Posts
It's Monday, the 28th of September, and I'm no longer on the street. The mendicant monk has come in from the cold, so to speak, and Madame LaBelle has spread her spiritual wings over him.
Just finished a brief review of LIFT CAFE wherein I gave a shout-out to John and Jamie who did so much to lift my spirits during the month I was out there on the Walkabout.
There are so many people and events I want to write about, so bear with me while I organize my somewhat disjointed thoughts and try to pull it all together. Stay tuned for future updates.
I'm thinking of...John and Jamie...Tom...Cleve...William B. Clay...Smoky and K.B....Smiley...Drifter... Courtney...DeLon (and red-headed g/f)...Blue the guitar player...his sidekick Jimbo...Snail...Old Man John... the drum circle at the Pedestrian Bridge...Creeper...the lady Economics Major there at UT... and so many, many more.
It was a month of incredible tension, elation, boredom, and excitement. A real grab-bag of happenings and emotions, and I don't want that time to fade into the mental woodwork without making an attempt to get it down in black and white.
For those of you who are following this, feel free to drop me a line at my email: elijahmekealoha@gmail.com
Would love to hear from you.
Peace and aloha...it's been a trip!
Elijah
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
A Gaggle of Bums
I just came from McDonald's where the usual gaggle of street people were hanging out for morning coffee. William B. Clay (hereinafter "Clay") was there with his great booming voice and a database of stories going back to the Pleistocene of his life. Or the Paleolithic. Take yer pick.
He's an alcoholic of the hopeless variety, a veteran. The VA has been trying to get him into a 90-day detox program. He sez, "I know it would do me some good." Pause, big grin. "But I don't WANT good." Booming laughter.
He has a black eye all puffed up, swollen, and of course a story goes with it. He was coming out of this place where he'd just bought a beer, minding his own bidness, when these two rednecks accosted him and of course he just had to beat the living crap out of both of them and then one of them hit him upside the head with some kind of club or something and that was all she wrote.
(And Smiley just now walked up.)
There were half a dozen of them, once Elwin rode up. Elwin of the two broken wrists from hitting a curb at high speed on his bicycle with no brakes. His forearms are wrapped in ace bandages up to his elbows, but his injuries don't seem to have slowed him down all that much. Yes, in answer to my query, he does have tobacco. I roll. Light?
He says, Need a lighter?
Yup.
A lighter materializes, blue, to replace the one which gave up the ghost just last night. The Universe provides again.
Elwin has a strong resemblance to the political operative in the tv series The West Wing. But shorter.
Next door is the Peter Pan Mini-golf place with the steps where the bums hang out until chased off. Lost boys, every one, grown now, but as lost as ever. And who am I to talk?
When they sense they're wearing out their McDonald's welcome, they arise en masse and head out for the steps. Stack has gone for a beer, and their day is off and staggering. I watch them go. Clay's calves, I suddenly notice, are swollen, distorted, distended, looking like Popeye's forearms grafted to knees and ankles. Poor sick fuck. He's dying, knows it, and doesn't much care.
You know where I'm going when I die? he sez. Chicago. The morgue.
And that great booming laugh.
An image of a toe tag attached to that swollen deformed limb takes up residence in my mind, and I shoo it away like a nagging, persistent fly.
This he said earlier: Wishing don't work. Whenever I wish not to see such and such a person, goddamn if he don't show up. And when I wish to actually see such and such, goddamn if they cain't be found.
Laughing. Booming. Barking at these lowering clouds.
The sky is threatening rain, and I have to be up at St. David's in about an hour. It'll take me half an hour or so to get there, so I have half an hour to sit here and tweak my head in order.
Smiley gone. I gave him a few papers, he laid some snipes on me. The little transactions of the street, one bum helping another.
Okay, okay. Halleleujah, I'm a bum. A Dharma Bum, if you will.
But a bum nonetheless.
This I begin my day on the 8th anniversary of 9/11.
He's an alcoholic of the hopeless variety, a veteran. The VA has been trying to get him into a 90-day detox program. He sez, "I know it would do me some good." Pause, big grin. "But I don't WANT good." Booming laughter.
He has a black eye all puffed up, swollen, and of course a story goes with it. He was coming out of this place where he'd just bought a beer, minding his own bidness, when these two rednecks accosted him and of course he just had to beat the living crap out of both of them and then one of them hit him upside the head with some kind of club or something and that was all she wrote.
(And Smiley just now walked up.)
There were half a dozen of them, once Elwin rode up. Elwin of the two broken wrists from hitting a curb at high speed on his bicycle with no brakes. His forearms are wrapped in ace bandages up to his elbows, but his injuries don't seem to have slowed him down all that much. Yes, in answer to my query, he does have tobacco. I roll. Light?
He says, Need a lighter?
Yup.
A lighter materializes, blue, to replace the one which gave up the ghost just last night. The Universe provides again.
Elwin has a strong resemblance to the political operative in the tv series The West Wing. But shorter.
Next door is the Peter Pan Mini-golf place with the steps where the bums hang out until chased off. Lost boys, every one, grown now, but as lost as ever. And who am I to talk?
