I've never wanted a home more than right now. Being sick, it seems, is the clincher. See, not having a home gives me this sort of displaced feel, which is sometimes pretty cool. There are times I feel like I'm really on a mission. An unending quest to save the world. But that's when I'm feeling spunky.
On Monday I strained my lower back. On Tuesday I got sick. The back pain makes the prospect of sleeping on the ground very uninviting. The sickness makes me want a home. Now, I am fortunate enough to have people around who care enough to put me up for the night, or make me tea, or some other form of comfort. While this is nice, and I appreciate the sentiment, it has yet to make me feel at home.
We are more than half way through February, which means the cold will be passing soon and the rains will be gone. I am looking forward to not being ill. I have yet to regret my choice of lifestyle... but I'll say, on days like today it looks pretty bleak.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
The Rain
Last night was cold.
A few days ago I hatched the idea of creating a wilderness cache. In this box would be all I would need to stay the night in the wild. Hidden away behind tree and bush, I would be able to just hike out to the box with the appearance of going for a hike, and stay for the night. This is an important little bit of deception, as camping in this particular wilderness is not looked highly upon by the law.
Here's the deal. The gates up to the legal camping spots in these mountains close at 8:00 pm. I am so rarely done working/talking to loved ones by 8:00 that I just never make it up there. Honestly the hours between 8:00 and 11:00 are my most productive. Anyhow, there is no camping in Eaton. Now, that's only kind of a problem. If I hike out into the bush a few hundred meters, no one would ever catch on. The problem lies in the fact that I have to walk passed the ranger station every time I hike out there with all my stuff in tow. This makes my wilderness cache appealing, as it makes me look like every other early morning walker.
Last night I created my cache. I got a plastic tub and a tarp from Target, and filled the tub with the tarp, two blankets, a pillow, and my cozy socks. I also decided to bring my tent, as it sorta looked like rain. Good thing, too.
Rain it did. The ground was all soft and moist from the earlier rains, and the creek coming out of the canyon was running for the first time since the end of last summer. Usually I love that little river, but carrying a giant tub in with only the moon to light my path made the rocky crossing a bit more stressful. I found easily the spot I had scouted out a few days ago, and I set up camp.
Everything was damp by the time I settled down for the night, but is was more... annoying than uncomfortable. The actual suffering came later, around 3:00 am when the rain kicked in. See, tents keep the rain off you, but for some damn reason, if you touch the side of the tent, the water can come in. My little porta-tent is basically a mummy bag with a spacious bit for your head, which means that your lower section is basically touching the sides. If you aren't directly, your pad and blankets are. The only way to avoid this is to stake out the sides of the tent. I hadn't.
So starting at 3:00 in the morning the half hour wake ups began. I would wake up, vaguely aware of my soggy condition, roll over, and try to sleep. This worked well enough, but as I got wetter, the attempted rest offered diminishing returns.
The lesson here is not terribly surprising. Getting wet is not fun in the cold. Now, it probably didn't even dip much below 50 degrees, but the wet can really make that miserable. Not much chance of hypothermia and that temp... but upon my sluggish unrested rise today, I really missed home.
A few days ago I hatched the idea of creating a wilderness cache. In this box would be all I would need to stay the night in the wild. Hidden away behind tree and bush, I would be able to just hike out to the box with the appearance of going for a hike, and stay for the night. This is an important little bit of deception, as camping in this particular wilderness is not looked highly upon by the law.
Here's the deal. The gates up to the legal camping spots in these mountains close at 8:00 pm. I am so rarely done working/talking to loved ones by 8:00 that I just never make it up there. Honestly the hours between 8:00 and 11:00 are my most productive. Anyhow, there is no camping in Eaton. Now, that's only kind of a problem. If I hike out into the bush a few hundred meters, no one would ever catch on. The problem lies in the fact that I have to walk passed the ranger station every time I hike out there with all my stuff in tow. This makes my wilderness cache appealing, as it makes me look like every other early morning walker.
Last night I created my cache. I got a plastic tub and a tarp from Target, and filled the tub with the tarp, two blankets, a pillow, and my cozy socks. I also decided to bring my tent, as it sorta looked like rain. Good thing, too.
Rain it did. The ground was all soft and moist from the earlier rains, and the creek coming out of the canyon was running for the first time since the end of last summer. Usually I love that little river, but carrying a giant tub in with only the moon to light my path made the rocky crossing a bit more stressful. I found easily the spot I had scouted out a few days ago, and I set up camp.
