A Room In The House

It was my secret feelings that did me in. Or rather, keeping my feelings secret was my ruin. The hate and anger for the people in my house - and for a world bent on death - I kept hidden. I've never had a home. Then it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy as I now walk by homes where I know I can never ever share what I feel: I want a room in the house.

"Mommy! Daddy! There's a homeless man in here!" It's like sighting a cockroach, I must be gotten rid of at all costs. Those who show overt anger against me do not bother me, the "get the hell out" crowd. What kills me is the breath-holding pseudo-politeness that kills. They won't breathe until you're gone. They won't even share their anger with you. Wow, that really is living outside.

Hotels are like prostitutes. You can have a place but you have to buy their time. But even then I fear resentment for not being normal enough to claim a room. "Oh, you're homeless," spoken like you have a bad smell. It's like banks: they only want to make loans to those who don't need them and hotels only want to rent to those with their own homes. So I check in with all sorts of guilt, feeling like an interloper. It's supposed to be a special treat but it has withered over the years into another ongoing headwind.

You can live your life. I want you to be free. I just want a room where I can hang out. I wouldn't have anything to offer other than how to find the best public bathrooms (hotel lobbies) or advice on not going to back alleys to buy your pot (there's always danger bringing out your wallet). Not much of a role model for your kids, I know. But I do want contribute. I want a real room.

These are the feelings that plague me when I walk through a neighborhood. I can tell no one of my passing pain. I have to act like I have somewhere to go - while having a flashing neon light above me saying "Fool". So I avoid walking through streets with homes while I do realize others walk through thinking nothing of it. I want to tell those blithe trespassers, "Don't let them know how you feel! They'll kill you!" But that's just me they'll kill.

I will go to my grave with no one knowing my greatest secret: no one has to lie to me. Truth is like oxygen. It means respect and hope and life when someone gives it. We are trained to lie, to live in the vain hope it serves some purpose. People are always looking for a purpose for their lies. Turn on any TV and you can see it. All those talking heads, secretly looking for love, trying to feel important. They too hunger for a room - and the truth that goes with it.

There are two things that make people mad: truth and lies. It's an unspoken universal dream to have complete honesty 100% of the time without persecution. It would be the end of the eternal warring. There's a commercial out where everyone speaks completely honestly and it's hilarious ("I'm going to pretend what's on my phone is important so I won't have to make eye contact.") That's exactly how I wrote the characters in my novel. Honesty is the bridge to paradise. (And it's the only bridge.)

But I'm a loser liar like the rest. Sometimes you become desperate, using lies to get in the door. I call that "running for office." Your whole life is then absorbed into the ensuing never-ending conservative cover up. The Bible says to come clean. That's why the dirtiest people yell "God" the loudest, their hell a constant reminder of what most needs to be done. One can only smile when hearing talk of the "glory" of defiance. "I'll never come clean - and you can't make me!" Nobody's trying to, it's just you making you.

Took me a long time to realize that even those with rooms don't have it made. They live in self-fear. If you listen, that's what people are crying out about. "I'm going to lose my room!" We invent enemies who must be destroyed in order to keep our rooms safe from ourselves. It's actually a relief when we are attacked, to be able to point the finger away from us. We are a shivering nation, panicking in the face of love, knowing the price of betrayal, hoping the truth never wills out. When do we come clean?