When they sense they're wearing out their McDonald's welcome, they arise en masse and head out for the steps. Stack has gone for a beer, and their day is off and staggering. I watch them go. Clay's calves, I suddenly notice, are swollen, distorted, distended, looking like Popeye's forearms grafted to knees and ankles. Poor sick fuck. He's dying, knows it, and doesn't much care.
You know where I'm going when I die? he sez. Chicago. The morgue.
And that great booming laugh.
An image of a toe tag attached to that swollen deformed limb takes up residence in my mind, and I shoo it away like a nagging, persistent fly.
This he said earlier: Wishing don't work. Whenever I wish not to see such and such a person, goddamn if he don't show up. And when I wish to actually see such and such, goddamn if they cain't be found.
Laughing. Booming. Barking at these lowering clouds.
The sky is threatening rain, and I have to be up at St. David's in about an hour. It'll take me half an hour or so to get there, so I have half an hour to sit here and tweak my head in order.
Smiley gone. I gave him a few papers, he laid some snipes on me. The little transactions of the street, one bum helping another.
Okay, okay. Halleleujah, I'm a bum. A Dharma Bum, if you will.
But a bum nonetheless.
This I begin my day on the 8th anniversary of 9/11.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Rain Is General All Over Austin
***
And now we have the rain. Nothing wild or weird, just a steady little limp drizzle of a thing. A rain in need of Viagra, a fizzle of a drizzle. But enough to cause some damage. A few minutes ago I witnessed a young man on a motorcycle crash just a few yards from where I'm sitting. He was moving along very slowly when the rear wheel suddenly developed a mind of its own and decided to go thataway while the bike had other plans in mind. He hit the pavement--BLAM--and just as quickly was on his feet, pulling the bike back upright and jumped back on, only to think otherwise. He got off and walked it over to the sidewalk, where I went and asked if he was okay.
Yes, just minor scratches.
You're lucky, I said.
Yep.
And he rode off into the sunset, hopefully a bit wiser about oil slicks getting down with a bit of wet. Me, too. Slow and steady wins the day.
I'm starving.
Not really. I ate a bowl of rice with soy sauce a few hours ago, but that's all I've had for the day, aside from a coffee at McDonald's. Two creams, two sugars, two cups.
Hungry, yes, but starving, no.
Just feels like my insides have been scooped out leaving this huge vacant empty space. A vacuum. The emptiness of Inner Space. Ohwell.
When the letter didn't come, I was thinking this: well, your day has just been rearranged. You won't be off to buy the tobacco. You won't be heading for McDonald's for a meal. Nope. You're gonna ride up to Veggie Heaven and eat some free rice. Which I did.
And thinking this, too: that I would meet someone, see something, find something, do something I would not have done otherwise.
Well, yes. That's fairly certain. Met the Creeper. Saw the Wreck. Made a judgment re Brave New Books.
And found something.
What happened was I found a cell phone at McDonald's and have been trying to contact someone who can get in touch with the owner so I can get the bloody thing back to him. And (cough) hope for enough of a reward to buy something to eat, y'know?
And I saw a motorcycle wreck.
And I checked out Brave New Books and have concluded it's a twisted little place where conspiracies scurry about like insects hiding from a major insecticide spraydown. They were playing a film and when it started blaming the "worldwide Jewish financial moguls," I lost all interest.
Behind me the Stones are singing about Ruby Tuesday. How dated it sounds! I am suddenly back in the mid-60s, a young man full of angst and anger, ready to take on the world, and far too often... drunk. I miss the energy, but you can have the angst and anger. And the drunk.
Jesus. Elton John. 1973. Honolulu. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Remembering those grotesque portable cassette players we toted around back then. Still young then. Not yet thirty. Still lots of energy, lots of hope, lots of anger.
If they don't stop playing this music I'm gonna find a very low building and contemplate jumping. Maybe a porch on a very low building with lots of shrubbery around it.
Most of the passing cars have their wipers turned off. Perhaps I should wander down to McDonald's and see if I can hustle up something to eat. Or try to catch the food truck at 6 PM, should it happen today.
It will. It will. Just believe.
Down here on the street it's so easy to fall into Magical Thinking.
I am trying to create a Magical Day and not having a whole lot of luck at it.
Stay tuned for Magical and not-so-Magical Happenings. As they come down.
Peace. Food. Foam mattresses.
***
And now we have the rain. Nothing wild or weird, just a steady little limp drizzle of a thing. A rain in need of Viagra, a fizzle of a drizzle. But enough to cause some damage. A few minutes ago I witnessed a young man on a motorcycle crash just a few yards from where I'm sitting. He was moving along very slowly when the rear wheel suddenly developed a mind of its own and decided to go thataway while the bike had other plans in mind. He hit the pavement--BLAM--and just as quickly was on his feet, pulling the bike back upright and jumped back on, only to think otherwise. He got off and walked it over to the sidewalk, where I went and asked if he was okay.
Yes, just minor scratches.
You're lucky, I said.
Yep.
And he rode off into the sunset, hopefully a bit wiser about oil slicks getting down with a bit of wet. Me, too. Slow and steady wins the day.
I'm starving.
