When you are in the outdoors during the day is sounds so magical. The buzz of insects and the rustle of critters makes the whole area come alive.
Nighttime is a different story. While I imagine the actually noises aren't terribly different at night, the way they sound is quite a bit more terrifying.
On one of my first nights out, I discovered, auditorially, the resident monster. Now, its hard to judge the size of something moving through dried leaves. Every creature makes a loud rustle. Each night, I would set up my tent in relative silence, but as soon as I was safely in my tent, the monster would come out.
It would rustle from its home to investigate this tent intruder, crunching leaves as it passed. It took particular interest in my stash box, moving around it and... making a sound I can only describe as snorting, around its base.
Was it some sort of pig? A boar? Perhaps it was a possum or a skunk. Whatever it was, I was somewhat terrified to startle it (particularly if it was a boar or skunk), but I was also curious about what it really was. While there are countless sounds in the night, this one was the most constant, the most curious, and the closest to home.
So I started leaving the bottom of my tent door unzipped, so that when I heard the beast I could fling back the rain fly and shine my headlamp in the direction of the noise. But try as I might, it eluded my surprise peekings. It must be really fast or really stealthy.
This wonder went on for two months, when one night, in what ended up being simultaneously far more terrifying and far less terrifying than I would have imagined. I had been having some trouble falling asleep, and I was laying, staring in the very dull light up at the roof of my tent, when quite suddenly something leapt into my tent.
I jolted into a sitting position, and quickly grasped for my headlamp (though somewhat afraid because whatever it was had gone toward that side of the tent. I manage to find the lamp after a few tenative grabs, and as I click it on I revealed my intruder.
A field mouse.
Of course this creature is stairing at me with horror. He has just jumped into what he considered a shealter, only to find it inhabited by a creature hundreds of times his size. I, not interested in shairng my home with a mouse, tried to shoo him out with my shoe. This does not go well, as he is fast and the lip of the tent is about as tall as him. So he runs from me in every direction, even a few times getting behind me (which freaks me out in my one person tent). I consider just grabbing him and throwing him out, but I don't really want to get bitten and diseased by some mouse. So I continue with the shoe.
Unfortunatly, one of my gentle shoe guidings ends up being more like a kick, and this sends the mouse into a panic. He dives at me, or rather, toward me, and starts burrowing between my sleeping mat and the tent floor, scrambling desperatly for whatever cover he can manage. It is at that moment when I hear it.
The sound. That... snort like sound. It is his little paws as they scrape along plastic. In a rush, I realize that he, the little feild mouse, is my monster. The noise that eluded my identification, rusting the tarp and at the base of the plastic box, not the snuffling of some giant beast, but the scamperings and attempted climbings of a tiny one.
I am now his monster. As he is hidden and finally still, I slowly reach to the tent door, open it completely, and pull in the rain fly so that a clear exit is now in sight. I then pull back the mattress and with my teeth against my lip I make a soft "ffft" sound. The mouse runs toward the exit, stoping at the lip of the tent door.
"Fffft," I say again, and he leaps out of the tent into the night.
I'm struck by the fact that it was the door I left open so I could find out what the creature's idenity was the door it leapt in through.
I'm struck by the fact that forcing the mouse out was far less effective than showing him the way out.
Most of all, I'm struck by the fact that it was my ignorance of reality that caused me to fear that monster mouse.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Means and Ends
In discussions of moral philosophy, the notion of means manage to work their way into many discussions.
A hot debate, for instance, is whether or not the ends justify the means. (They don't, by the way.) Another example is that it is wrong to consider another person as a mere means to your own ends, and rather should be treated as an end unto themselves.
I'm going to raise the bar. While pursuing the greatest good, there is no action that is merely a means to another end.
This may at first sound quite queer. Of course there are means. A means is no more than a method, a path way, a step (or many steps) between intention and completion. Without means at all... why then, how could be act strategically at all?
It is not my intention to be rid of step by step processes or rational action. Far from it. One of the ways all good will come to pass is by very strategic action on our part and it will be part of a very long process. Rather, I encourage you to not see any of your actions as simply a means. Each action, in that it is an expression of a moment of now (which is the present culmination of being) is in itself an end. At every moment, even if that action is also in service of another end, is an end unto itself.
I encourage you to see your actions in this way by adopting behavioral ends, which is to say, to see your behavior as something that is a thing of value, and that a particular action is worth striving for.
Lets take a practical scenario. Sure, you drive your car to work... so that you can get to work. But the driving of your car should also be an expression of what you want the world to be. This means that you use your car to communicate respect to the people around you, that you would drive a car (and in such a way) to reduce your environmental impact, and that should driving the car become something other than what you wanted your behavioral end to be... you would stop and seek another means that would better manifest your goodness.
No action is below having significance, and no moment here on earth need be wasted solely for the sake of another.
A hot debate, for instance, is whether or not the ends justify the means. (They don't, by the way.) Another example is that it is wrong to consider another person as a mere means to your own ends, and rather should be treated as an end unto themselves.
