A Living Magazine - Day 23 - A Fly on the Wallk

I woke up on top of the sleeping bag. I guess the cooler air didn't bother me or I was just tired enough to sleep through the night. This spot had worked fine.

Heading back down Cypress for the 9th day in a row was getting old. There was little left that interested me here and not much left to photograph.

This section of the failed American Game (formerly, the "American Dream")--this area of California, at the income levels I exist around, has been interrupted on a micro scale by a stranger: a Street Fly--me. The impact was not very deep, more like a needle felt for just a moment as it punctures the skin. Then, only what it carries can take over. This is a metaphor many people around here would definitely understand.

But the folks who actually saw me here, and met me here - seeing that I couldn't give them anything they could spend, smoke, drink or inject - have joined the rest of the people with more means in society--they've made me invisible. I won't join the hopeless game that many of these people play either: Doing nothing, never seeking to improve themselves or take care of themselves, living each day for the dopamine rush of whatever substance brings them a buzz at every possible moment they can, and then thinking they are entitled to the public's sympathy (whether or not they are entitled to its money--the subject of public money is not my point here). I'm trying to say that I left the American Game behind in 2011. But I know well now that both games are played without a full deck--with hidden cards and symbolic guns holstered just in case the betting goes too high.

Like a wildlife photographer might find out in the bush, my "subjects" have gotten used to my presence and are now comfortable enough to go back to their normal living habits. And, I can observe them more objectively. But these are not animals.

This is preparation for the post-California phase of my work; the actual START of the reporting process. All of this has been leading up to it. That is why I'm so anxious to get out of California.

Still, people - all people - deserve the dignity of privacy, unless they are hurting other people. So, I wrestle with taking some of the pictures I could take. There are things I witness that I wish I could write about. But, I'm not yet sure about how ethical it would be. In Oregon I will be able to figure that out.

There seem to be 2 major subgroups to homeless culture. As I mentioned above, there are "the hopeless." But most of the people, I would classify as "the hopeful." I often wonder, as a thought experiment, if a perfect system were to be devised to deal with everyone who is homeless and still hopeful, where would the hopeless fit in? It seems a great paradox to give everyone struggling, a way out, no matter what disposition they might have, and then deal with people who have no disposition at all and could care less about what you're giving them.

Just as you can't force people to care less, you can't force people to care more. Why? Because the idea of force (the imposed abrogation of free will) cancels out any presumed purpose for such force; done supposedly in the name of "freedom and justice for all." My grandmother always said, "freedom is nothing more than self control in action    ." And, Janice Joplin's line from "Bobby Mcgee," could be edited to make a very profound statement: "Freedom (true self control) might only be found when there's nothing left to lose." People cannot be forced to be free.

I guess this then implies that self control is the key to everything that can bring us together, all the way across the human spectrum; the True key to universal freedom.

The American Game and the hopeless game must be changed on the individual level...or frankly...they will both perish. They are in the process of warring against each other anyway. The unacceptable answer would be either upper class-led dictatorship (top down), or lower class-led anarchy (bottom down).

I coming closer and closer to the opinion that ALL classes need to lead from the bottom up. They should put themselves at square one philosophically and then work together, to reintegrate everyone into a new kind of system. But, obviously this is an impossible dream right now. It is just another ideal. And, if ideals truly were honored, the outgoing handle of a men's restroom door would be the cleanest thing in town. So, what is the path from idealism to realism? This remains a rhetorical question for now.

Furthermore, somehow, these game players really need to see each other's worlds--be in them. Realizing how ridiculous this sounds for the hopeless; they, having no desire to function in even a culture that might be willing to give them anything they needed to get a leg up, the opportunity to know how the "other half" lives would mean nothing. Therefore, the only possible cross fertilization of culture would have to come from people who do care and have the education, intelligence, fortitude, courage and potential to intentionally live as the homeless do; even if just for a temporary amount of time. This is what *I'm* attempting to do.