Not really. I ate a bowl of rice with soy sauce a few hours ago, but that's all I've had for the day, aside from a coffee at McDonald's. Two creams, two sugars, two cups.
Hungry, yes, but starving, no.
Just feels like my insides have been scooped out leaving this huge vacant empty space. A vacuum. The emptiness of Inner Space. Ohwell.
When the letter didn't come, I was thinking this: well, your day has just been rearranged. You won't be off to buy the tobacco. You won't be heading for McDonald's for a meal. Nope. You're gonna ride up to Veggie Heaven and eat some free rice. Which I did.
And thinking this, too: that I would meet someone, see something, find something, do something I would not have done otherwise.
Well, yes. That's fairly certain. Met the Creeper. Saw the Wreck. Made a judgment re Brave New Books.
And found something.
What happened was I found a cell phone at McDonald's and have been trying to contact someone who can get in touch with the owner so I can get the bloody thing back to him. And (cough) hope for enough of a reward to buy something to eat, y'know?
And I saw a motorcycle wreck.
And I checked out Brave New Books and have concluded it's a twisted little place where conspiracies scurry about like insects hiding from a major insecticide spraydown. They were playing a film and when it started blaming the "worldwide Jewish financial moguls," I lost all interest.
Behind me the Stones are singing about Ruby Tuesday. How dated it sounds! I am suddenly back in the mid-60s, a young man full of angst and anger, ready to take on the world, and far too often... drunk. I miss the energy, but you can have the angst and anger. And the drunk.
Jesus. Elton John. 1973. Honolulu. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Remembering those grotesque portable cassette players we toted around back then. Still young then. Not yet thirty. Still lots of energy, lots of hope, lots of anger.
If they don't stop playing this music I'm gonna find a very low building and contemplate jumping. Maybe a porch on a very low building with lots of shrubbery around it.
Most of the passing cars have their wipers turned off. Perhaps I should wander down to McDonald's and see if I can hustle up something to eat. Or try to catch the food truck at 6 PM, should it happen today.
It will. It will. Just believe.
Down here on the street it's so easy to fall into Magical Thinking.
I am trying to create a Magical Day and not having a whole lot of luck at it.
Stay tuned for Magical and not-so-Magical Happenings. As they come down.
Peace. Food. Foam mattresses.
***
Follow-up to Cassandra
***
Yesterday I wrote about meeting Ms. Cassandra there by the Scientology center. Aside from the obvious gift of having someone other than a streetperson listen to me, there was something else: I'd asked the Universe for cigarettes earlier. As in...how does this thing work, O Mysterious Cosmic One? Gimme some cigarettes, for starters.
Such a small thing to ask of the Universe. And there it was, courtesy of Cassandra, the Prophetess no one believes. How appropriate! She functions as the Messenger (in Greek angelos) and I chalk it all up to the Great God Coincidence. She waltzes up out of nowhere, announces her presence, delivers the goods (cigarettes w/o asking) then seals the deal with a name like Cassandra. Clearly the Cosmos has a helluva sense of humor. Cassandra, indeed. And of course I didn't believe.
The other day I wanted a bicycling helmet. Couple of days ago stopped to rest at a bridge and down below, in the drift and detrius, lay a helmet. I made my way down the treacherous slope, retrieved it, cleaned it up and as I write am wearing the derned thing. And...coincidence, of course.
The day of the triathlon I was at the finishing line cheering on the stalwarts when I noticed each of them got a dandy little water bottle. I instantly wanted one, of course, and looked around for an abandoned one but couldn't find nary a one. Then yesterday I came across the same kind of bottle with a slightly different design. Picked it up, took it with me. Coincidence again, naturally.
All of which proves nothing, I know, except that the Great God Coincidence is working overtime to produce some pretty cheap little communications. Yet the other day when Chris was telling me "How It Works," he also said that when he found that twenty on the bus after giving away his last dollar bill that he "knew" that God was real. Of course I wanted to believe all that, but my Skeptic is alive and well, and has a soapbox and megaphone.
How desperately we weave our interpretations to our own specifications, our own designs. A Navajo blanket of signs and symbols we have constructed ourselves. Yet I am as guilty as anyone else.
I was expecting a McDonald's gift card today plus a bit of cash. Didn't come. So I have another day until the cornucopia is open for business.
Two Latino workers were leaning up against the side of a building they were working on, their butts firmly planted on the sidewalk. I told them about my getting a ticket for sitting the exact same way they were. They were, of course, incredulous. For real that happened?
Here's what's going on with the cops here: they tend to apply the law very strictly when it comes to the homeless. No wiggle-room, so to speak. If a homeless person is sitting on the sidewalk, ticket him/her. They've even begun shutting the Pedestrian Bridge down at ten pm, claiming it's part of the park.
Once a homeless person gets hit with a big bucks offense (open container, for example, $300) the tendency will be for him to move on down the road as it will be some heavy community service.
I move through the day without having come across herb. Clear-eyed, so to speak. The grit and dust of the street rises up to meet me, and I ride through a cloud of unmet expectations, unwarranted anxieties, and misplaced happy endings to frog meets princess narratives.
