The other day I was wandering through our local discount drug chain store and found, to my delight, that the spring seed displays were out! My living situation has changed twice since March, but somehow I've still managed to come up with a patch of earth in which I can grow things. (I'm so excited!) Sugar snap peas for one of the residents in particular and a whole slew of veggies for all. Hopefully coordinating house repairs will work out with timing on getting the garden planted: there's a lot to do. The entire kitchen here needs to be gutted and replaced: I spent the better part of today pricing supplies and talking to various folk to reassure myself that I do in fact know what I'm doing. The windows are going to be the hard part: I'm worried about off-gassing Polyvinyl chloride. Still researching my options and alternatives there. We'll see, I guess, what I can do. I'm up for the challenge.
Now that I'm finally settled enough and have internet again I'll be posting more. There is so much I've learned and more still I am going to try.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Junkie Fisherman, Expert Thief
This evening in my wanderings, I encountered across the canal a small group that it seems were fishing. This reminded me of B., The Junkie Fisherman, Expert Thief.
B. is an older gentleman, though not old. He could be my father for his age; he is gangly, tall, with white hair and mustache and blue eyes. Initially, it is easy enough to ignore the fact that he is a junkie. He is well-spoken, and while he does not exude warmth or any particular kindness, he is never condescending, and generally level-headed. He's been around for a while, obviously, and has been an addict for most of that time.
One day, I drove C. to meet with B., and B. was telling us all about the giant blue gill he was catching from the lake and eating. Perch, too. He saw the quail feather on my dash board, and asked if he could have it: he cut them into small pieces and made fishing lures from them. I didn't expect it would be B. that asked for it. Since I had found it and placed it there, I had this feeling that some economically poor man would ask to have it. I didn't know that it would be B.
B. speaks of fishing, and he gets excited. It is not clear to me all of the reasons that he gets so excited, but it is clear that he enjoys the act of catching fish, and enjoys the food they provide. He tells of the rods he's had over time, and tells us about the fantastic reels he used to have, where he stole them from, and how much he got rid of them for. He doesn't use anything that fantastic now.
Once I made the mistake of driving he and C. on a run to pick up their fix. Two cars, me following the other, into a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood where I had just inquired about a house for sale. The woman selling the house told me that they had been working hard to clean up the area; keep the drugs away from the kids at the school across the street from her.
It took forever to get what we went there for: the dude who was hooking up was taking forever. The dealer apparently wouldn't deliver, and insisted that whoever came by stayed a while. So we waited. I got so anxious I nearly threw up. Here I am because of C., because I didn't want to be slandered for being a selfish greedy bitch who refused to drive him, thereby making him junk sick. Because it was B.'s connection, we had to have him along.
Finally the other dude comes back out of the house. Before he goes and gets into the other car, he tries to get in mine. The back seat is full. I still had not unpacked things left there from evacuation the house C. and I had shared. The dude is annoyed, leans in the window and hurries out.
Getting back on the highway, I see the other car behind me. Behind them is a cop. I watch them get into another lane, and the cop come up behind me. C., at this point has all of the stuff. He has his needle and spoon ready, and he is prepping a his dose. The cop is practically riding my ass. I ask him once to put that shit away, there is a cop behind us. He ignores me. I bark this time, the same request. I bark at B. to stop rubbernecking it: he is watching C. to make sure that he isn't pocketing any extra for himself by stealing B.'s. Both of them don't care that the cop can see into the back window, C.'s head down, B. clearly looking down into his lap. I am cautious and slow, praying my directional hasn't suddenly broken, driving just below the speed limit. The cop follows me into an alley that I turn into. I bark at C. yet again to put that shit away. After I tell them both that I just picked them up if the police do pull me over and ask, they both ignore me. I have to yell at B. more than once to turn the fuck around, using the "f" word before he'll do it.
(This is the third time I've had to tell C. that I really don't want him doing that in the car while I'm driving.)
