close your eyes

woman with bandages and black lenses taped over her eyes

the beggars sing a tuneless song, "s'il vous plaît mesdames et messieurs"

homeless man with decorated shopping bag and trolley

It doesn't get easier to see. I walk past with eyes averted as if they're not human beings, as if they're not worthy of my notice and I hate that this is the only thing I know how to do. 

I can't give you money, I'm sorry. If I look at you, you'll ask me and I have nothing for you. You deserve to be greeted, to hear a friendly hello, to be smiled at, respected. But since this is the unbreakable situation of time, since there are many beggars at every turn, since none of us can give you what you really need because none of us know what that is––what would you have me do?

Ah gentility you've made me fall but you can't make me laugh yet

After two weeks of living out of a laundry basket and eating bagels and donations and riding my bicicleta for miles and miles and miles (of ocean) (making my thrift store dresses fit me mucho betteroso) I'm about to settle down.
How crass and materialistic to have a house, he said.
How wonderful to build up my own little hermit shell, I rebounded.
Tomorrow is the Labor Free Day. Did you know, I started out this blog with a Labor Day? Because I'm rarely interested in life without manual labor I decided to celebrate by trying out a blog to see if I wasn't boring. I don't know if it made me less boring or more (don't tell me in the comment box, I'll cry), but I'm enjoying the typing typing typing.
Typing therapy, he said.
You don't exist, I said.
I think, he said.

What lessons do you learn in a year?
I learned to muddle slowly and listen to my gut.
I'm hearty (hearty appetite-ish).
I love my bicicleta (Il s'appelle "Wonder") and hate driving.
I love wind (that's "le vent" en français).
I learned to believe in astronauts.
I learned the Russian alphabet.
And boys are crazy, but aren't we all.

no more meetings for you, dear.

I'm dreaming again and maybe that's fun for some of us but it's not the fun for the one of us that is me. I only dream in distress or I should say, my dreams are distressful. Some kind of manifestation of inner turmoil and confusion etc etc etc.
Last week I had a dream that a friend of mine started smoking. I was stressed in my dream as I opened up her car door, took the cigarette she was smoking and started smoking like a pro myself. The rest of the dream was me smoking and I woke up at the point when my mouth became full of ashes. Not just smoking, but smoking UNFILTERED. Whoa-ho-ho. And everyone was impressed by the smoke-rings I could blow. What caterpillarism.
One night I had a dream that highlighted all of the darkish, sketchy areas on my bike route to this "hostel" I've been staying at.
Last night I had a dream that my friend started smoking Hookah. Except that this hookah looked like an extremely large roll of pot so even my dreams are demented. And I was in western North Dakota or probably Glendive, Montana (some such city full of creepers) searching for my purse that I had somehow misplaced. I was really happy when my roommate woke me up with her sinus/allergy hacking cough.

Does anyone know of any kind of magic trick, cloth, or 16 hour manual labor job I can use to knock all of the dreams out of me? Because once the mind starts muddling, it muddles up a storm. Maybe this storm will break when I can finally stop living out of a laundry basket and Mini suitcase.

ode to the consistency of dinosaurs

I have a feeling that if I were ever really homeless, the question of showering would never be a problem. I have come to this conclusion as I have been showered many many times by sprinklers this dusk as I rode my bike about town.
Before all this showering I had been sitting on a park bench watching the sprinklers for an hour or so. Here's the secret: yes, I am a film major. No, I do not enjoy watching movies that often. But I certainly am mesmerized by watching sprinklers. I definitely do enjoy watching sprinklers more than I enjoy sitting in meetings.
Which I accidentally found myself sitting in a meeting this evening. I think I've gotten roped into helping with the upcoming local arts festival. I'm going along with it too. And not for any good reason.
Morbid.