Creeper was creeping along the street when I saw him out of the cornice of my eye, yelled out his name, and he came ambling over, all full of woe regarding Courtney. He became all bent out of shape when he saw her kiss a girl (I mean, dude, like I don't go for that kinda shit, ya know, Elijah?) and so the relationship that was so magical ten or so days ago has snarled into a Gordian Knot of incompatibilities. Life goes on as they each go their separate ways.
He walked off and a few minutes later I saw him chatting up a morbidly obese young lady. Not a Courtney, mind you, but perhaps all will be well.
So long as she doesn't kiss girls.
***
Peace.
Yesterday I wrote about meeting Ms. Cassandra there by the Scientology center. Aside from the obvious gift of having someone other than a streetperson listen to me, there was something else: I'd asked the Universe for cigarettes earlier. As in...how does this thing work, O Mysterious Cosmic One? Gimme some cigarettes, for starters.
Such a small thing to ask of the Universe. And there it was, courtesy of Cassandra, the Prophetess no one believes. How appropriate! She functions as the Messenger (in Greek angelos) and I chalk it all up to the Great God Coincidence. She waltzes up out of nowhere, announces her presence, delivers the goods (cigarettes w/o asking) then seals the deal with a name like Cassandra. Clearly the Cosmos has a helluva sense of humor. Cassandra, indeed. And of course I didn't believe.
The other day I wanted a bicycling helmet. Couple of days ago stopped to rest at a bridge and down below, in the drift and detrius, lay a helmet. I made my way down the treacherous slope, retrieved it, cleaned it up and as I write am wearing the derned thing. And...coincidence, of course.
The day of the triathlon I was at the finishing line cheering on the stalwarts when I noticed each of them got a dandy little water bottle. I instantly wanted one, of course, and looked around for an abandoned one but couldn't find nary a one. Then yesterday I came across the same kind of bottle with a slightly different design. Picked it up, took it with me. Coincidence again, naturally.
All of which proves nothing, I know, except that the Great God Coincidence is working overtime to produce some pretty cheap little communications. Yet the other day when Chris was telling me "How It Works," he also said that when he found that twenty on the bus after giving away his last dollar bill that he "knew" that God was real. Of course I wanted to believe all that, but my Skeptic is alive and well, and has a soapbox and megaphone.
How desperately we weave our interpretations to our own specifications, our own designs. A Navajo blanket of signs and symbols we have constructed ourselves. Yet I am as guilty as anyone else.
I was expecting a McDonald's gift card today plus a bit of cash. Didn't come. So I have another day until the cornucopia is open for business.
Two Latino workers were leaning up against the side of a building they were working on, their butts firmly planted on the sidewalk. I told them about my getting a ticket for sitting the exact same way they were. They were, of course, incredulous. For real that happened?
Here's what's going on with the cops here: they tend to apply the law very strictly when it comes to the homeless. No wiggle-room, so to speak. If a homeless person is sitting on the sidewalk, ticket him/her. They've even begun shutting the Pedestrian Bridge down at ten pm, claiming it's part of the park.
Once a homeless person gets hit with a big bucks offense (open container, for example, $300) the tendency will be for him to move on down the road as it will be some heavy community service.
I move through the day without having come across herb. Clear-eyed, so to speak. The grit and dust of the street rises up to meet me, and I ride through a cloud of unmet expectations, unwarranted anxieties, and misplaced happy endings to frog meets princess narratives.
Creeper was creeping along the street when I saw him out of the cornice of my eye, yelled out his name, and he came ambling over, all full of woe regarding Courtney. He became all bent out of shape when he saw her kiss a girl (I mean, dude, like I don't go for that kinda shit, ya know, Elijah?) and so the relationship that was so magical ten or so days ago has snarled into a Gordian Knot of incompatibilities. Life goes on as they each go their separate ways.
He walked off and a few minutes later I saw him chatting up a morbidly obese young lady. Not a Courtney, mind you, but perhaps all will be well.
So long as she doesn't kiss girls.
***
Peace.
Having Problems Getting On Yahoo Messenger
This is mainly for Madame LaBelle: I'm having a hard time getting on Yahoo. In fact, haven't been able to since this morning. So...stay serene. All will work out. The letter was not yet there at the church, so surely tomorrow. Much aloha...
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
A Shout-out to Cassandra
I rode up to St. David's just to check on the mail, only to find I was too late. Closed for the day. So back on the Beast and rode up to Veggie Heaven where I picked up a little foam container of rice and veggies which the good Falun Gong people had prepared for me.
And met the lovely Cassandra, Economics Major, who not only gave me most of a pack of cigarettes (and I didn't even ask!!) but also did some online research for and address for me. Much more of this later.
I'm closing this post down as I just lost a huge amount of material, and will have to rewrite later. At any rate, many thanks Ms. Cassandra. Keep following my musings and ravings as the blog continues...
Peace.
And met the lovely Cassandra, Economics Major, who not only gave me most of a pack of cigarettes (and I didn't even ask!!) but also did some online research for and address for me. Much more of this later.
I'm closing this post down as I just lost a huge amount of material, and will have to rewrite later. At any rate, many thanks Ms. Cassandra. Keep following my musings and ravings as the blog continues...
