Still Roadin': A Recap of Sorts to Myself

There's something you can always count on around Christmas, and that's nostalgia (probably a chemical imbalance resulting from too much time off and the fact that the calendar makes everything end in these few days, but I digress). So, per usual, I got the hankering to look at my own list of goals for the past three months, and along the line I had to confront the question: how much did I really get out of not having an apartment for a quarter? To wit, A world where the pros mix pros and cons in shiny silver shakers, and you only open your eyes when you pour yourself a glass.

I no longer own any furniture, and I count this as a benefit. There was something extraordinary about being able to carry everything you need in your trunk, and I played it generous too, which means I definitely could have cut more out of my life. You're more free, less tied down, and when you want to, you can just go. When I used to have work in downtown at 8AM, I would drive over to Chinatown the night before and settle in this nook that I knew about. Then in the morning I'd wake up at 7:45 and drive the five blocks to work, walk out of the car in my work clothes all footloose and fancy free, presto, no morning traffic, all the time smiling when my co-workers talked about having to get up at 5:30. Although to be fair I work mostly with women, and I hear there's some impediment where they need to spend a lot of time in the bathroom in the morning.

I stopped paying rent, although some of these savings are offset by other costs, like eating out at least one meal everyday and sometimes two. Towards the end I also found myself staying at one particular friend's place a lot, so I chipped in for their rent.

In hindsight, this is something I'm not too happy with: the fact that I eventually lost the sharp focus I had at the beginning. It's understandable, I think, when you're dealing with an increasing course load and worrying about other things, to take the convenient route and forgo the library for the comfort of a friend's living room. Still, I wish I hadn't so often. I remember waking up in the car one night, just shivering from head to toe, because I hadn't realized how cold it had gotten the past week. Then I realized I hadn't been homeless that week.

How much more do I want to do? This is a tricky question, because at the heart of it, I'm asking myself how satisfied I am with what I already did. The answer, like the answer to many of life's questions, is no. I've realized that my initial motivation was never enough to really go all out and do live-on-the-street homelessness. The only time I came close was sleeping on the beach for a night, and I recoiled so hard to that experience that I spent the next few days on various couches (that post is here).

Instead, I've discovered a lifestyle philosophy that's very appealing to me at this moment. I love the mobility of a drifter's life, and I'm going to try to incorporate aspects of it into my new found life as an apartment-humper. I'm still waiting to hear back from the Co-opt, but I think this would just be the perfect next step. It's cheap rent, squishing into small rooms with a lot of other temporaries, and with the possibility of leaving it all behind for a few nights (it's also furnished).

There's probably more, but not enough waking hours for it all. Merry Christmas! I'm three and a half hours into the holiday, and into about three months worth of nostalgia. Good vibes.

Home Life

I've spent the last few days nursing some sunflowers.

They are nothing more than a naive gesture to begin with, hatched from the recesses of generosity and youth on a rainy day at the supermarket. Why not send them?

Since then they've come the 350 miles from Los Angeles to San Jose in the backseat of a car, and if all goes according to plan, they will travel at least 150 more to Sacramento, stuffed inside a box next to some chocolates.

The whole thing, of course, is just ridiculous. Dried flowers will never survive the anxious trip through the ham-pounding mechanical robot that is the postal service during the holiday season, no matter how many peanuts you throw in the box. Then, when the girl finally gets the box, she finds a handful of destroyed flower petals and thinks 'Oh great, dead flowers that's cheerful,' but of course she can't find them anyway because of all the peanuts, and soon she gets tired of picking through it all, takes the chocolates and throws the entire fucking box out the window.

None of which was able to stop me from trying. But it's been costing me. You see, drying sunflowers is a difficult process. Unlike most flowers, they need to dry with their petals facing up and outward for maximum appeal. You can't just hang the suckers up by their necks, no, it requires torture. I took a couple of clothes pins, clamped them onto their stems to keep them from rolling around, then shoved one right underneath the base of the head of the flower to keep it from moving. So now I've got a mini Guantanamo torture rack on my dining table. Then what? Well then you say "sayonara sucker, have fun getting all the moisture sucked out of you by the air."

It's not a pleasant way to spend my holiday.

A Short Car Ride of Considerable Consequence

An early-model Nissan sped down the dark road. It had just rained, and the ground glistened under the glaring streetlamps. Very few people were out tonight, on account of the weather. And it was cold. The car left a trail of white steam as it accelerated around a bend, tossing leaves in its wake. It was an old soft-top, with all the dents that 16 long years of beating will give you. Not abuse, no, they were simply the beatings of existence, and as far as cars go, this Nissan had lived a full life; it had been used, loved, slept in, lived in, sold, bought, and taken to the beach on many occasions, and now it was an old, wrinkly man with a loose chin. Its windows were foggy.

Inside this car (which was now hurdling through the business district, plenty of streetlamps flying by, but still no people), a man, the driver, turned to look at the woman sitting next to him. The move did not mesh well.

"Will ya watch the road, ya maniac!"

"Don't tell me how to drive my car!" The man shot back. Like there's even a soul on this God-forsaken road, he thought, but didn't say. He should, no, he must be civil, because if there was ever an occasion for it, the time was now.

Just minutes earlier, the confession had caught him off guard. No, it was not even a confession, really it was just the one word, but that one word had come like a gunshot in the dark, or bird poop to the head, it just shocked. That word, the man had thought, it was all just that one word, the whole world is that fucking word. Still, it shouldn't happen to someone so young, the entire situation was-but none of this made it past his lips.