I'm about to publish a supplemental essay here at IWALLK that will follow a theme along these lines. I have zero idea how it will be received. It will be a bit tongue-in-cheek, maybe a bit ridiculous, but it will have some serious implications for those who truly understand what it is addressing. Please stay tuned for that.

I went to Burger King and actually found an AC outlet at the handicapped table. The place was empty. I bought a coffee and a large drink, then settled down to write part of the blog post for the day. When my watch alarm beeped at 9:00 am, I closed up the laptop, pack it away and took off to the post office again to check for my boots, taking a couple shots along the way...

Coolest car in Redding.

The well-documented East Cypress "undercrossing."

The post office was packed again and the window I was waiting at was busier than it had been Friday. The clerk did his best to handle every aspect of each customer's needs. That meant a long wait, but an assurance that I would have that same full amount of attention.

I finally made it to the front and told him about the two packages what I was expecting. Immediately he found the first, a small box that I had tracked and knew would be there. That was good. But, there was no sign of the boots. I thanked him and left. I would check one more time the next day.

Walking to the library to finish the daily post, I thought much about how I was going to handle the new direction once I finally got to Klamath Falls on Wednesday.

I worked at the library and finished the post, then headed back up Cypress toward the sleep spot...

Redding City Hall.

There were still hours to kill, so I stopped in at Starbucks, bought a water and worked transferring pictures for the next post.

It was cooling off, and when the laptop was fully charged I stepped out onto the patio to work. There was table way in the back, so I snagged it. A group of three guys and one girl in their 20's joked around and smoked a joint in one of the front tables. They weren't bothering me at all, but someone must have called the cops because a cruiser showed up beside them.

The officer got out and swaggered up to the table. "Good afternoon guys." They greeted him. "I got a complaint about y'all hanging out here. And, I received another call from down town saying some people matching your description were selling heroin down on the corner of Market and Yuba. Sound familiar. Of course, none of them had the foggiest idea to what he might be referring. "Well, I saw you..." and he pointed the a thin, wiry white kid with a backwards baseball cap, large round earrings that had stretched out his lobes, sunglasses and covered with tattoos, "just this morning in that area."

"That's where I live, man, but I don't know anything about selling junk." The young man laughed innocently and I saw something fall to the ground next to him. So did the officer.

"Ah ha!! What's THIS my friend?" The officer bent down and picked up a baggie with about a dozen smaller powder-filled baggies in it.

"Fuck..." said the dealer.

"Now," the officer continued, "I also saw you smoking weed when I pulled up. The roach is right there on the table. I personally don't care about you smoking it, but you need to do it away from places where kids are. Some of my buddies on the force aren't so nice about it. But with this little package..." He held the baggie up and shook it a bit "...we're gonna be having... an issue."

A second cruiser showed up and a large Mexican American officer walked up slowly and stood behind the first officer. I wanted to video all of this, but I couldn't do it discreetly, so I just listened.

"The rest of you guys can go," said the first officer. Turning back to the dealer, "Why don't ya stand up for me please, turn around, spread your legs and put your hands on the table."

"Shit..." said the kid, slowly rising and complying with the instructions. The officer frisked him, cuffed him and sat him in the back seat with the door open.

"Let me get the A/C going for ya before we head down town." The officer reached in the front seat and then stood back up outside the car. He used the radio on his shoulder and also spoke with the big officer, before twisting around and closing the back door of the cruiser. I got the feeling this was so common as to be boring to most people. But, I was actually more interested in why these young people would risk their freedom by being so sloppy in both the using and dealing of "drugs."

Around 8:00 pm, I considered the day done. I packed up and headed out. Every evening after the sun went down, the buildings, pavement, concrete, tar, cement, rock walls, steel and glass of the city radiates heat back into the air. It takes a long time to cool the air down, because of this radiant heat...

I got to the sleep spot, hauled out the tarp and sleeping bag, lay down and fell asleep.