Living the American Dream
When you're in the homeless shelter, the Holy Grail is getting out. As I've said before, homelessness is just another form of prison. And just like in a formal prison, they blame you for being there. It's not like we're a society of integrity, you know. But life is more complex than simple solutions whether we like it - or admit it - or not.
For some that Holy Grail is real. Just being out is all they need. For others it's a mixed bag: yes, you're out now but thrown into the tangled web that is the world. The freedom you imagined in the shelter is not the freedom you live. That's still locked away behind doors of which you may never find the key, the long fuse to hell lit anew.
Believe it or not, for me, there is a sense of loss leaving the shelter. In the shelter people know I'm hurting, that I have no home, that I'm on the outside, no explanation needed. It's good to be understood, it gives one more of a sense of, well, home. Ironic, huh? I know all the phonies and cheap shot artists will be licking their lips at their own demise by my next statement but life is never so dark for me as when being a "responsible citizen" the unmasked monsters running around prize so highly.
I now responsibly have 525 square feet of a one bedroom palace (no door to the bedroom, though). Actually, I only have it as long as I can make rent on it. So few really "have" anything of permanence. But the important thing is I am a "good" statistic of a person out of the shelter and back on his feet! Gather 'round those reporters to spread the news how the system works and it's really OK if we're all a bunch of greedy cocksuckers after all. That always sells.
Who am I to tell you you sell yourself short?
Because it's expected and honesty is never vogue, I refer to this place as my "home". Actually, I mostly use the more impersonal term "house" but even that implies a home site setting. I too want to fool myself into believing I have a home, a place to rest without fear. But it would be a lie for me to profess such a canard. I sleep on a bed of leased needles. Turn over too quickly in the night and you're pierced awake. I've learned to lie still as a board and hope I find rest that never comes.
Eight bucks an hour and mopping floors. Heck, I got eight and a quarter fifteen years ago as a computer tape librarian. But if you're working and living indoors you're living the "American Dream". When time comes - when death becomes you and your children too - I can have no sympathy for you. Our fate is determined by how we treat the most vulnerable members of a society. There's a story about that in the Bible - repeated about five hundred times. I used to wonder about all that repetition but now I see people have a serious hearing problem.
Not even a new Maserati can help with self-image problems
It never surprises me about people who "have it all" then suddenly go berserk. Their beds of needles stuck them one too many times in the middle of the night. When one person sins it's shared by all. We are their accomplices. We don't have to believe we're all in this together but that's sort of like holding your breath underwater. Time comes when the truth will out. Or you can die in your pride. Either way is fine by me. But this whole Nazi thing of "Work sets you free" business has got to go.
I've read about the homeless camps that are self-organized and who recognize the mental and spiritual freedom required for true survival. I truly respect those people who stand up to a world that makes a religion of giving a free ride to the rich. We who toe the line are the only glue that's left. But I cannot join these self-governed homeless camps either. I'm not wired that way. I need to shit indoors and I need my privacy regardless of anyone's failure to understand that.
I sell my labor for things: privacy and indoor plumbing. But not for a true "home". An abandoned building all to myself is more of a home. I don't have to explain to anyone that it is mere shelter and that's all it can ever be. Here in this shelter I’m expected to put down roots and buy potted plants. What the fuck for? I can't imagine the day I'd ever put down roots. Except maybe in a movie theater.
OK, maybe I was a bit hasty about the Maserati
In the shelter I hated not being able to be alone when I wanted to be. Most of us felt a sense of togetherness and there was bonding and warmth in the face of Man's cold hearted orb. I think about those times at night here on my pointed needle bed. I had more respect there - more self respect too. Rent is a "responsibility" we've made up, a fantasy of the mind. Being true to one's self is the stone the builders' reject. But that is gonna change!
Giving unto Caesar is no way home. I wish it could be. People get red-faced angry finding out it is not. You'd be surprised who flashes murder in their eyes at even the mere mention of that truth, people who lead false lives. Yes, I too want to be able to monetize my way home. But I know that unless I can express myself honestly I'll always be sleeping on a bed of nails. Honesty is everyone's job if we are to survive but not every job is honest.
Seems I'll always be in a shelter...
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