I'm going to raise the bar. While pursuing the greatest good, there is no action that is merely a means to another end.
This may at first sound quite queer. Of course there are means. A means is no more than a method, a path way, a step (or many steps) between intention and completion. Without means at all... why then, how could be act strategically at all?
It is not my intention to be rid of step by step processes or rational action. Far from it. One of the ways all good will come to pass is by very strategic action on our part and it will be part of a very long process. Rather, I encourage you to not see any of your actions as simply a means. Each action, in that it is an expression of a moment of now (which is the present culmination of being) is in itself an end. At every moment, even if that action is also in service of another end, is an end unto itself.
I encourage you to see your actions in this way by adopting behavioral ends, which is to say, to see your behavior as something that is a thing of value, and that a particular action is worth striving for.
Lets take a practical scenario. Sure, you drive your car to work... so that you can get to work. But the driving of your car should also be an expression of what you want the world to be. This means that you use your car to communicate respect to the people around you, that you would drive a car (and in such a way) to reduce your environmental impact, and that should driving the car become something other than what you wanted your behavioral end to be... you would stop and seek another means that would better manifest your goodness.
No action is below having significance, and no moment here on earth need be wasted solely for the sake of another.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Waking Up
Gotta tell you, it's a lot harder to get up with little sleep when I'm out in the wild. I'm not sure why.
Wait, I fucking know why. Its because there's some much damn work involved. Sure, getting up takes some work even when you have a house, but the tasks that await you tend to be refreshing (like showering and eating).
But out there, getting up entails packing dismantling my tent, packing my stuff away, and hiking out of the canyon. Doing all that seems really appealing on four hours of sleep.
Wait, I fucking know why. Its because there's some much damn work involved. Sure, getting up takes some work even when you have a house, but the tasks that await you tend to be refreshing (like showering and eating).
But out there, getting up entails packing dismantling my tent, packing my stuff away, and hiking out of the canyon. Doing all that seems really appealing on four hours of sleep.
Introduction
I am homeless.
Hopefully I won’t be by the time you are reading this. If by chance this work goes to press (a process not known for its alacrity), something will have gone terribly amiss if I am still out a place.
Its not that I’m poor. In fact, I have two very nice jobs (one of them even gives me health insurance). Rather, I chose to be homeless… to live for a time below my means. I had a perfectly fine apartment, and while it was by far the most I had ever spent on housing, between my two nice jobs I made all the money work. In this, I was not driven by my bank account.
No, my decision to eschew the trappings of civilization was motivated by a different sort of accounting. Part of my aim by writing for you now is to make sense of how that intentional vagrancy came to pass. I imagine that trying to explain it to you will help me understand better as well.
The second purpose of this writing is as an articulation of my thinking while I am homeless. While all experience educates, I can confidently say that becoming homeless has been one my life’s most vivid teachers. These nights in the darkness of the wild have illuminated life as I knew it.
I suppose that’s the other important bit. My homeless condition is lived out in a somewhat unconventional setting. Do not picture my possessions stored in a hijacked grocery cart, or my bed in a cranny beneath an overpass. Imagine instead my car packed with essentials, and my nightly refuge as a tent tucked away in the wilderness.
I consider my naturalistic homelessness only somewhat unconventional because there is actually some precedence for such a lifestyle. While it isn’t the vision of modern vagrancy (many homeless are also in poverty, and they rely on the chaff and charity of the more fortunate to survive), humanity has a long history of nature-seeking asceticism.
Thoreau had a little cabin near Walden Pond.
Siddhartha had a bowl for rice and a Boddhi tree.
I have a one-man tent I pitch nightly in a little canyon on the northern tip of the Los Angeles basin, and for my part I am both participant in and observe the goings on of that sprawling mass of humanity. Each night after I hike down into the canyon proper, past the ranger station and picnic benches, and I enter the wild by crossing the stream that runs out of the mountains by hopping from rock to rock.
And each night, when I have safely crossed to the other side, I turn back and regard the world I have left. I’m close enough that I can still see the persistent glow of the city, but far enough that above it all I can still see the movement of the stars.
Hopefully I won’t be by the time you are reading this. If by chance this work goes to press (a process not known for its alacrity), something will have gone terribly amiss if I am still out a place.
Its not that I’m poor. In fact, I have two very nice jobs (one of them even gives me health insurance). Rather, I chose to be homeless… to live for a time below my means. I had a perfectly fine apartment, and while it was by far the most I had ever spent on housing, between my two nice jobs I made all the money work. In this, I was not driven by my bank account.
No, my decision to eschew the trappings of civilization was motivated by a different sort of accounting. Part of my aim by writing for you now is to make sense of how that intentional vagrancy came to pass. I imagine that trying to explain it to you will help me understand better as well.
The second purpose of this writing is as an articulation of my thinking while I am homeless. While all experience educates, I can confidently say that becoming homeless has been one my life’s most vivid teachers. These nights in the darkness of the wild have illuminated life as I knew it.