The car was raging now, barreling through the empty city streets, running recklessly through red lights and stop signs alike; there was no one to see, and no one to catch them. The shrieking engine note filled the cabin, where the woman now sat with her arms folded, staring straight ahead. She was younger than she looked, and still young enough for this to be flattering. Her dark hair, which ended just below her shoulders, curved upwards at the tip; a graceful curve, the likes of which she had many, even though she had lost some weight in the past few weeks. Now she knew why.

She was ticked off. Angry even, but it felt good, better angry than afraid. It had been worse those few minutes ago (how long had it been? 10? 15?) before she had said that word, and her entire world had crushed down all around. It had been like that since the beginning, shortly after she had first heard her prognosis, sitting around all the beeping monitors in those thin hospital sheets. She had the fear from the start, fear of not being allowed back to school, not earning her degree, losing her job, the bills, the incessant hospital visits, and the long confinements at home in front of the TV. Her livelihood was her world, all of it besides this man sitting next to her. Now she hated them all. She turned to face him.

"You'll have to cover for me at work."
"No way."
"What?"
"No way, because you're coming back to do your job."
"I'm not coming back, the doctors alread-"
"Then they'll hire someone new!" The man regretted the words as soon he uttered them. There is only a short space that separates two people in a car, and now he felt the venom between them. "Sorry," he muttered.

His partner sighed. "Look, don't apologize, alright? I hate it when you apologize, you do it so goddamn much. And slow down, will ya?" The man, almost on cue, pressed the gas harder. They had left the city now, and the roads were getting worse. It was dark. Every now and then the car would hit another pothole, bounce off its wheel, fly a couple feet, then drop with a sickening crash that shuddered the steel, creaking chassis, and it felt like the car might at any minute shred apart around its passengers.

"If you don't come back, you'll just disappear." The man sounded like he was pleading now.

"I never disappear, Mike." Thud. Lurch. Crash. "How do you think I got here? I know how to make people watch me."

The man looked over at her. This was Iris for you. Push her a little bit, make fun of her hair or find her on a bad day at work, and she could out-whine a formula one car. Have too many drinks with her on any given night, and she will for sure call in sick the next morning, and leave you to pick up her slack. But push her hard enough, threaten her, put her in danger, and you find she either doesn't get scared or doesn't show it, she just glows. Like some radiant siren song supernova saturated lightening hit her all over her face after she had had a couple of drinks and was glowing anyway, and then she would become crazy valkyrie minotaur woman. She could carry a fucking sickle, the man thought. Thud. lurch. Crash.

Iris was indeed glowing now, and she could feel the eyes on her, just one pair now, but there would be more. Oh, there would be more. "The whole world's gonna watch me, Mike." Her voice raised a little higher than normal. "They're either gonna watch me live or watch me die, but they're gonna watch me." Transformation complete. Minotaur woman lowered herself back into her seat, then closed her eyes for a while.

There would have been a full moon that night, where it not for the clouds. At this moment, though, part of it peeked out and illuminated a single red car, still shining from the rain, speeding along an empty highway. Of its two passengers, neither one knew the entire route, but the trip was over before they knew it.

I Spent Years Reading These Tombstones

Light rain fell on the sidewalks of Westwood. I commandeered the sinking boat down the jagged cement streets, but parking was nowhere to be found. Thus forced away from my destination by honks and a screeching blond-haired twig, I settled for a spot two blocks away. It was a fine spot, if I do say, and it proved quite receptive to my receptacle, which I deftly maneuvered inward between two towering steel monoliths, swung my leg over, and finished by inserting a quarter into a slot.

With this in mind, I strolled down to my destination with my heavy burden, but they wouldn't accept what I had to offer. "None of these books will be used next quarter," said the shopkeeper. A shorter man, very nice allocation of facial hair, looked Middle Eastern with the twinge of boredom.

Books are the only physical reminder of the years I've spent here, but they have become the heaviest, most burdensome things I own. In the past I've felt indebted to them, to a degree at least that halted my hand from selling them like I had sold my furniture. Those times seem so far behind me now, that I am left with a box of eulogies, and I find myself making increasingly concerted efforts to bury these a pawn shop.

December 1st

Hello December! You are an end of sorts, and this makes you extra special in my heart. Please take care to sweep everything out the door, as there's an awful lack of room in here lately.

The Tribal Chief

You hear a lot of rumors about the tribal chief, and like any good Angelino in the public eye, he does nothing whatsoever to clear them up. Some say he has resided over the beach for 30 years, others say since 1962, back when the drum first started to beat, the beach attracted nudes, and “everyone was naked” (this last point is a source of heavy debate). One wide-eyed drummer piped that the tribal chief only kept to the sandy side of the 33 block boardwalk. “He never leaves the beach,” in hushed tones. Later I learned that none of these rumors were true, except for one: the beach really is about 33 blocks. It’s a big place to be looking for a little chief.

The only place you are guaranteed to find the chief is right in the midst of the drum circles, and he cuts quite a figure there even amongst that crowd. He comes to you in shiny black pants and a black motorcycle jacket, the kind with foam padding at the shoulders and elbows. A lot of foam is poking out, like someone dragged the thing halfway across a football field paved in hard concrete; then I realized, highly possible. On the other hand, next to the baggy handouts some of the others are sporting, the chief looks—well, he looks like a chief. The jacket fits. Talismans hang from his neck over his exposed chest. And the pants are cut from the same imitation leather that women so often find disagreeably sleazy in nightclubs. The chief is one of those rare homeless people who have found a function to their dress besides keeping them warm.