Finally, the cop falls off. C. pretends he didn't realize the cop was right behind us. He has a history of pretending that I exaggerate. He has a history of doing whatever he wants and then finding a way to blame the everyone else when things go bad. He has a history of totally disrespecting and doubting me. But this isn't about C. B. was annoyed that I freaked out. I later stated my insistence that I was not out of line, and that that shit scared me--I don't need to go to jail because of their choice. It's not fair to me. Besides, I have never been busted for having heroin anywhere near me: B. has. More than once. In this instance, I feel I'm justified in saying I'm better qualified to make the judgement call.
Time passes, and thankfully I don't have to deal with B. for most of that. The next time I encounter him, he is still using. This will never change. He is a lifer. This time, we are meeting someone else, and C. has been better behaved if not more respectful. I fear the horrible lies C. will tell if I don't comply with his wishes, and I feel bad for his mother who is being used up and is also afraid to do something. B. and C. have been using C.'s mother's car to drive around to various stores to boost things. Digital cameras, suits, power tools. B. has keys that he stole some time ago from various department stores. C. drives and goes along as a distraction to the sales people. Now, B. is in the back of the car with the dealer, and is talking.
He tells the dealer he is a thief. They are working out a deal where B. will steal the dealer a suit for his court date. He goes on to explain he doesn't steal from ordinary people, unless they deserve it. He just steals from stores mostly. But he works out a deal to trade the suit for junk.
Weeks later, the dealer has them programmed into the phone as CB--C. always gets stuck driving, isn't getting his fair share for being the getaway car and spotter. B. calls the dealer and is ignored, so he calls C. to drive him to the neighborhood where c. comes to find out that the dealer never answered--B. is just assuming he can sit and the guy will just be there. He figures that if he's in the neighborhood it will go faster. Often it takes a long time sitting on the street in broad daylight before C. figures this out, the pattern B. has, and they end up having to drive further out. But B. is impatient and manipulates things because it makes him feel better.
The last time I saw B., he and his roommates appear to be sick of C. They suggest to me he try pot. They suggest he find some methadone. Neither B. nor his room mate are sick. They claim to have done a three day methadone detox. It seems they are avoiding doing the usual rounds with C. B. is able to find nothing for him. We leave.
B. is an older gentleman, though not old. He could be my father for his age; he is gangly, tall, with white hair and mustache and blue eyes. Initially, it is easy enough to ignore the fact that he is a junkie. He is well-spoken, and while he does not exude warmth or any particular kindness, he is never condescending, and generally level-headed. He's been around for a while, obviously, and has been an addict for most of that time.
One day, I drove C. to meet with B., and B. was telling us all about the giant blue gill he was catching from the lake and eating. Perch, too. He saw the quail feather on my dash board, and asked if he could have it: he cut them into small pieces and made fishing lures from them. I didn't expect it would be B. that asked for it. Since I had found it and placed it there, I had this feeling that some economically poor man would ask to have it. I didn't know that it would be B.
B. speaks of fishing, and he gets excited. It is not clear to me all of the reasons that he gets so excited, but it is clear that he enjoys the act of catching fish, and enjoys the food they provide. He tells of the rods he's had over time, and tells us about the fantastic reels he used to have, where he stole them from, and how much he got rid of them for. He doesn't use anything that fantastic now.
Once I made the mistake of driving he and C. on a run to pick up their fix. Two cars, me following the other, into a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood where I had just inquired about a house for sale. The woman selling the house told me that they had been working hard to clean up the area; keep the drugs away from the kids at the school across the street from her.
It took forever to get what we went there for: the dude who was hooking up was taking forever. The dealer apparently wouldn't deliver, and insisted that whoever came by stayed a while. So we waited. I got so anxious I nearly threw up. Here I am because of C., because I didn't want to be slandered for being a selfish greedy bitch who refused to drive him, thereby making him junk sick. Because it was B.'s connection, we had to have him along.
Finally the other dude comes back out of the house. Before he goes and gets into the other car, he tries to get in mine. The back seat is full. I still had not unpacked things left there from evacuation the house C. and I had shared. The dude is annoyed, leans in the window and hurries out.