I suppose that’s the other important bit. My homeless condition is lived out in a somewhat unconventional setting. Do not picture my possessions stored in a hijacked grocery cart, or my bed in a cranny beneath an overpass. Imagine instead my car packed with essentials, and my nightly refuge as a tent tucked away in the wilderness.
I consider my naturalistic homelessness only somewhat unconventional because there is actually some precedence for such a lifestyle. While it isn’t the vision of modern vagrancy (many homeless are also in poverty, and they rely on the chaff and charity of the more fortunate to survive), humanity has a long history of nature-seeking asceticism.
Thoreau had a little cabin near Walden Pond.
Siddhartha had a bowl for rice and a Boddhi tree.
I have a one-man tent I pitch nightly in a little canyon on the northern tip of the Los Angeles basin, and for my part I am both participant in and observe the goings on of that sprawling mass of humanity. Each night after I hike down into the canyon proper, past the ranger station and picnic benches, and I enter the wild by crossing the stream that runs out of the mountains by hopping from rock to rock.
And each night, when I have safely crossed to the other side, I turn back and regard the world I have left. I’m close enough that I can still see the persistent glow of the city, but far enough that above it all I can still see the movement of the stars.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
When I Say Save the World...
Ok, so I tend to talk boldly about changing and saving the world. Its worth addressing what I mean. What do I want us to do? So, I offer here an account of what I actually think would constitute an improvement in the world, framed as things a person can do.
Make a list of the facets of what a person is. People are physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual, and social creatures. Each of these layers comes with a kind of being and condition, but they are also dimensions in which we can move. Said differently, as people, we strive for physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual and social well being. We also have the power to create physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual, and social change.
For now, lets use this taxonomy of persons to organize our list.
Physical Good
We can act physically. Make change in the world of things. I don't fret a lot preserving the shape of rocks (although I like climbing and looking at them). But the physical being of people and animals and plants I think we should care about.
Nonviolence
Not harming or destroying things that have goods unto there own is a great start. Don't kill people. Don't kill animals. Only destroy plants when it can't be avoided. Catch bugs and release them outside. Only fight people who think it will be fun to fight back. Let martial arts be art.
Foster Wellbeing
Go to unreasonable lengths to make sure creatures live in reasonable conditions. Food, shelter, warmth, and freedom is a great place to start. Maybe there's a chance of ingratitude in utopic conditions... but lets worry about that when we are in any danger of being there. Put your resources in service of other people.
Emotional Good
We are emotional agents, and we can influence the world of feelings. Once again I fuzzily draw the line at plants, who seem to have biological responses to changing conditions, but to date have never been shown to have the capacity to feel. Human and non-human animals so seem to have an emotional good.
Love
Whatever we do, we are called to do it with love. Our interactions should be driven
Make a list of the facets of what a person is. People are physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual, and social creatures. Each of these layers comes with a kind of being and condition, but they are also dimensions in which we can move. Said differently, as people, we strive for physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual and social well being. We also have the power to create physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual, and social change.
For now, lets use this taxonomy of persons to organize our list.
Physical Good
We can act physically. Make change in the world of things. I don't fret a lot preserving the shape of rocks (although I like climbing and looking at them). But the physical being of people and animals and plants I think we should care about.
Nonviolence
Not harming or destroying things that have goods unto there own is a great start. Don't kill people. Don't kill animals. Only destroy plants when it can't be avoided. Catch bugs and release them outside. Only fight people who think it will be fun to fight back. Let martial arts be art.
Foster Wellbeing
Go to unreasonable lengths to make sure creatures live in reasonable conditions. Food, shelter, warmth, and freedom is a great place to start. Maybe there's a chance of ingratitude in utopic conditions... but lets worry about that when we are in any danger of being there. Put your resources in service of other people.
Emotional Good
We are emotional agents, and we can influence the world of feelings. Once again I fuzzily draw the line at plants, who seem to have biological responses to changing conditions, but to date have never been shown to have the capacity to feel. Human and non-human animals so seem to have an emotional good.
Love
Whatever we do, we are called to do it with love. Our interactions should be driven
Finding Money
When we find money on the ground we think, "Cool." Of course we know that the money isn't ours, but we pick it up anyway. Even thought we might not verbalize it, the thinking goes a little like this, "While I know it isn't mine, I'll take it. The world brought to me, and through those happenstances it has come to me. I will take it, and treat it like the rest of my money."
I'm not gonna attack this thinking. Rather, I'd like broaden that mindset.
We are not so ready to assume ownership when the world brings us problems. Somehow those all still belong to the original owner and we resist rather actively anyone trying to burden us with them.
I suggest you start treating problems just like $20 bills. Don't hesitate to pick them up and treat them as your own.
I'm not gonna attack this thinking. Rather, I'd like broaden that mindset.
We are not so ready to assume ownership when the world brings us problems. Somehow those all still belong to the original owner and we resist rather actively anyone trying to burden us with them.
