of these from an old Slinky!  Way cool.

http://pinterest.com/pin/158963061817017533/

Accepting the Darkness Before Resonating in the Light

If you end a year and begin a new one in a depressing voice, those around you may scatter.  My intentions are not to depress the masses; but I propose to you that unless we acknowledge, understand and accept darkness, we cannot truly resonate in light.

So, I ask you to endure this New Year’s blog; 

See it through to the end.  

While many of us will bring in 2012 dancing, playing board games drinking libations and eating large amounts of fattening crap, others will bring in 2012 trying to stay warm and find food for themselves and their families.  These “others” live on our streets.

Homelessness is on the rise in the United States in most every city in most every state; an epidemic of colossal proportion, and from what I’ve been reading, added to the term “chronically homeless” is the term “the newbies”; folks homeless for the first time in their lives due to the economic state or condition of our country.  Large populations of these “newbies” are families.

According to Julie Bosman, in an article in the New York Times in 2010:

“…The Bloomberg administration said Friday that the number of people living on New York’s streets and subways soared 34 percent in a year; signaling a setback in one of the city’s most intractable problems.  Appearing both startled and dismayed by the sharp increase, a year after a significant drop, administration officials attributed it to the recession, noting that city shelters for families and single adults had been inundated.”

Robert V. Hess, the commissioner of homeless services, said in a subdued news conference, “…The city began feeling the increase in its vast shelter system more than two years ago.  And now we’re seeing the devastating effect of this unprecedented poor economy on our streets as well.  The city’s annual tally indicated an additional 783 homeless people on the streets and in the subway system, for a total of 3,111, up from 2,328 last year. That is in addition to almost 38,000 people living in shelters, which is near the city’s high.”

In an article for Times US by Steven Gray in March of 2009, 1 in 50 American kids were homeless in 2006; totaling 1.5 million children. 

At that time, The National Center on Family Homelessness and other organizations predicted, “We know the numbers are going to skyrocket” and credit the recession for that accurate prediction 

made in 2006.

Although the numbers and percentages vary depending on what site you read, here’s some facts; hard and cold, and in my opinion, should not exist in the United States of America.

http://homeless.samhsa.gov/Resource/View.aspx?id=48800

Indeed.

And while I just read that over half of our (elected) Congress are multi-millionaires (and a large child’s handful are billionaires), here are more facts:

Two factors help account for increasing poverty: eroding employment opportunities for large segments of the workforce and the declining value and availability of public assistance.

The states with the highest number of homeless children in the period studied were Texas (337,105), California (292,624), Louisiana (204,053), Georgia (58,397) and Florida (49,886).

Read more: http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1883966,00.html#ixzz1hfG6chFl

Whew!  Are you still with me, good people of this good land?  

Well, unlike those “find the hidden pictures within the big picture” puzzles we used to do as kids, you won’t find a “hidden answer” to this American epidemic called homelessness concealed in this blog.  You won’t even find it hidden between the lines.  I offer no solutions… Not even any humor, goddamn it!  But here’s the light I was talking about earlier.  I experienced that lightness last year, while walking the streets of a wealthy burb that lies just a jog over the Golden Gate Bridge. 

That light has a name, and his name is Van Bo.

Living on Bo Time

When I visited Sausalito, I felt a slight discomfort; like I didn’t really belong.  

You know, a trailer park girl pretending she owns that house on the hill…pretending her earrings aren’t gold-plated.  Yet, I must admit,

I was slightly charmed. 

The rows and rows of boutiques, wine bars, and “shi shi” gift shops where dog biscuits are made with free-range chicken and are 100 % organic… The spotless sidewalks… The manicured parks… The women, all a size 4… 

Facial make-up seems mandatory and every store has an official greeter who recites the same cheery, scripted welcome that you heard at the store two doors down.

I will never live in Sausalito.  Now that’s a hard, cold fact. 

The medium price of a home is $825,000 and that’s down about 11 % according to Trulia.  It’s sheik, classy, overpriced and contemporary.

Sausalites eat lobster and caviar like I eat chicken potpies.   

But tucked away; back in a tiny parking lot sits a funky, spray-painted van with expired plates.  Inside that van lives an “outsider” to this fairy tale city.

That outsider’s name is Van Bo; a man who’s lived on the streets of Sausalito since the late ‘60’s  and he affords it just fine. 

Van Bo makes his way painting on discarded pieces of wood and other trash.  He’s an artist.  He’s a character.  He’s a wise sage who doesn’t want a handout.  You won’t see him holding a sign declaring he’s homeless.  He won’t ask you for coin.  He lives on the streets, and paints for a living.

Van Bo is a male Cinderella in the midst of royalty; surrounded by castles and palaces; yet, never attending the ball.

Everybody knows him by name.  He’s a “fixture.”

His life began in the churches of Utah and extended to the dance halls of New York. Then to the North Beach and Haight Ashbury districts of San Francisco, and finally, Sausalito.

From to studying to be a preacher, then a dancer…

To porn actor… to eventually following a California woman, with ribbons in her hair, and becoming “her negro”… to ultimately, a painter. 

He used drugs, alcohol, and sex like everybody else in the ‘60’s.  He loved anything and everything liked everybody else in the ‘60’s.  But painting never even entered his mind until he realized he might actually have enough talent to at least buy his meals…

“Monet and those guys were paintin all those things that were real, but they needed some color.  (He laughs) I mean they were good and all but their day is done and mine has begun.             I’m all about color.”

“I got here in 1969 but it took me a long time because these people here, well, they are UP TIGHT.”  (He laughs)

                                   “I keep my head above water and my socks dry.”

I had the pleasure of interacting with Van Bo and buying one of his paintings. (He's touching it up in this pic.)

I asked him about keeping his head above water and his socks dry and he smiled, continuing to paint…

“You don’t wanna drown, now do ya?  Easy to drown in this world.”

Indeed.  

I can drown just reading the newspaper or watching an interaction that feels desperate or harsh.  I can drown in loss… Drown in self-pity…

Drown in the realization that the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. 

My socks could get soaked every goddamn day if I let them.

Bo keeps his dry.  He lives on the streets, where he’s happy. 

He makes his living with his talent. He keeps his head above water. 

He’s not in any Sausalito Art Galleries.  I checked.

http://www.sausalito.org/visitor/art

And even though he should be, that doesn’t even matter to him. 

He isn’t drowning over it.

And my friends, this is the light.

Now, I’m not so naïve to think that every homeless man, woman and child

can make a decent living playing an instrument, waving a paint brush or selling their wares on the street. Hell No!  What are you thinking? That I come from a longline of trailer park rednecks or something?

Hell, I “get” Van Bo is an exception to the rule and that the epidemic of homelessness rages on…

But isn’t this wonderful?  Isn’t he wonderful?

The video I’m sharing with you is lengthy; an hour or so, but you only need to watch the first 3 or 4 minutes to get an understanding and respect for Van Bo’s work.

If you have the time to watch the video in its entirety;

you’ll get a sense of the man.

http://vimeo.com/14703307

Happy New Year!  I wish each of you the ease of your heads above water.  

I hope your socks always remain dry.

~tpg