Getting back on the highway, I see the other car behind me. Behind them is a cop. I watch them get into another lane, and the cop come up behind me. C., at this point has all of the stuff. He has his needle and spoon ready, and he is prepping a his dose. The cop is practically riding my ass. I ask him once to put that shit away, there is a cop behind us. He ignores me. I bark this time, the same request. I bark at B. to stop rubbernecking it: he is watching C. to make sure that he isn't pocketing any extra for himself by stealing B.'s. Both of them don't care that the cop can see into the back window, C.'s head down, B. clearly looking down into his lap. I am cautious and slow, praying my directional hasn't suddenly broken, driving just below the speed limit. The cop follows me into an alley that I turn into. I bark at C. yet again to put that shit away. After I tell them both that I just picked them up if the police do pull me over and ask, they both ignore me. I have to yell at B. more than once to turn the fuck around, using the "f" word before he'll do it.
(This is the third time I've had to tell C. that I really don't want him doing that in the car while I'm driving.)
Finally, the cop falls off. C. pretends he didn't realize the cop was right behind us. He has a history of pretending that I exaggerate. He has a history of doing whatever he wants and then finding a way to blame the everyone else when things go bad. He has a history of totally disrespecting and doubting me. But this isn't about C. B. was annoyed that I freaked out. I later stated my insistence that I was not out of line, and that that shit scared me--I don't need to go to jail because of their choice. It's not fair to me. Besides, I have never been busted for having heroin anywhere near me: B. has. More than once. In this instance, I feel I'm justified in saying I'm better qualified to make the judgement call.
Time passes, and thankfully I don't have to deal with B. for most of that. The next time I encounter him, he is still using. This will never change. He is a lifer. This time, we are meeting someone else, and C. has been better behaved if not more respectful. I fear the horrible lies C. will tell if I don't comply with his wishes, and I feel bad for his mother who is being used up and is also afraid to do something. B. and C. have been using C.'s mother's car to drive around to various stores to boost things. Digital cameras, suits, power tools. B. has keys that he stole some time ago from various department stores. C. drives and goes along as a distraction to the sales people. Now, B. is in the back of the car with the dealer, and is talking.
He tells the dealer he is a thief. They are working out a deal where B. will steal the dealer a suit for his court date. He goes on to explain he doesn't steal from ordinary people, unless they deserve it. He just steals from stores mostly. But he works out a deal to trade the suit for junk.
Weeks later, the dealer has them programmed into the phone as CB--C. always gets stuck driving, isn't getting his fair share for being the getaway car and spotter. B. calls the dealer and is ignored, so he calls C. to drive him to the neighborhood where c. comes to find out that the dealer never answered--B. is just assuming he can sit and the guy will just be there. He figures that if he's in the neighborhood it will go faster. Often it takes a long time sitting on the street in broad daylight before C. figures this out, the pattern B. has, and they end up having to drive further out. But B. is impatient and manipulates things because it makes him feel better.
The last time I saw B., he and his roommates appear to be sick of C. They suggest to me he try pot. They suggest he find some methadone. Neither B. nor his room mate are sick. They claim to have done a three day methadone detox. It seems they are avoiding doing the usual rounds with C. B. is able to find nothing for him. We leave.
wanderings, mapping and junk treasure
Generally speaking, it's been years since I've spent any real time in the river "flats" near where I live. It's an old area that used to be populated (suprise, suprise) by Native Americans before white folk moved in and began exploiting the area. The white folk turned it into a shipping center, and I'll leave the history mostly at that. It currently is a rather dead area, in a sense. Lots of vacant and broken buildings; some that may be open? It is clear from all the treasure I've found that things must still happen down there, and it still has that vibe I romanticize: blue collar, industry, change and revolution, ghosts of the Salt of the Earth, stripped of the harsh reality that they were real people.
I stood by the river, and watched one of the little tugs I can hear late at night into the early morning moving a barge. Across the canal, a group of people were sitting, fishing maybe. They hollered at me "hey bag lady," as I was carrying a tote and a plastic bag for my finds. Afraid of people, and wondering what they could possibly have to say to me, I ignored them and kept walking.