I suggest you start treating problems just like $20 bills. Don't hesitate to pick them up and treat them as your own.
Now
What are you waiting for? When are you going to start serving humanity? Striving for a better world?
Perhaps you will give when you have everything. Win the lottery. Then you'll become a philanthropist. Right?
Maybe to get a little older. Once you are done with school, or get your promotion...
Waiting for the right time? To get superpowers? For more time? When someone comes to help you?
Fuck all that. You will start saving the world exactly you decide you are tired of seeing it suffer. In the meantime you will bitch and laugh, trying every way you know how to release that tension that is drawn across the chasm between the world as it is and the world as it should be. But the only way to settle that anxious nausea is to actually fix the problem. You may find a fixation... and perhaps you can play, drink, dream, fuck or work your edge off. But somehow that emptiness continues nag and gnaw at that world of sensory satisfaction you build up around you.
Peace, instead, comes from the satisfaction of expending yourself. Not what comes into your being, but what floods out of it. Stop waiting. Stop tricking yourself. Quit bitching. Quit laughing.
You will act the moment you can no longer distract yourself. Now is an excellent time to attend to the shit in the world, as opposed to the bullshit in our minds.
Perhaps you will give when you have everything. Win the lottery. Then you'll become a philanthropist. Right?
Maybe to get a little older. Once you are done with school, or get your promotion...
Waiting for the right time? To get superpowers? For more time? When someone comes to help you?
Fuck all that. You will start saving the world exactly you decide you are tired of seeing it suffer. In the meantime you will bitch and laugh, trying every way you know how to release that tension that is drawn across the chasm between the world as it is and the world as it should be. But the only way to settle that anxious nausea is to actually fix the problem. You may find a fixation... and perhaps you can play, drink, dream, fuck or work your edge off. But somehow that emptiness continues nag and gnaw at that world of sensory satisfaction you build up around you.
Peace, instead, comes from the satisfaction of expending yourself. Not what comes into your being, but what floods out of it. Stop waiting. Stop tricking yourself. Quit bitching. Quit laughing.
You will act the moment you can no longer distract yourself. Now is an excellent time to attend to the shit in the world, as opposed to the bullshit in our minds.
Rejecting Violent Answers
One of the greatest lies we ever accept is a call to be violent.
But as violence approaches, our very reasonable reaction is fear. Tragically, we take this aversion as a lack of courage.
Nothing could be further from the truth. When violence looms, it is not an irrational fear that grips us, but rather the true realization that something of great value, namely our lives and the lives of the others involved in the conflict, are about to be jeopardized by something of little value (the content of the conflict).
You aren't a coward if you shiver in the face of violence. You see the truth. Only those who have come to accept that their lives are not more valuable than violence see nothing to loose.
So cut away. Leave behind the notion that you were designed to do violence, and embrace the purpose that you feel deep within you. We have the responsibility to actively, ardently, and courageously transform the world in a positive way.
You wanna be a badass? Permanently reject violent answers to any solution, and challenge yourself to live embracing that invaluable purpose you felt threatened by violence in the first place. I think you will be surprised by how little fear you experience when striving for your actual ideals.
But as violence approaches, our very reasonable reaction is fear. Tragically, we take this aversion as a lack of courage.
Nothing could be further from the truth. When violence looms, it is not an irrational fear that grips us, but rather the true realization that something of great value, namely our lives and the lives of the others involved in the conflict, are about to be jeopardized by something of little value (the content of the conflict).
You aren't a coward if you shiver in the face of violence. You see the truth. Only those who have come to accept that their lives are not more valuable than violence see nothing to loose.
So cut away. Leave behind the notion that you were designed to do violence, and embrace the purpose that you feel deep within you. We have the responsibility to actively, ardently, and courageously transform the world in a positive way.
You wanna be a badass? Permanently reject violent answers to any solution, and challenge yourself to live embracing that invaluable purpose you felt threatened by violence in the first place. I think you will be surprised by how little fear you experience when striving for your actual ideals.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Interview 1
I met a homeless man outside of Jamba Juice. I had swung by before class as my morning had excluded breakfast (and I'm trying to eat healthier). Yesterday I gave my last two dollars to a man who was clearly homeless but not begging, so when this man asked if I had any change, I honestly told him no.
But I had some in the car. So I grabbed some money from my parking money pouch (I keep a stash of bills and change in my armrest thinger), and I walked back to him. He was grateful and that would normally be where it ended. But Kristen's words about learning homeless stories surged through my mind, giving me courage.
"I don't have any thing more, but I could buy you some lunch," I say, trying to start this conversation with something other than, "So, you're homeless..." Also, if he says yes, it'll give me some time while we get food.
"No that's ok, I'll eat later."
Damn, I think. Better just do it.
"So, are you homeless?"
"Yeah," he replies, quickly adding, "but only for now. I just moved back, I mean, I'm from California originally, but I'm back."
"Oh, cool. Where did you move from?" I don't really know what so say or ask... I'm just trying to keep the conversation alive.