Everything was damp by the time I settled down for the night, but is was more... annoying than uncomfortable. The actual suffering came later, around 3:00 am when the rain kicked in. See, tents keep the rain off you, but for some damn reason, if you touch the side of the tent, the water can come in. My little porta-tent is basically a mummy bag with a spacious bit for your head, which means that your lower section is basically touching the sides. If you aren't directly, your pad and blankets are. The only way to avoid this is to stake out the sides of the tent. I hadn't.
So starting at 3:00 in the morning the half hour wake ups began. I would wake up, vaguely aware of my soggy condition, roll over, and try to sleep. This worked well enough, but as I got wetter, the attempted rest offered diminishing returns.
The lesson here is not terribly surprising. Getting wet is not fun in the cold. Now, it probably didn't even dip much below 50 degrees, but the wet can really make that miserable. Not much chance of hypothermia and that temp... but upon my sluggish unrested rise today, I really missed home.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Negotiating Homelessness
How to loose your house but not your job.
Using
Social
Performative
Symbolic
Behavioral
and
Ideological
... mechanisms to alay fears and establish normalcy despite not having a home
Using
Social
Performative
Symbolic
Behavioral
and
Ideological
... mechanisms to alay fears and establish normalcy despite not having a home
What Homes Communicate
Having a home communicates:
Self Determination - What I do is up to me.
Reliability - Because my things are safely kept and I am regularly there.
Productivity - I contribute enough to society that I can afford a home.
Social Status - The quality of my home is indicitive of my influence and wealth.
Decency - I keep my home clean, and it keeps me clean.
Self Determination - What I do is up to me.
Reliability - Because my things are safely kept and I am regularly there.
Productivity - I contribute enough to society that I can afford a home.
Social Status - The quality of my home is indicitive of my influence and wealth.
Decency - I keep my home clean, and it keeps me clean.
Practical Restrictions of Homelessness
There are more than a few things that a home does for a person. These functions include security (protection against the elements, animals, and fellow humans), appearance (grooming, clean and varied clothing), comfort (temperature, covering, nice places to sit and sleep), food (refrigeration, preperation, and consumption), communication (mailing address, phone, and computer), and storage (of all our extra stuff).
Housing and Environmental Advocacy
Alright, lets take a quick poll. How many here consider themselves devoted on some level to improving the status of the environment?
Let hit a few of the traditions. How many of you have taken some meaningful and intentional step to recycling? How about reducing carbon emissions? What about through diet, like eating local or reducing meat consumption?
Right. How many of you have ever considered homelessness? Didn't think so. But why not? Housing, built up land, constitutes a major aspect of our footprint on this earth. Combine loss of green space, tampering with run off, the resources used in construction, and the energy used to heat and cool the residence. A significant part of our environmental impact is bound up in our housing, and yet, this is not the hot issue that recycling, fossil fuels, and diet continue to be.
The blind spot in our advocacy is likely a product of our American cultural perspectives about property and homeownership. Central to the American dream is the idea of personal home ownership. Our own home, our own land. This desire sprung forth from, at least in earlier years of our country, the vast avaliability of such land. But it is more than just lots of land. We also value personal freedom, an independance form the rule of others, and being the master of ones own domain is an excellent outward sign as well as practical step in establishing ones liberty.
Not only are there cultural inclinations, there are some serious practical concerns that restrict environmentalists from walking away from their houses.
Let hit a few of the traditions. How many of you have taken some meaningful and intentional step to recycling? How about reducing carbon emissions? What about through diet, like eating local or reducing meat consumption?
Right. How many of you have ever considered homelessness? Didn't think so. But why not? Housing, built up land, constitutes a major aspect of our footprint on this earth. Combine loss of green space, tampering with run off, the resources used in construction, and the energy used to heat and cool the residence. A significant part of our environmental impact is bound up in our housing, and yet, this is not the hot issue that recycling, fossil fuels, and diet continue to be.
The blind spot in our advocacy is likely a product of our American cultural perspectives about property and homeownership. Central to the American dream is the idea of personal home ownership. Our own home, our own land. This desire sprung forth from, at least in earlier years of our country, the vast avaliability of such land. But it is more than just lots of land. We also value personal freedom, an independance form the rule of others, and being the master of ones own domain is an excellent outward sign as well as practical step in establishing ones liberty.
Not only are there cultural inclinations, there are some serious practical concerns that restrict environmentalists from walking away from their houses.