Peace.
Courtney Update
I haven't seen Courtney since the time she and her new b/f came by McDonald's. Day or two ago I heard she has a new boyfriend. Sounds like Creeper is history. New guy's name is Angel.
I think of Courtney as sort of a trailer-trash Brittney Spears. I ever get this computer working right, I'll upload some pics.
Keep on truckin', Courtney Girl.
I think of Courtney as sort of a trailer-trash Brittney Spears. I ever get this computer working right, I'll upload some pics.
Keep on truckin', Courtney Girl.
Christopher Channels "How It Works"
As some of you may have gathered by now, I'm one of a growing number of people who are starting to believe that we are living in a simulation. Think: the Matrix.
So anyway, I am thinking, If so, there must be a way to manipulate it or cooperate with it or some gawddamn thing. That's what I'm thinking: if so, what then?
So I just put it out there yesterday: How Does This Thing Work???
Today Chris walks up and asks if I need coffee money. He's down to his last old dollar, but that's when the giving is best. He tells me a quick story:
I was headed out on the Greyhound, had my ticket, twelve hour trip, and I was down to my last three bucks. So I'm walking along and this street person asks for spare change. I give him a buck. That's down to two bucks now. Walk a little further and get hit up again. Down to my last old dollar. The nitty gritty. So here comes another and he hits me up and, damn, I just can't do it, sorry. So he walks away and I turn to go my way and suddenly I just know I gotta give that man my last dollar. So I turn and chase after him and give him that last bill I had. Down to it, Bro.
Then he says, So I get on the bus, go to sit down, and there's a twenty dollar bill in the seat. He pauses then leans forward and in a conspiratorial whisper says, That's how it works!
So there I am remembering I'd asked a very specific question and the very next day this guy sits down and tells me how the derned thing works. To get ya gotta give.
Anywho, thank you again, Chris, should you ever read this.
***
Madame LaBelle mailed me a $50 McDonald's gift card plus $25 in cash, so it should be there today or tomorrow at the latest. The drizzle appears to have stopped, so later I should ride up to Trinity and see if it's there.
This is Elijah, your man on the street (literally), signing off for now.
Peace.
So anyway, I am thinking, If so, there must be a way to manipulate it or cooperate with it or some gawddamn thing. That's what I'm thinking: if so, what then?
So I just put it out there yesterday: How Does This Thing Work???
Today Chris walks up and asks if I need coffee money. He's down to his last old dollar, but that's when the giving is best. He tells me a quick story:
I was headed out on the Greyhound, had my ticket, twelve hour trip, and I was down to my last three bucks. So I'm walking along and this street person asks for spare change. I give him a buck. That's down to two bucks now. Walk a little further and get hit up again. Down to my last old dollar. The nitty gritty. So here comes another and he hits me up and, damn, I just can't do it, sorry. So he walks away and I turn to go my way and suddenly I just know I gotta give that man my last dollar. So I turn and chase after him and give him that last bill I had. Down to it, Bro.
Then he says, So I get on the bus, go to sit down, and there's a twenty dollar bill in the seat. He pauses then leans forward and in a conspiratorial whisper says, That's how it works!
So there I am remembering I'd asked a very specific question and the very next day this guy sits down and tells me how the derned thing works. To get ya gotta give.
Anywho, thank you again, Chris, should you ever read this.
***
Madame LaBelle mailed me a $50 McDonald's gift card plus $25 in cash, so it should be there today or tomorrow at the latest. The drizzle appears to have stopped, so later I should ride up to Trinity and see if it's there.
This is Elijah, your man on the street (literally), signing off for now.
Peace.
A Drizzly 9th of September
I was up and at McDonald's before the drizzle began. The outside patio was a gaggle of the homeless, one of which gave me enough to make the coffee nut. I began the day with six cents, and now I have zero. But I'm just finishing up breakfast which was a blueberry pop tart one of the bums gave me.
Fed. Elijah fed by the ravens. Remember that? Biblical.
So Garret shows up and gets shorts on my Bum Blend tobacco rolled in hamburger wrapper. Inelegant but it works. The Barton Springs Saloon across the street is a very productive place for snipes. And snipes come in all shapes, sizes, and flavors.
John at the bridge the other night said that a top-of-the-line snipe cigarette would be a... Snipenheimer. Hmmm. And I suppose a cigarette rolled of snipe tobacco you don't like (such as menthol for me) might be called...BummerBlend.
Then Smiley emerged across the street and I yelled at him a couple of times before I caught his attention. He came, we rolled snipes, and sat there against the side of the building, just out of the damp. Eventually here came Darby, the singer/songwriter from Nashville, looking for coffee. He had an almost full pouch of Bugler, so we all rolled the good stuff. He took my cup and went in for a refill, and the guy at the counter busted him.
This yesterday's cup? the manager asked.
Nope. It's a friend of mine's.
Manager laughs and fills his cup. At least you're honest.
Darby comes back musing on honesty. Honesty will take ya a long ways, he says.
And still later Smiley and I cross the street to the tunnels, a fairly safe place to smoke a bowl. And in a matter of minutes, my head is no longer earth bound.