"Phoenix, was out there for a few years."
Not really knowing what to do with that, feeling like I'm prying with that line of questioning. So I ask something I ask people all the time.
"What do you do?"
"Well, I'm trying to start a business."
Wow, I think. Not what I expected, I suppose. I'm interested. "What kind of business?"
Ok, so he answered this question. But I couldn't tell you what he said. His response was soft, and his words were increasingly muttered as he actually turned his head away from me as he spoke. The explanation of his plan ended with an addendum, "I also do work in factory production." I heard that last little bit.
The conversation had a sort of done feeling about it, so I told him good luck, he thanked me again, and I walked off. One of the things that stood out to me was his business plan. I hadn't really expected a man asking for change to have an enterpernerial spirit. The other thing that I noticed was his stressing that his homeless state was temporary. I sure know where he is coming from with that. I regularly stress the fact that my situation is going to end in a few months, both to myself and others. Apparently I am not alone in this desire to keep the word homeless a description of my situation, and not of me as a person.
But I had some in the car. So I grabbed some money from my parking money pouch (I keep a stash of bills and change in my armrest thinger), and I walked back to him. He was grateful and that would normally be where it ended. But Kristen's words about learning homeless stories surged through my mind, giving me courage.
"I don't have any thing more, but I could buy you some lunch," I say, trying to start this conversation with something other than, "So, you're homeless..." Also, if he says yes, it'll give me some time while we get food.
"No that's ok, I'll eat later."
Damn, I think. Better just do it.
"So, are you homeless?"
"Yeah," he replies, quickly adding, "but only for now. I just moved back, I mean, I'm from California originally, but I'm back."
"Oh, cool. Where did you move from?" I don't really know what so say or ask... I'm just trying to keep the conversation alive.
"Phoenix, was out there for a few years."
Not really knowing what to do with that, feeling like I'm prying with that line of questioning. So I ask something I ask people all the time.
"What do you do?"
"Well, I'm trying to start a business."
Wow, I think. Not what I expected, I suppose. I'm interested. "What kind of business?"
Ok, so he answered this question. But I couldn't tell you what he said. His response was soft, and his words were increasingly muttered as he actually turned his head away from me as he spoke. The explanation of his plan ended with an addendum, "I also do work in factory production." I heard that last little bit.
The conversation had a sort of done feeling about it, so I told him good luck, he thanked me again, and I walked off. One of the things that stood out to me was his business plan. I hadn't really expected a man asking for change to have an enterpernerial spirit. The other thing that I noticed was his stressing that his homeless state was temporary. I sure know where he is coming from with that. I regularly stress the fact that my situation is going to end in a few months, both to myself and others. Apparently I am not alone in this desire to keep the word homeless a description of my situation, and not of me as a person.
Shower
I've never been so happy to shower in public.
When I think back to past experiences that involve group bathing, they are usually sorta awkward. I'm not super nervous about being naked in front of people, but there's just a somewhat uncomfortable air in public showers.
But not last night. After a brief workout I'm sweaty and gross and I this shower is mine. I'm not bumming from a friend. I'm not hiding behind a bush in the wild. The shower I'm about to take is mine. Rented, just like every other member of the gym, but an equal part mine.
Even better than a sense of ownership? Hot water. I turn that handle and in an instant I have hot water. I stand there for just a moment as calm washes over me. For the first time in a long time I am truly blissful.
When I think back to past experiences that involve group bathing, they are usually sorta awkward. I'm not super nervous about being naked in front of people, but there's just a somewhat uncomfortable air in public showers.
But not last night. After a brief workout I'm sweaty and gross and I this shower is mine. I'm not bumming from a friend. I'm not hiding behind a bush in the wild. The shower I'm about to take is mine. Rented, just like every other member of the gym, but an equal part mine.
Even better than a sense of ownership? Hot water. I turn that handle and in an instant I have hot water. I stand there for just a moment as calm washes over me. For the first time in a long time I am truly blissful.
Monday, March 2, 2009
$1275/month
My apartment is in shambles.
Twice worn clothing is scattered about the floor, not thrown aimlessly into a pile... rather, even more aimlessly dropped where it was taken off. Every pair of shoes I have worn over the last few weeks is similarly discarded right where they came off my feet. I'm hunched over my laptop at my dining room table. To my left are two plates, each with small crusted drippings of the Buffalo sauce that fell off my vegetarian spicy chicken patty. The first plate is from yesterday's dinner. The second plate is from lunch today. On my right are three more plates, all bearing similar little orange dots.
I stare at the screen of my tiny laptop (she took the computer) I purchased to fill the electronic void. I have my own computer... I've had one for years a tech hording friend of mine gave me. It was years old back when it was new to me. I plugged it in a few days ago, and while I am not usually an impatient person, I could not stand its... deliberateness (read - slowness).