My sense of direction has never actually been very bad: in the dark of night I can usually tell you the direction we're going by the sun. It's almost creepy, as those who have seen to believe can attest. I don't know how else to explain it. But my faith in my own abilities has been beaten by the devaluation of me by vampires that I let get to me. I dumbed myself down to appease some, and in other instances, the repeated abuse just got to me. Now I am tired, but still I pick myself up and slowly but surely I am regaining myself.
My adventure today is part of this recovery process. Today was about finding my sense of direction again, as well as treasures. It rained a great deal, but walking feels good. As I walked, I found spots that were familiar to me. One nice thing about areas with deep and long histories is that sometimes one can be away for more than a decade, and come back and so much hasn't changed. The graffiti is never cleaned down there; the layers of paint are not dissimilar to rings of a tree. While very, very faint, I am fairly certain that i can see the flecks in the background behind more recent artwork on some of the cement walls. These flecks are warm and familiar to me and remind me of friends who are now gone. Broken windows everywhere, and I wonder if the homeless folk are allowed to stay here, or if they have been pushed out. Random acts of violence by fools keeps me from going back this late to see.
Rusty metal pieces, smaller and more interesting in shape, can be harder to come by than one thinks. I found a few, though, including one heaver piece, about seven inches long, that looks like it could be a shuttle for a weaving loom were it not so large and heavy. Smashed cans; aluminum I pick up. With the current threat to my job I will recycle these for whatever little bit of money I can get. Two spoons I examined carefully for scorch marks that may have been washed off by long, hard rain. (I think of C., strangely close in proximity, but put away for a bit longer, and how he would criticize these large spoons.) I kept them to cut and file down and use as jewelry findings.
Two wine bottles in off shades, waiting to be reused, and many bits of cobalt blue glass and electric blue pottery shards waiting to be further broken down and put to another purpose.
The clouds cleared up, the sun peeped through just a little before it started to set. Rains have disturbed the water sources, causing them to give off the putrid stench that is so familiar around here. I worry about the health of folk who eat the fish they pull from this water; but if that is all they have between here and death, I will spare them lectures about illness. Instead I'll push as I can to clean up these resources which fed those here before us, when the land and water had not yet been brutilized. Other than that, I'll turn offcasts into art for the sake of healing.
I stood by the river, and watched one of the little tugs I can hear late at night into the early morning moving a barge. Across the canal, a group of people were sitting, fishing maybe. They hollered at me "hey bag lady," as I was carrying a tote and a plastic bag for my finds. Afraid of people, and wondering what they could possibly have to say to me, I ignored them and kept walking.
My sense of direction has never actually been very bad: in the dark of night I can usually tell you the direction we're going by the sun. It's almost creepy, as those who have seen to believe can attest. I don't know how else to explain it. But my faith in my own abilities has been beaten by the devaluation of me by vampires that I let get to me. I dumbed myself down to appease some, and in other instances, the repeated abuse just got to me. Now I am tired, but still I pick myself up and slowly but surely I am regaining myself.
My adventure today is part of this recovery process. Today was about finding my sense of direction again, as well as treasures. It rained a great deal, but walking feels good. As I walked, I found spots that were familiar to me. One nice thing about areas with deep and long histories is that sometimes one can be away for more than a decade, and come back and so much hasn't changed. The graffiti is never cleaned down there; the layers of paint are not dissimilar to rings of a tree. While very, very faint, I am fairly certain that i can see the flecks in the background behind more recent artwork on some of the cement walls. These flecks are warm and familiar to me and remind me of friends who are now gone. Broken windows everywhere, and I wonder if the homeless folk are allowed to stay here, or if they have been pushed out. Random acts of violence by fools keeps me from going back this late to see.
Rusty metal pieces, smaller and more interesting in shape, can be harder to come by than one thinks. I found a few, though, including one heaver piece, about seven inches long, that looks like it could be a shuttle for a weaving loom were it not so large and heavy. Smashed cans; aluminum I pick up. With the current threat to my job I will recycle these for whatever little bit of money I can get. Two spoons I examined carefully for scorch marks that may have been washed off by long, hard rain. (I think of C., strangely close in proximity, but put away for a bit longer, and how he would criticize these large spoons.) I kept them to cut and file down and use as jewelry findings.
