(part two)
....throbs to the earlobes.
—John Ashbery
It’s “pretty cool” to get exposed to
fine arts at an early age, like Kid Rock’s
doppelgänger, we each decide, here in
The Quiet Room of the homeless shelter
in which I’ve “resided” for the better por
tion of two years. And then Mr. Lucid for
the First Time in the Six Months I’ve Known
Him, he’s my bunk neighbor, adds “and so
are interpersonal relations.” Nobody
had a clue what to say for a long while
after that. We made it true by just being
silent. But, inside, I’m giddy. Because this
lies at the very foundation of my value system;
which been blown to smithereens the past couple
of years, but yet clearly remains somewhere in here.
Scrooge just claimed in a very poignant moment that
interpersonal relations are, well, pretty cool. I’ve really
no idea where the other minds here earlier have wandered,
but I can hardly contain myself. Which, as anyone who
has spent more than, say, fifteen minutes with me
knows, is not that unusual. Biting my tongue
being near impossible for me. So it’s tough to
speak, and this happens to me next to never.
A couple of minutes pass (or perhaps thirty?).
Then Scrooge, aka Mr. Lucid for the First Time
Since I’ve Made His Acquaintance adds, as if he
had only just seconds ago made the previous
observation, “Yeah, and you most definitely talk
too much.” He’s looking at me (duh!). So the
moment is gone. The subject veers momentarily
to other subjects, like earthquakes. Apparently
one hit Napa Valley the previous Sunday. A 3.8.
I learn a lot from the guys in The Quiet Room.
And relearn just about as much. Things with
which I’ve been out of practice, like regaining
control of a sustained type of optimism. This,
and, another example, the art, the sheer necessity,
of being social (I’m speaking for myself here, of
course). I tend to usually add here that I’ve been
diagnosed with anxiety, am on regular medication
for it. Particularly social anxiety. But yet I’m also a
clear-cut extrovert, in the Myers’ Briggs sense.
So, I get my energy AND my anxiety from
people. They’re a necessity and a curse (to
which I usually add that I’m a Gemini).
But, this can’t be that abnormal. Is
it? I don’t know. It’s just me.
And every day is learning to deal
with it. I stop my meandering thoughts
long enough to listen to the directions the
conversations have gone in the room.
How San Francisco sucks. How it’s
a fantastic place to be (whichever,
it’s home to me, and I do love it,
or wouldn’t be sitting in a home-
less shelter discussing such an
absurd subject). Next up: our
favorite spots to sleep when we
are literally “on the streets.” Mine
happens to be Ina Coolbrith Park
(named after a poet!), a relatively
untravelled diagonal block on Russian
Hill built on one of those avenues that
give way to a vehicular dead-end for
a block or two due to how steep it is
(or how wealthy the neighborhood, I
suppose). My mostly six months on the
streets coincided with the longest contracted
job I’d had for nearly a decade, when (during
the earlier time) I made enough money to take
three and a half years off of paid work and live
the life of what I considered at the time either a
luxury I never thought I would have, or that of
a bohemian artist. I loved the park because
it was relatively un-trafficked, I had my own
cul-de-sac built of boulders to sleep within
(a fortress, if you will), and, night or day
it had one of the most beautiful vistas
these eyes have encountered.
I got to wake up every
morning, pre-dawn,
to the view of the gorgeous
new Bay Bridge, Treasure
Island, and my “home,” of
sorts, the Financial District,
with its familiar buildings
down below. As I spent
my last night here at the
barracks (as I called them),
a place appropriately enough
called Sanctuary, which
stands inconspicuously
at the corner of Eight
and Howard Streets in
SoMa, feeling the need to
record yet another small
record of my existence,
this more straightforward
(truthful?) than normal
hello to the world, or the
minute part of it that might
take a listen, I am content.
Tomorrow, I shall move on
to better things. Finally.
May it be an uphill swing for
many years to come. If I had
small glasses and champagne
to distribute on my last
night in The Quiet Room,
I’d send us all a simple
cheer. On to the next.
May it never be as
consistently grueling
as the recent past.