Now, my apartment isn't always like this. When it wants to, it cleans up quite nice. It wants to when I want it to, and I want it to whenever anyone comes over. Which is infrequent, and since I am terribly easy to impress, its orderly state slides into chaos as each day since company passes. Its just that in the midst of the rest of the things I have to do... house cleaning just isn't important. Except when people come over. I have no problem transforming this somewhat giant apartment for the benefit of others. For a guy living alone, I'm actually pretty good at it.
My skill in cleaning falls out of the same series of events that made me the sole resident of this two bedroom apartment in Pasadena. I used to have a roommate, and not only a roommate, but a very specialized kind called a fiance. Angie and I moved to Pasadena in pursuit of her educational goals one year ago. We had dreamed of getting accepted into schools in the same place, but her desire for a climate calmer than Illinois left my choices of school very limited and ill fitting for what I wanted to study (and was subsequently not accepted). She on the other hand managed to land a spot in medical school. So I quit my job, my school, and helped her set out for California.
I grew up a lot making that choice. I've always thought of myself as a smart and noble person, but in that transition I was forced to choose between the two. Go off and be smart for myself? No, I'll live up to my word and help another.
This story isn't really about breaking up, so I'll gloss over that part. Ask me sometime in person if you want relationship advice (I'll gladly give it). Rather, this story is about what happened after that break up. What I did with the apartment. What I did with my life.
If you've ever been dumped... it sucks.
See, we all have ideas about what has happened and what is going to happen to us. Stories, if you will. When you date someone that person becomes a major player, second only to you (and perhaps even your own primacy fades if you throw your life to the wind for their sake). When you start thinking about being with them forever, well, that story extends out into every aspect of your life. While you might not know the particulars, you know the characters of the script, and you know who is going to play them.
But when you get dumped, that all comes crashing down. Quite suddenly what was a plan, the rest of your life, becomes an actorless fiction. Even the past, which used to be a shared memory and the foundation of your life together, becomes a strangely illegitimate and burdensome history. In my case there was marriage, medical school, maybe my school in the future, children... all instantly evaporated. These plans had become more real to me than my own personal dreams (which were to be some sort of academic prodigy). I had put off my schooling to make the timing of the move right, not applied to the schools I wanted, given up my teaching job and ministry job with little promise of a Californian replacement, and took up selling bagels for nearly minimum wage just to pay the rent (don't feel to bad, I ended up getting both a great teaching job and an awesome ministry job). Prodigies aren't supposed to sell bagels after they get Master's degrees, but our collective dreams had trumped my own.
Anyway, those collective dreams vanished when Angie left. All I have are awkward histories and irrelevant futures. And an apartment that costs $1275/month.
I started rewriting those stories a few months ago. It was a bit difficult at first, I'll admit, but I once I really got thinking about what my new future could hold, I got pretty excited. Angie wan't much for traveling... I could now see the world. Nor was she much for serving others... I could now save the world. I had a lot of help from friends and family. I had also stated dating a really great girl who shared my passion for adventure and giving. There was only really one final step.
What to do with this stupid apartment.
Twice worn clothing is scattered about the floor, not thrown aimlessly into a pile... rather, even more aimlessly dropped where it was taken off. Every pair of shoes I have worn over the last few weeks is similarly discarded right where they came off my feet. I'm hunched over my laptop at my dining room table. To my left are two plates, each with small crusted drippings of the Buffalo sauce that fell off my vegetarian spicy chicken patty. The first plate is from yesterday's dinner. The second plate is from lunch today. On my right are three more plates, all bearing similar little orange dots.
I stare at the screen of my tiny laptop (she took the computer) I purchased to fill the electronic void. I have my own computer... I've had one for years a tech hording friend of mine gave me. It was years old back when it was new to me. I plugged it in a few days ago, and while I am not usually an impatient person, I could not stand its... deliberateness (read - slowness).
Now, my apartment isn't always like this. When it wants to, it cleans up quite nice. It wants to when I want it to, and I want it to whenever anyone comes over. Which is infrequent, and since I am terribly easy to impress, its orderly state slides into chaos as each day since company passes. Its just that in the midst of the rest of the things I have to do... house cleaning just isn't important. Except when people come over. I have no problem transforming this somewhat giant apartment for the benefit of others. For a guy living alone, I'm actually pretty good at it.
My skill in cleaning falls out of the same series of events that made me the sole resident of this two bedroom apartment in Pasadena. I used to have a roommate, and not only a roommate, but a very specialized kind called a fiance. Angie and I moved to Pasadena in pursuit of her educational goals one year ago. We had dreamed of getting accepted into schools in the same place, but her desire for a climate calmer than Illinois left my choices of school very limited and ill fitting for what I wanted to study (and was subsequently not accepted). She on the other hand managed to land a spot in medical school. So I quit my job, my school, and helped her set out for California.
I grew up a lot making that choice. I've always thought of myself as a smart and noble person, but in that transition I was forced to choose between the two. Go off and be smart for myself? No, I'll live up to my word and help another.
This story isn't really about breaking up, so I'll gloss over that part. Ask me sometime in person if you want relationship advice (I'll gladly give it). Rather, this story is about what happened after that break up. What I did with the apartment. What I did with my life.