But I wanted to tell you about Chris. And maybe that one's kewl enough to deserve its own posting.
Laters.
Fed. Elijah fed by the ravens. Remember that? Biblical.
So Garret shows up and gets shorts on my Bum Blend tobacco rolled in hamburger wrapper. Inelegant but it works. The Barton Springs Saloon across the street is a very productive place for snipes. And snipes come in all shapes, sizes, and flavors.
John at the bridge the other night said that a top-of-the-line snipe cigarette would be a... Snipenheimer. Hmmm. And I suppose a cigarette rolled of snipe tobacco you don't like (such as menthol for me) might be called...BummerBlend.
Then Smiley emerged across the street and I yelled at him a couple of times before I caught his attention. He came, we rolled snipes, and sat there against the side of the building, just out of the damp. Eventually here came Darby, the singer/songwriter from Nashville, looking for coffee. He had an almost full pouch of Bugler, so we all rolled the good stuff. He took my cup and went in for a refill, and the guy at the counter busted him.
This yesterday's cup? the manager asked.
Nope. It's a friend of mine's.
Manager laughs and fills his cup. At least you're honest.
Darby comes back musing on honesty. Honesty will take ya a long ways, he says.
And still later Smiley and I cross the street to the tunnels, a fairly safe place to smoke a bowl. And in a matter of minutes, my head is no longer earth bound.
But I wanted to tell you about Chris. And maybe that one's kewl enough to deserve its own posting.
Laters.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
The Homeless: Another Inconvenient Truth
Yesterday evening I ate at the Salvation Army for the first time since hitting Austin some two-plus weeks ago. A hot dog, a ration of beans, and all the doughnuts you could eat.
The line was long. A motley assortment of the down and out, men and women in a scraggly line, their few possessions in torn and tattered bags and backpacks, jerry-rigged dollies. A few were over at the side, lounging on pieces of cardboard. The heat? Brutal.
Smoky turned me on to this place. At 4 PM they open the doors, letting ten in at a time. Inside, you sign your name to a clipboard, are given a ticket, and proceed up the stairs to the dining hall. Two liter plastic bottles of soda were on each table, and a man went around replacing them as they were emptied.
We eat hurriedly, almost furtively, and a few minutes later are back out the door to the street.
The Street.
It's the ultimate Sword of Damocles, the ultimate Judge. We move hither and yon, prodded on by motivations of hunger, ennui, and...movement for the sake of movement.
And while we're at it, a quick shout-out to LIFT beverage cafe. The good folks at LIFT have been more than supportive of our efforts to repair this computer, allowing us to use their wifi and electricity as we search for solutions. THANK YOU SO MUCH!!
I ran into Smiley last night as I sat on the sidewalk chatting with Madame LaBelle. I was looking for enough change for coffee (42 cents buys Senior Discount coffee at McDonald's with two refills), and Smiley was looking for a bus pass--which I just happened to have. The exchange was made, to both our satisfactions. He also had a burrito which he gave me, so the evening ended on the note of a full tummy.
Saw him again this morning at McDonald's. He passed along the morning paper--which I read--and then wandered off up Barton Springs Road, headed for the "hippie hangout." The hangout is not all that far away, right by the creek, and you'll find an aggregate of street people hanging out there, playing music, smoking herb, drinking, or what have you.
It's a favorite hotspot for ticketing by the cops.
They come by every day, and it's a rare occurence indeed when they don't issue at least one ticket. Meteor Mike and his lady friend, Ute, were hit the other day. Ute had the joint in her hand as the bicycle cops rode up silently. A couple of others were ticketed for open containers.
This happens again and again, and no one ever seems to think: hey, let's post some watchers down the path,some lookouts. Doesn't happen. And so the tickets continue to be issued.
I've never seen anyone outrageously drunk or obnoxious down there. Usually there's not enough alcohol to get a person to that point. Still, the law is the law. But where can a down-and-outer drink in this town that's legal? Bars are out of the question as they're too expensive. Can't drink inside one's home because we're all homeless. Which leaves...
The Street.
It's the same with sleeping. I am frequently exhausted by the afternoon, but to lie down and sleep in the park is a ticketable offense. So to catch forty winks, a person has to find some place which is out of sight, safe, and in the shade.
Smokey just rode up. He had a good night last night. He met a college student who laid twenty dollars on him as they parted ways. So...there is the open heart out there, the compassionate Buddha operating through individuals.
Lovely.
Today I must shower. Smiley have me one of those tiny hotel bars of soap last night, and I'm guarding it like the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Smile. I will wash out my clothes as best I can, and let them dry on my body.
We are Inconvenient Truths. The eyes of the world move by us so quickly, dismissing us as irrelevant and somehow in the way. Understandable. But sooner or later the robots will be doing nearly everything, and there will be vast hordes of the unemployed. How will the government respond?
I think of the old Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times.
Indeed.
Interesting times indeed.
More later. Smokey hasn't said anything, but he's wanting to download some music.
Till then...much aloha,
Elijah
The line was long. A motley assortment of the down and out, men and women in a scraggly line, their few possessions in torn and tattered bags and backpacks, jerry-rigged dollies. A few were over at the side, lounging on pieces of cardboard. The heat? Brutal.