Two wine bottles in off shades, waiting to be reused, and many bits of cobalt blue glass and electric blue pottery shards waiting to be further broken down and put to another purpose.
The clouds cleared up, the sun peeped through just a little before it started to set. Rains have disturbed the water sources, causing them to give off the putrid stench that is so familiar around here. I worry about the health of folk who eat the fish they pull from this water; but if that is all they have between here and death, I will spare them lectures about illness. Instead I'll push as I can to clean up these resources which fed those here before us, when the land and water had not yet been brutilized. Other than that, I'll turn offcasts into art for the sake of healing.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
I guess this is really just a brainstorming post. It's my first. There are so many things i want to talk about from the truly awesome people I know, to the things I'm learning as I go along, as I think they might be useful to someone else.
At times, i just need a place to state things intelligently--form my thoughts as though I'm talking to someone else. Sometimes just that activity helps me heal, or re-group. Some things I'm going to write about here because they're hard, and saying them will get me past some major hurdles, like the ways that people unwittingly communicate that rape or violence is somehow the victim's fault.
There's an interesting art community here where I live, that is quite different from other places. It's interesting to see what this sort of thing says about people as a whole in different places.
Sex work is the same. Whether we're dancers or escorts, there's lots to consider and talk about.
There's activism. How I can be more active... one of those things being finding better ways to communicate and advocate for all of the wonderful individuals who identify as anything but the Great Straight White Hetero Ideal. My friend S. points out that we women folk have a lot to thank the BGLT community for when it comes to the rights we do have--but people don't seem to notice that. And she's right.
Which brings me to why I identify as straight in the first place, and what I need to do about it, and what I can do for others with it.
There's cat allergies, fibroids, cervical dysplasia, (and my herbal remedies), breast tumors, HIV, and more with the herbs. There's lots of stuff. And then there's me: way too wordy... and the people I admire most, who are able to communicate clearly, succinctly... I wanna be more like that.
There's me. I don't get to talk to grown-ups much. So this is me practicing and working on being a better me, both for myself and out of a sense of obligation to be a better human for the great human good.
There's little things, like community garage sales, the pointlessness of buying things and why garbage picking is fun. There's creative endeavors, and saving money to get by. There's introversion and gardening. There's weeds and weeding. There's all sorts of things to talk about... including vain attempts to ovulate by the moon, and the illusions we hold about ourselves.
Oh, so much to talk about and I just hope that someone maybe offers up their well-thought out, informative two cents, too.
At times, i just need a place to state things intelligently--form my thoughts as though I'm talking to someone else. Sometimes just that activity helps me heal, or re-group. Some things I'm going to write about here because they're hard, and saying them will get me past some major hurdles, like the ways that people unwittingly communicate that rape or violence is somehow the victim's fault.
There's an interesting art community here where I live, that is quite different from other places. It's interesting to see what this sort of thing says about people as a whole in different places.
Sex work is the same. Whether we're dancers or escorts, there's lots to consider and talk about.
There's activism. How I can be more active... one of those things being finding better ways to communicate and advocate for all of the wonderful individuals who identify as anything but the Great Straight White Hetero Ideal. My friend S. points out that we women folk have a lot to thank the BGLT community for when it comes to the rights we do have--but people don't seem to notice that. And she's right.
Which brings me to why I identify as straight in the first place, and what I need to do about it, and what I can do for others with it.
There's cat allergies, fibroids, cervical dysplasia, (and my herbal remedies), breast tumors, HIV, and more with the herbs. There's lots of stuff. And then there's me: way too wordy... and the people I admire most, who are able to communicate clearly, succinctly... I wanna be more like that.
There's me. I don't get to talk to grown-ups much. So this is me practicing and working on being a better me, both for myself and out of a sense of obligation to be a better human for the great human good.
There's little things, like community garage sales, the pointlessness of buying things and why garbage picking is fun. There's creative endeavors, and saving money to get by. There's introversion and gardening. There's weeds and weeding. There's all sorts of things to talk about... including vain attempts to ovulate by the moon, and the illusions we hold about ourselves.
Oh, so much to talk about and I just hope that someone maybe offers up their well-thought out, informative two cents, too.
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