If you've ever been dumped... it sucks.
See, we all have ideas about what has happened and what is going to happen to us. Stories, if you will. When you date someone that person becomes a major player, second only to you (and perhaps even your own primacy fades if you throw your life to the wind for their sake). When you start thinking about being with them forever, well, that story extends out into every aspect of your life. While you might not know the particulars, you know the characters of the script, and you know who is going to play them.
But when you get dumped, that all comes crashing down. Quite suddenly what was a plan, the rest of your life, becomes an actorless fiction. Even the past, which used to be a shared memory and the foundation of your life together, becomes a strangely illegitimate and burdensome history. In my case there was marriage, medical school, maybe my school in the future, children... all instantly evaporated. These plans had become more real to me than my own personal dreams (which were to be some sort of academic prodigy). I had put off my schooling to make the timing of the move right, not applied to the schools I wanted, given up my teaching job and ministry job with little promise of a Californian replacement, and took up selling bagels for nearly minimum wage just to pay the rent (don't feel to bad, I ended up getting both a great teaching job and an awesome ministry job). Prodigies aren't supposed to sell bagels after they get Master's degrees, but our collective dreams had trumped my own.
Anyway, those collective dreams vanished when Angie left. All I have are awkward histories and irrelevant futures. And an apartment that costs $1275/month.
I started rewriting those stories a few months ago. It was a bit difficult at first, I'll admit, but I once I really got thinking about what my new future could hold, I got pretty excited. Angie wan't much for traveling... I could now see the world. Nor was she much for serving others... I could now save the world. I had a lot of help from friends and family. I had also stated dating a really great girl who shared my passion for adventure and giving. There was only really one final step.
What to do with this stupid apartment.
Homeless Skin
One of the things I have always noticed most homeless people have in common is their skin. Perhaps "in common" is the wrong expression. Sometimes its flaky and ashen. Sometimes its sun baked and leathery. Sometimes it has rashes. Sometimes its has open wounds.
Perhaps I should say it inversely. People with homes all have the same skin. Forget color. You show me two people with a home and I'll show you two people with very similar skin. Sure, maybe one works outside and has hardened hands and a deep tan while the other's skin is soft and white. But there are no persistent rashes. No reoccurring ailments.
What's the cause? Well, its a combination of things. Think about it. Outside often. In the sun often. On the ground often. Increased exposure to contaminants (or in my case, possibly allergenic plants) Fewer changes of clothing. Fewer launderings. Fewer showers.
More shit on you; fewer was to get it off.
Said another way, a home is basically walls. I can usually find something to get under. Under a freeway overpass. Under an awning. But I have no place to get in. Even when I manage a place with walls (like my car or tent) it is small and very hard to keep clean. Think about how often you are protected by the walls of your house. Now, take all those times away. What protects you now?
Your skin. Your skin is the last wall. The final rampart that draws the definitive line between you and the world. And should you ever become homeless, your skin will be the organ that bears the brunt of what the world has in store for you.
I have homeless skin.
I don't know if I'm surprised. I sort of expected it (as I've always known it was one of the common struggles), but I also thought my particular brand of vagrancy would be exempt. I have rashes.
One is a reaction from a plant. Its not real bad, but it starts around my waist and extends down my left leg. Must have brushed some Poison Something, then inadvertently itched it down my leg. Not unexpected. I'm out in the bush, and some of the bush is itchy.
The other rash is a bit more unique. See, part of my version of homelessness involves me keeping my job. I have to look nice, and I have to smell nice for the normal world. I had originally planned on getting a gym membership as a way of gaining regular access to showering facilities. But I never did, instead defaulting to bathing in the wilderness.
Here's how I do it. I pack out a 64 oz. bottle and soap and shampoo. In the morning, after breaking camp, I would wash myself. Naked. In the wild.
It works... well enough, I suppose. I don't get that awesome clean feeling one gets after a hot shower or a long bath, but I feel passable. Also, I would find the opportunity to shower in one of the houses at which I would crash. But one day, I started itching. Not just any itching.
Genital itching.
Now, I've used to give the sex and relationship talk for a teen development organization. I remember health class. I've even spent some sobering hours searching sexually transmitted diseases on the internet. But I'm perplexed. Lets just say my current sexual behavior shouldn't be infectious.
Unlike most vagrants, I have health insurance. Not from teaching, but through the Church. I suppose Christianity has always concerned itself with healing. I just so happened that I found myself in a dermatologist's office a few days after the itching started (had made an appointment for something else about a week earlier).
Between my reflections and the doctor's knowledge, we put it together. Wouldn't you know that soap is an allergen. That's right. We are all allergic to soap. Now, not very allergic, which is why we can stand to put it all over our bodies. But if you leave soap on your body (that is perhaps, if you are bathing out of a 64 oz. bottle and don't get it all rinsed off...) you can have an allergic reaction.