The Sierra Madre Villa Metro Station
The Gold Line Metro rail runs in the middle of the 210 freeway in Pasadena, down through South Pasadena and on into Union Station in downtown Los Angeles. Leaving Union Station, the Gold Line's last stop is the Sierra Madre Villa Station, which connects to the fourth floor of the giant parking structure built to house the automobiles of the commuters. On weekdays the four stories are packed with cars, ranging from beat up trucks to luxury sedans.
At night a few cars can be found on any of the floors, left by people who work 3rd's or who have metroed to the airport and are abroad.
But the fifth story is empty. Not really sure why. Perhaps people just park as soon as they see a space, hurrying to the elevator to the forth floor, never even noticing that the bridge spanning the 210 doens't actually connect to the top.
It was on this story, all the way at the top and tucked away in the second parking space from teh wall, I began to make my home. See, the parking is free, which makes it better than Eaton Canyon. It also lets me sleep in my car, which I have discovered is remarkably comfy. And despite the fact that it is smack in the midst of the city, there is more peace there than you might think. High enough that the sounds are muted by the wind and the city lights are far below and the stronger stars can still shine through.
I slept there origionally because of the rain, but honestly, I liked it so much that I began sleeping there whenever it made sense. If I was using the Metro the following day, I'd sleep there. If it was really cold, I'd sleep there. Apart from an enthusiasticly parked young couple, no one was ever up there.
I stayed up too late last night, and I subsequently got up too late this morning. Though the night had been pretty cold, the heat of the morning sun had been collecting in my car, and I opened one of the doors to let in the morning cool. Laying there, I ran an assessment of my body, noticing that I felt really, really good. My back was not out of whack, I was well rested, and my spirits were good. A few early morning phone calls with Kristen had left me in a good place.
As I lounged in my car assisted, parking structure home, I heard a car idling nearby. Thinking perhaps that they needed to park next to or near me, I closed the door conscienciously. As I lay there, thinking about getting up for real, upside down out my passenger side window I see the uniformed form of a police officer open door. Two fellow officers are fanned out around my car.
I roll so I am looking at him upright, and in a surprisingly cheery tone for how startled I am I say, "Good Morning!"
The cop shakes his head. I'm not sure whether he meant to say with his shake, "No, this is not going to be a genial conversation," or, "No, this is not going to be a good morning." Really both interpretations amount to the same thing.
"Leave," he says flatly.
"Um, ok."
I'm honestly expecting more. Perhaps for them to ask to see my licence, perhaps some questioning, perhaps a description of the law I'm breaking... something. But he adds no more. So I hop out the car and go around to the other side. The other two officers are just stairing, too. As I'm putting on my shoes, they start asking questions.
"How long you been homeless?"
"I'm not homeless. I live in Orange but work in Pasadena. Sometimes I use the Metro," I say, but I'm thinking, "Damn it, I wanted some kind of story about using the Metro but taking a nap in my car... ah well."
The cop looks in my back seat. "How come your car looks like a house?"
"Because I keep some of the stuff in it, because sometimes I stay here." I say, truthfully.
"Where do you work?"
"At Cal State LA, and at a church here in Pasadena," I say much in the same way I tell all people about my employment. Now they are really just looking at me. Maybe its the fact that I'm well dressed, well spoken, and well behaved. Maybe its the really great mood I'm in. Maybe its because I'm telling them that I'm a college teacher. Whatever the reason, they don't know really what to say to me, and they are all just standing there.
I've got my shoes on, located my wallet, and I'm ready to go.
"So..." I ask, "Is that all?"
The third officer nods, "Yeah, get out of here, and you can't be sleeping here."
As I drive out, floor by floor, I realize that I won't be staying here again. Its a sinking feeling. This place that I felt so safe. That was free. That was warm, tucked away, and under the stars. Taken from me.
Now, I get it. The precise reason I feel safe is because cops like them kick out vagrants like me. That's why there isn't a shanty town on the fifth floor of the parking structure. But I can't shake the feeling of displacement. Perhaps I haven't been homeless for long enough for the vagrant mindset to really have kicked in, but I had started feeling at home in that second parking space by the wall. So much so that I had a driving desire to part there, in that one spot, every time. And now that sense of comfort had been scattered. My tenitive hope that this might just work, gone, just like that.
Even if I wanted to go back there, and sleep in the second parking space, it won't feel like a home. I will feel like an intruder returning to the scene of a crime, not a man coming home after a day of work. Instantly my heart goes out to the homeless. Not only is it a cold, dirty, and often unhealthy way of life, I have begun to see that if you don't have a home, you don't have a place at all. And if you forget for a while, and start to put your faith in a surrogate home, a uniformed man will come and remind you that in this world... you don't have a place.