Smoky turned me on to this place. At 4 PM they open the doors, letting ten in at a time. Inside, you sign your name to a clipboard, are given a ticket, and proceed up the stairs to the dining hall. Two liter plastic bottles of soda were on each table, and a man went around replacing them as they were emptied.
We eat hurriedly, almost furtively, and a few minutes later are back out the door to the street.
The Street.
It's the ultimate Sword of Damocles, the ultimate Judge. We move hither and yon, prodded on by motivations of hunger, ennui, and...movement for the sake of movement.
And while we're at it, a quick shout-out to LIFT beverage cafe. The good folks at LIFT have been more than supportive of our efforts to repair this computer, allowing us to use their wifi and electricity as we search for solutions. THANK YOU SO MUCH!!
I ran into Smiley last night as I sat on the sidewalk chatting with Madame LaBelle. I was looking for enough change for coffee (42 cents buys Senior Discount coffee at McDonald's with two refills), and Smiley was looking for a bus pass--which I just happened to have. The exchange was made, to both our satisfactions. He also had a burrito which he gave me, so the evening ended on the note of a full tummy.
Saw him again this morning at McDonald's. He passed along the morning paper--which I read--and then wandered off up Barton Springs Road, headed for the "hippie hangout." The hangout is not all that far away, right by the creek, and you'll find an aggregate of street people hanging out there, playing music, smoking herb, drinking, or what have you.
It's a favorite hotspot for ticketing by the cops.
They come by every day, and it's a rare occurence indeed when they don't issue at least one ticket. Meteor Mike and his lady friend, Ute, were hit the other day. Ute had the joint in her hand as the bicycle cops rode up silently. A couple of others were ticketed for open containers.
This happens again and again, and no one ever seems to think: hey, let's post some watchers down the path,some lookouts. Doesn't happen. And so the tickets continue to be issued.
I've never seen anyone outrageously drunk or obnoxious down there. Usually there's not enough alcohol to get a person to that point. Still, the law is the law. But where can a down-and-outer drink in this town that's legal? Bars are out of the question as they're too expensive. Can't drink inside one's home because we're all homeless. Which leaves...
The Street.
It's the same with sleeping. I am frequently exhausted by the afternoon, but to lie down and sleep in the park is a ticketable offense. So to catch forty winks, a person has to find some place which is out of sight, safe, and in the shade.
Smokey just rode up. He had a good night last night. He met a college student who laid twenty dollars on him as they parted ways. So...there is the open heart out there, the compassionate Buddha operating through individuals.
Lovely.
Today I must shower. Smiley have me one of those tiny hotel bars of soap last night, and I'm guarding it like the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Smile. I will wash out my clothes as best I can, and let them dry on my body.
We are Inconvenient Truths. The eyes of the world move by us so quickly, dismissing us as irrelevant and somehow in the way. Understandable. But sooner or later the robots will be doing nearly everything, and there will be vast hordes of the unemployed. How will the government respond?
I think of the old Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times.
Indeed.
Interesting times indeed.
More later. Smokey hasn't said anything, but he's wanting to download some music.
Till then...much aloha,
Elijah
Monday, September 7, 2009
Progress....
Some progress has been made in getting this little computer up and running. Obviously we're able to get online, but the virus is still there, buried in the innards of the machine, and my little IT guy is trying everything he can think of to get this thing going.
So...
There is so much to report, and so little time to do it in. My battery on this computer is finally working again, and I'm doing this from battery. So that's to the good.
I am disappointed with my posts of late. I'm not saying whatI think I need to be saying and I need to get with the program and speak it and shout it, as Bob Dylan sang, so that all souls can hear it.
But thanks for hanging in there for and with me. Will try to get something really nice written up tomorrow.
Until then...peace.
Elijah
So...
There is so much to report, and so little time to do it in. My battery on this computer is finally working again, and I'm doing this from battery. So that's to the good.
I am disappointed with my posts of late. I'm not saying whatI think I need to be saying and I need to get with the program and speak it and shout it, as Bob Dylan sang, so that all souls can hear it.
But thanks for hanging in there for and with me. Will try to get something really nice written up tomorrow.
Until then...peace.
Elijah
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Working on the little computer
There should be a special place in Hell reserved for people who create computer viruses. We've been working on trying to get rid of the one I have in this machine, but so far no luck. But we can't infect anyone else, so the blog is completely safe.
Update: my breathing has gone from bad to worse. Lots of congestion, and I'm having to stop pedalling the bike much sooner than before--than even a week ago. Which makes getting from Point A to Point B a bit of a problem.
The food truck didn't come tonight, so that means I've had ONE meal today. And I was skinny to begin with. But there's no real danger of starving to death, so I'll just whine a bit here and get it out of my system.
Missed my morning coffee. Somehow I just wasn't up to asking people for the 40 cents I lacked to make the nut. (Coffee is 42 cents for the Senior Special.) So by the afternoon I had a splitting headache which only went away when I came down to check on the progress of my geek-friend who's trying to make bricks w/o straw, so to speak, when it comes to fixing this computer.
