(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
doppelganger, 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. Yeah, it's pretty cool.
And then Mr. Lucid For the First Time
I’ve known him, which has been here
as my bunk neighbor for over six months,
adds “and so are interpersonal relations.”
Nobody had a clue what to say for a
long while after that. We implied it be,
perhaps, by our just being silent. But,
inside, I’m giddy. Because this is the
very foundation of my value system; a
foundation that his been excavated
and blown up to smithereens over
the past couple of years but yet
clearly remains a big part of it.
Scrooge just claimed in a very
poignant moment that interpersonal
relations are, well, pretty cool. Any-
way, I’ve really no idea where other
nearby minds have wandered , but I
can hardly contain myself. Which, as
anyone who has spent more than, say,
fifteen minutes with me knows, is
quite, well, it's an unusual situation
in which to find myself in. Biting my
tongue, that is. So it’s impossible 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
turns momentarily to other subjects.
Such as 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 re-
gaining control of a sustained type
of optimism. This, and, as another
example, the art, the sheer necessity,
of being social (I'm speaking for my-
self here, of course). I tend to usu-
ally add here that I’ve been diag-
nosed with an am on regular med-
ication for anxiety. Particularly
social anxiety. But yet, I tend to
add I'm a clear-cut extravert in
the Myers' Briggs sense. So,
I get my energy AND my anxiety
from people. It’s 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 mean-
dering thoughts long enough to
listen to the directions the con-
versations 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 dead-end for vehicles
for a block or two due to how
steep they are (or how wealthy
the neighborhood, I suppose).
My mostly six months on the
streets coincided with the
longest contracted job I’ve
had since nearly a decade ago,
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
a bohemian artist. I loved it
(the park) because it was
relatively un-trafficked,
I had my own cul-de-sac
built of boulders to sleep
within (a fortress, as 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 appropriate enough
called Sanctuary, which
stands inconspicuously
at the corner of Eight
and Howard Streets in
lovely San Francisco,
feeling the need to re-
cord 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'm content.
Tomorrow, I shall move on
to better things. Finally
better things. May it be
an (averaged-out, of
course) uphill swing for
many years to come. If
I had small glasses of
champagne and bubbly
juice to distribute here,
on my last night in The
Quiet Room, I’d send us
all a simple cheer. On
to the next. And may
it never be as consist-
ently grueling as the
recent past…