At night a few cars can be found on any of the floors, left by people who work 3rd's or who have metroed to the airport and are abroad.
But the fifth story is empty. Not really sure why. Perhaps people just park as soon as they see a space, hurrying to the elevator to the forth floor, never even noticing that the bridge spanning the 210 doens't actually connect to the top.
It was on this story, all the way at the top and tucked away in the second parking space from teh wall, I began to make my home. See, the parking is free, which makes it better than Eaton Canyon. It also lets me sleep in my car, which I have discovered is remarkably comfy. And despite the fact that it is smack in the midst of the city, there is more peace there than you might think. High enough that the sounds are muted by the wind and the city lights are far below and the stronger stars can still shine through.
I slept there origionally because of the rain, but honestly, I liked it so much that I began sleeping there whenever it made sense. If I was using the Metro the following day, I'd sleep there. If it was really cold, I'd sleep there. Apart from an enthusiasticly parked young couple, no one was ever up there.
I stayed up too late last night, and I subsequently got up too late this morning. Though the night had been pretty cold, the heat of the morning sun had been collecting in my car, and I opened one of the doors to let in the morning cool. Laying there, I ran an assessment of my body, noticing that I felt really, really good. My back was not out of whack, I was well rested, and my spirits were good. A few early morning phone calls with Kristen had left me in a good place.
As I lounged in my car assisted, parking structure home, I heard a car idling nearby. Thinking perhaps that they needed to park next to or near me, I closed the door conscienciously. As I lay there, thinking about getting up for real, upside down out my passenger side window I see the uniformed form of a police officer open door. Two fellow officers are fanned out around my car.
I roll so I am looking at him upright, and in a surprisingly cheery tone for how startled I am I say, "Good Morning!"
The cop shakes his head. I'm not sure whether he meant to say with his shake, "No, this is not going to be a genial conversation," or, "No, this is not going to be a good morning." Really both interpretations amount to the same thing.
"Leave," he says flatly.
"Um, ok."
I'm honestly expecting more. Perhaps for them to ask to see my licence, perhaps some questioning, perhaps a description of the law I'm breaking... something. But he adds no more. So I hop out the car and go around to the other side. The other two officers are just stairing, too. As I'm putting on my shoes, they start asking questions.
"How long you been homeless?"
"I'm not homeless. I live in Orange but work in Pasadena. Sometimes I use the Metro," I say, but I'm thinking, "Damn it, I wanted some kind of story about using the Metro but taking a nap in my car... ah well."
The cop looks in my back seat. "How come your car looks like a house?"
"Because I keep some of the stuff in it, because sometimes I stay here." I say, truthfully.
"Where do you work?"
"At Cal State LA, and at a church here in Pasadena," I say much in the same way I tell all people about my employment. Now they are really just looking at me. Maybe its the fact that I'm well dressed, well spoken, and well behaved. Maybe its the really great mood I'm in. Maybe its because I'm telling them that I'm a college teacher. Whatever the reason, they don't know really what to say to me, and they are all just standing there.
I've got my shoes on, located my wallet, and I'm ready to go.
"So..." I ask, "Is that all?"
The third officer nods, "Yeah, get out of here, and you can't be sleeping here."
As I drive out, floor by floor, I realize that I won't be staying here again. Its a sinking feeling. This place that I felt so safe. That was free. That was warm, tucked away, and under the stars. Taken from me.
Now, I get it. The precise reason I feel safe is because cops like them kick out vagrants like me. That's why there isn't a shanty town on the fifth floor of the parking structure. But I can't shake the feeling of displacement. Perhaps I haven't been homeless for long enough for the vagrant mindset to really have kicked in, but I had started feeling at home in that second parking space by the wall. So much so that I had a driving desire to part there, in that one spot, every time. And now that sense of comfort had been scattered. My tenitive hope that this might just work, gone, just like that.
Even if I wanted to go back there, and sleep in the second parking space, it won't feel like a home. I will feel like an intruder returning to the scene of a crime, not a man coming home after a day of work. Instantly my heart goes out to the homeless. Not only is it a cold, dirty, and often unhealthy way of life, I have begun to see that if you don't have a home, you don't have a place at all. And if you forget for a while, and start to put your faith in a surrogate home, a uniformed man will come and remind you that in this world... you don't have a place.
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