The nice thing about being on a hill was that rain soaking into the ground was channeled away from me. I have made the mistake of sleeping in a valley, where the opposite would be true. I felt a little queasy from the ham and cheese sandwich, I supposed. I thought that I might throw up, but suppressed the urge. I knew I wouldn't have anything to eat on this day, and needed whatever nutrition my body could extract, even from a slightly spoiled sandwich.
It wasn't until about 9:00 am that the sun appeared over the small ridge. I had not yet seen this area in the sunlight. If I ignored the trash around me, it was quite a nice place...
Notice that even though nearly an inch of rain fell,
this one patch of a nearby tree stayed dry.
The tree next to my trash bearer had become a kind of "friend". I stopped short of calling it "Wilson", but there was something about it that I found strong, rebellious, almost dignified. I loved the clean corky bark, with grooves just large enough to fit the tips of my fingers into. Of course, I was projecting these anthropomorphic qualities onto a plant. Still, I admired how it could grow so majestically in such a rough space. It was about thirty years old. The sun touched it in just the right place...
My new "friend".
The sick feeling in my stomach had moved into my bowels. I'd had food poisoning so many times, that it was very easy to identify. This was a mild case, but uncomfortable all the same. I knew I wasn't going to make it to a bathroom in town. I'd stowed away a bunch of McDonald's napkins, which I looked for with great haste, but tried not to strain myself too much or I'd suffer the consequences. I found the napkins and did my thing over in an adjacent area. It was pretty bad. Yet, when it was over, I knew I'd made the right decision by not throwing up. After one loose movement, I knew it would not return. That was the pattern anyway.
It was time to dismantle the tent. First, I took off the fly which was still damp, mostly on the inside from condensation. Next, I removed the tent poles from each grommet, pulled them out of their slots, collapsed them and slid them into their little bag. I kneeled through the tent door, to stuff the sleeping bag into its pack pocket, then struggled to squish up the coat/pillow, pushing down with all my weight to get it into the same pocket as the sleeping bag. All that was left was my "sleep print"...
I left a dry spot. Why do sleep spots always look like graves?
Pulling on the pack, I took a deep breath and headed out of the woods, up the steep grassy hill to the sidewalk and waved at the surveillance camera as I passed by. The sky looked great. I was genuinely surprised that the rain had cleared out so early in the day...
A billboard as seen from the 27th Street Bridge.
Thank God, there is a phone number now "for truth"!
Here's an idea, all you churches out there: How about instead
of spending money on self-serving billboards, spend it on feeding the hungry,
clothing the naked, giving shelter to those who have none? But you don't.
I passed the same group of guys at the bus stop. They let me through with not a word. Maybe it was the clearing sky? Who cares why?
As soon as I turned on to Wisconsin Avenue, a tall black man, dressed from head to toe in black, stood at the other side of the road facing me. He looked incredibly familiar. Where had I seen him before? The light turned but he did not walk. I did, and we looked at each other for a moment. He had a toothpick in his mouth, and smiled widely. I smiled back. He seemed friendly and I didn't detect even a small amount of darkness in him. He held his arms open as if he were giving praise to the Universe, and said very clearly to me, "You're ready for the change that's coming! You will get to celebrate one more birthday!"
This was a curious statement. At first, I thought he meant that because of "the change" (whatever that was?) I wouldn't die, but be able to celebrate another birthday. Then it struck me, that maybe because of this "change" I would ONLY celebrate one more birthday. Suddenly, as I strode through another intersection, I remembered who I thought he looked like; the guy in Sacramento, described in my "Super-But-Natural" post...
I'd just used Xfinity outside the station on a short piling there to get my bearings. So, directions were swirling around in my mind. I also thought it was cool that my first official transportation had gotten me a step closer to Oregon. It was about to rain, and people seemed intent on watching the clouds gather above. I passed a bunch of folks who checked me out as I checked them out. Then, a very tall black man, also dressed entirely in black, walked toward me, and never looking up, clearly said, "You finally made it!" as he passed me. This time I turned around to see if he'd stopped or was talking to someone else. He just continued to walk with his head down.