If I had a disk drive, he sez it would be no problem. But of course I don't have one. So it's...try this, try that. Trying to get something going that will work.
Update: my breathing has gone from bad to worse. Lots of congestion, and I'm having to stop pedalling the bike much sooner than before--than even a week ago. Which makes getting from Point A to Point B a bit of a problem.
The food truck didn't come tonight, so that means I've had ONE meal today. And I was skinny to begin with. But there's no real danger of starving to death, so I'll just whine a bit here and get it out of my system.
Missed my morning coffee. Somehow I just wasn't up to asking people for the 40 cents I lacked to make the nut. (Coffee is 42 cents for the Senior Special.) So by the afternoon I had a splitting headache which only went away when I came down to check on the progress of my geek-friend who's trying to make bricks w/o straw, so to speak, when it comes to fixing this computer.
If I had a disk drive, he sez it would be no problem. But of course I don't have one. So it's...try this, try that. Trying to get something going that will work.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Forgetfulness Is My Middle Name
Just so you know...I walked off and left my other computer (complete w backpack) yesterday, so I am relying on this one which is very...unreliable to say the least.
Madame LaBelle, if I don't post as frequently you'll know why.
Madame LaBelle, if I don't post as frequently you'll know why.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
New Campsite ...Courtney and Creeper
It's Tuesday afternoon, and I'm sitting at Mellow Johnny's, typing madly away. A lot on the plate since I last wrote. Managed to load the entire "house" on the bike using only one bag plus my backpack. The blue tarp is rolled and attached to the front handlebar with bands I cut from an old inner tube, compliments of Madame LaBelle.
New campsite, btw. I came up about midnight, not far behind the heels of another one who was pushing his bike up that bloody Matterhorn. Spread the wet clothing out to dry on branches and bushes, eventually went to sleep.
This morning I slept in until 8ish, then got up and groggily put it all together. Packed out my second plastic bag of rubbish. Not the big black rubbish bags, but the smaller ones they give out in the grocery stores.
Why do street people trash things so badly? I've always gone by the admonition, If ya pack it in, pack it out.
Keeps things looking much much better.
I was sitting at McDonald's when Courtney and her new beau, a guy called Creeper came walking by. They borrowed enough to get a pack of Bugler, sat and talked awhile. He seems pretty enamoured of her. Kept talking about the job he might get flipping hamburgers, all excited.
And he has the irritating quality of continually talking about himself, interrupting others when they're telling a narrative because what they just said reminded him of something he'd...you get the idea.
Had to hold up my hand to cut him off. A bit of growing up to do. For all of us, no doubt.
I'm charging my camera's batteries here at Mellow Johnny's. More and more situations present themselves. And I think: why didn't I take a picture of Paul?
Courtney kept asking about Drifter, the guy she wrote the letter to after she'd had sex with him one night. He never replied to the letter. But still she has an interest in where he is, what's going on.
I've not seen him in two days, I said.
Two days?? He might be in jail.
Perhaps. The beat goes on, the streets are as mellow and mean as ever, and the little miracles approach me shyly, knock at the door, grin and shuffle.
A found phone. A generous and grateful phone owner.
Peace.
New campsite, btw. I came up about midnight, not far behind the heels of another one who was pushing his bike up that bloody Matterhorn. Spread the wet clothing out to dry on branches and bushes, eventually went to sleep.
This morning I slept in until 8ish, then got up and groggily put it all together. Packed out my second plastic bag of rubbish. Not the big black rubbish bags, but the smaller ones they give out in the grocery stores.
Why do street people trash things so badly? I've always gone by the admonition, If ya pack it in, pack it out.
Keeps things looking much much better.
I was sitting at McDonald's when Courtney and her new beau, a guy called Creeper came walking by. They borrowed enough to get a pack of Bugler, sat and talked awhile. He seems pretty enamoured of her. Kept talking about the job he might get flipping hamburgers, all excited.
And he has the irritating quality of continually talking about himself, interrupting others when they're telling a narrative because what they just said reminded him of something he'd...you get the idea.
Had to hold up my hand to cut him off. A bit of growing up to do. For all of us, no doubt.
I'm charging my camera's batteries here at Mellow Johnny's. More and more situations present themselves. And I think: why didn't I take a picture of Paul?
Courtney kept asking about Drifter, the guy she wrote the letter to after she'd had sex with him one night. He never replied to the letter. But still she has an interest in where he is, what's going on.
I've not seen him in two days, I said.
Two days?? He might be in jail.
Perhaps. The beat goes on, the streets are as mellow and mean as ever, and the little miracles approach me shyly, knock at the door, grin and shuffle.
A found phone. A generous and grateful phone owner.
Peace.
Generosity of Paul
A gentleman named Paul showed up at the library shortly after noon to reclaim the phone he'd lost on the Pedestrian Bridge the night before. His reward was liberal, indeed, and it went a long way to paying debts, getting some essentials, and the like.
A gracious and a kind man. Thank you, Paul. You truly made my day.
Me ke aloha,
Elijah
A gracious and a kind man. Thank you, Paul. You truly made my day.
Me ke aloha,
Elijah
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