So here I am. Despite my efforts for cleanliness (in fact, because of them), I have rashes over various parts of my lower body. I'm pretty good at not scratching my itches. I've always been the person who can keep meditating when the fly has landed on my face. Also I've had some nearly whole body Poison Oak disasters that really put this kind of suffering in perspective. The worst, though, is at night. I guess I don't have the same focus and self control when I'm sleepy (go figure), and there are times that I wake up and I'm frantically scratching scratching scratching. And once I've started, its very hard to stop.
Fortunately, the doctor gave me a little sample of hydrocorisone and I've been working to get the rashes under control.
I also finally got that gym membership, and am looking forward to full showers daily. Even as I write this the American economy is worse than its been in almost a century. But I submit to you this question for meditation and subsequent gratitude.
Do you have the ability to shower daily? Better yet, do have unfettered access to hot water and total privacy? How about an endless selection of scented concoctions with which to clean yourself, with every nuanced step from flowery or bold available for just a few dollars?
Yes? I do not contend that you don't have struggles, but if your answer to these questions is yes, I pray you count yourself among the lucky.
Perhaps I should say it inversely. People with homes all have the same skin. Forget color. You show me two people with a home and I'll show you two people with very similar skin. Sure, maybe one works outside and has hardened hands and a deep tan while the other's skin is soft and white. But there are no persistent rashes. No reoccurring ailments.
What's the cause? Well, its a combination of things. Think about it. Outside often. In the sun often. On the ground often. Increased exposure to contaminants (or in my case, possibly allergenic plants) Fewer changes of clothing. Fewer launderings. Fewer showers.
More shit on you; fewer was to get it off.
Said another way, a home is basically walls. I can usually find something to get under. Under a freeway overpass. Under an awning. But I have no place to get in. Even when I manage a place with walls (like my car or tent) it is small and very hard to keep clean. Think about how often you are protected by the walls of your house. Now, take all those times away. What protects you now?
Your skin. Your skin is the last wall. The final rampart that draws the definitive line between you and the world. And should you ever become homeless, your skin will be the organ that bears the brunt of what the world has in store for you.
I have homeless skin.
I don't know if I'm surprised. I sort of expected it (as I've always known it was one of the common struggles), but I also thought my particular brand of vagrancy would be exempt. I have rashes.
One is a reaction from a plant. Its not real bad, but it starts around my waist and extends down my left leg. Must have brushed some Poison Something, then inadvertently itched it down my leg. Not unexpected. I'm out in the bush, and some of the bush is itchy.
The other rash is a bit more unique. See, part of my version of homelessness involves me keeping my job. I have to look nice, and I have to smell nice for the normal world. I had originally planned on getting a gym membership as a way of gaining regular access to showering facilities. But I never did, instead defaulting to bathing in the wilderness.
Here's how I do it. I pack out a 64 oz. bottle and soap and shampoo. In the morning, after breaking camp, I would wash myself. Naked. In the wild.
It works... well enough, I suppose. I don't get that awesome clean feeling one gets after a hot shower or a long bath, but I feel passable. Also, I would find the opportunity to shower in one of the houses at which I would crash. But one day, I started itching. Not just any itching.
Genital itching.
Now, I've used to give the sex and relationship talk for a teen development organization. I remember health class. I've even spent some sobering hours searching sexually transmitted diseases on the internet. But I'm perplexed. Lets just say my current sexual behavior shouldn't be infectious.
Unlike most vagrants, I have health insurance. Not from teaching, but through the Church. I suppose Christianity has always concerned itself with healing. I just so happened that I found myself in a dermatologist's office a few days after the itching started (had made an appointment for something else about a week earlier).
Between my reflections and the doctor's knowledge, we put it together. Wouldn't you know that soap is an allergen. That's right. We are all allergic to soap. Now, not very allergic, which is why we can stand to put it all over our bodies. But if you leave soap on your body (that is perhaps, if you are bathing out of a 64 oz. bottle and don't get it all rinsed off...) you can have an allergic reaction.
So here I am. Despite my efforts for cleanliness (in fact, because of them), I have rashes over various parts of my lower body. I'm pretty good at not scratching my itches. I've always been the person who can keep meditating when the fly has landed on my face. Also I've had some nearly whole body Poison Oak disasters that really put this kind of suffering in perspective. The worst, though, is at night. I guess I don't have the same focus and self control when I'm sleepy (go figure), and there are times that I wake up and I'm frantically scratching scratching scratching. And once I've started, its very hard to stop.
Fortunately, the doctor gave me a little sample of hydrocorisone and I've been working to get the rashes under control.
I also finally got that gym membership, and am looking forward to full showers daily. Even as I write this the American economy is worse than its been in almost a century. But I submit to you this question for meditation and subsequent gratitude.
Do you have the ability to shower daily? Better yet, do have unfettered access to hot water and total privacy? How about an endless selection of scented concoctions with which to clean yourself, with every nuanced step from flowery or bold available for just a few dollars?
Yes? I do not contend that you don't have struggles, but if your answer to these questions is yes, I pray you count yourself among the lucky.
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