No! That would be impossible. I quickly swung around to get another look. He was gone. I got shiver down my spine (like the one I just got by writing those words), the Spark had made an exclamation point. (!)
Along the way, past each small market on Wisconsin Avenue, I was begged four times. My response now, is an emotionless but truthful, "I have nothing." It seemed to work well...
Glass window lenses.
Crystal in the sky.
Stone on the ground.
I had accidentally walked past the library, thinking I would get a coffee at Starbucks. How could I have developed a habit already--having only been here for three days? I was already in the city center by the time I realized my stupid mistake...
I love to see the sun reflected from building onto another.
I turned around and went back to the library. I had a post to write, and looked forward to it as a distraction from the hunger that was starting to reassert itself. Climbing the steps into the library, I was begged again by a guy who was running up and down those steps, as if he was training to fight Rocky. I said, "I have nothing." He stopped and just nodded.
I worked hard on my post. Someone had mentioned that they wanted to see more human contact. So, I obliged. When I write only text I hear about how people miss pictures. When I expend the amount of energy needed to post pictures (I posted 108 the day before) I hear how people miss personal profiles. I throw that dart in the dark with every post. I picture people settling down to read my blog and shaking their heads in disappointment, because I'm not giving them what they want. Then, I imagine them saying, "He's really gone downhill, I'm not gonna waste my time on this anymore." And, although no one leaves comments here anymore, I'll bet my imaginings are not too far off.
My sour frame of mind, motivated by hunger and anger, flowed out into that day's post. Allyson once said that she thought it was sadistic that people wouldn't support the blog, because they were saying to themselves, "...Nah! He hasn't suffered enough yet." And, although that may be an exaggeration, frankly, it isn't very far off, I am presuming. If people wanted suffering, I was going to give it to them. I described the normal world I see, without whitewashing it for the sensitive readers: The begging I am exposed to and must resort to myself; the constant conflict between people on the street, the frustration of never getting ahead--within me and on the outside of myself; the dirt, the garbage, the cold, unforgiving nature of concrete covering every space of green; the merciless pressure of poverty in every direction, except for the downtown areas, made up like lipstick on a pig in every city.
The tall glass buildings of banks; the fancy architecture of libraries and courthouses; the well-maintained trash cans around fancy hotels... All of it is the figurative curtain that is erected to keep the "important" tourists from seeing the toejam, the stink, the dirty underwear, the unwashed, unemployed, uncultured masses who swarm the alleyways, sleep in the doorways, beg on the street corners... THAT is what needs to be shown apparently.
Was my writing on this day just to make the middle class, three-meal-a-day-eating readers of this blog feel comfortable as they read it in bed? Or, was it to give them a hint of the putrid flavor for a long enough moment that it might delay them enough to THINK before sinking into the complacent puffy fuzz of self-willed ignorance? I didn't care. What I should do all the time is describe what I MOSTLY see. But, then I would be criticized for being jaded and mischaracterized as being "angry at the world". Nothing I do is good enough--or so I was tempted to believe on this day.
I looked through my eyes, along with a whole Universe of consciousnesses who eagerly await an "Answer", the "it" described in my dream about the old girlfriend, perhaps. I did my best to write what ACTUALLY happens out here--for once, before the library closed at 5:00 pm. And, when the lifeless, bland voice came over the distorted library intercom, announcing that there were only fifteen minutes left, I hit the "publish" button, packed up my stuff and made my way down the ornate stairway. Honestly, I had a lump in my throat...
How can anyone be content with the way things are?
How can they turn away from the need to THINK, SPEAK and ACT?
If every person reading these words (and there aren't many right now)
were to just CARE (not even act on that care, but just care), once per day, I suspect that
positive change would begin to occur. But who the hell am I to suggest something so
uncomfortable to most people?: No one. That's who. No wonder the people who could make a difference are sleeping while their dirty rotten apartment building is burning down around them.
When I got back to my camping site I touched my friend right where the sunlight had been less than 12 hours earlier. For me, it was still warm. I can't see clearly anymore. But, I had the vivid dreams to return to. And, I jumped at the chance to climb back into them; falling asleep easily as the clouds blew away above me and stars lit the sanctuary of heaven.
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