Blue

Ya know what they say, right? On a clear day you can see forever. Well, for a day to be clear, ya have to wait till the dust settles. And there has been quite sum dust 'round me, lately. Christ almighty. So, I've been livin' in this workshop from a guy called Des Voeux and he's havin' me around so the bad guys won't dare to think of breaking in, and all and I've been doin' that and feeling quite responsible and relaxed. Now that's a dangerous thing when you're me. Relaxing, that is. So, a couple o' weeks ago, Des Voeux walks into the workshop in the middle of the fuckin' night, together with sum ugly broad and he starts yellin' at me and all. There's me, lying on the ground, bare assed and all, with one eye still firmly shut. If it weren't for me feelin' embarrassed with my Snickers all out in the open, I swear to ya, I would've sold Des Voeux sum knuckles, right there 'n then. Instead I start askin' this guy and that broad what the fuck the're doin' in the middle of the night, shoutin' at me. So, after a while I find out that he thinks I stole sum of his paintings. Kinda dumb, cause if that was what I was after, I would've done it a long time ago and hit the road the hell out of his sight. No, the guy was convinced I'd been stealin'. Now, I've dealt with so much shit in my life, people could easily mistake me for a construction site plummer. But I won't be told I'm a thief when I've done no such thing. So, place to sleep or not, I let the guy get acquainted with my left hand. Hard 'n fast. This ugly chick (what the fuck was she doin' there anyways?) starts screaming and yelling like I just took the brothers head off or something. So I move towards her and suddenly she's dead silent. Just stares at me. Stares down. Then I realize I'm butt-naked. So I say to the chick 'How's that for a piece of art?' and I swear, her eyes close and her knees just gave away and the chick folds together on the floor and all. It's the only fun thing I can remember from that night, 'cause with me hittin' Des Voeux and all I could say goodbye and farewell to your fair Spanish ladies to my place to stay. To me, it was going back to livin' on the streets and that is where I've been lately, in case you were wondering where the fuck I was. I know I've been neglectin' this little blog of mine and all, but it's hard finding a computer and finding time to scribble down these words of little meaning when I should be outside tryin' to find a plate of food and a place to eat. So, I'll try to come back to ya as soon as I can and don't try to make a big fuzz 'bout the fucking typo's in this message 'cause I can hardly type with this fingers o'mine. Don't know if ya noticed, but the wind outside'll make your face bright blue much quicker than a Cambodian hooker can. And they are quick.

The Rat Bag Travels

Hey. It’s been a while since I last spoke or wrote to ya. Remember me writing that Hector asked me politely to leave his house so others could have a place to stay for a couple of weeks? Well, I said goodbye and see ya later and thank ya very much and after all of that I kinda had a hard time finding a place to stay.

Agnes and me, well, let me just say that if we don’t see each other in a long, long time, that’s fine with me. Things can change with the speed of light and the last weeks of my life have been certified proof of that.

There is this guy who has an art gallery near the Queensboro bridge and he’s given me permission to stay in his workshop for a little while. I’ve known him for a couple of years and I guess I’m just very lucky that there are still people out there who give a shit about me, or at least enough shit to keep me under a roof for some weeks.

His name is Des Voeux. That’s his last name. I don’t know his first, come to think of it, I don’t think anyone knows his first name. Anyhow, he’s in the artbusiness and he does a little of painting himself. His workshop is behind his gallery and is nothing more than a stone shack, walls covered with paint and a temperature hovering ‘round freezing point because ‘it keeps the tension in the air’. Artsy-fartsy talk if ya ask me, but hey, sleeping in the cold under a roof and between solid walls is better then sleeping in the cold.

Lately, Des Voeux had some troubles with breaking n’ entering and some of his expensive pieces of art, mostly sculptures, were stolen, so me sleeping in his workshop kinda keeps the criminals away. That’s the whole, big idea behind it and as ya might imagine, it’s fine with me.

I only have one bag with all my personal stuff. It’s quite a big bag, green and it’s made of some really strong fabric, like they use in the army or something. On the side of the bag there’s a black silhouette of a rat. There used to be some words under the rat, but they are all faded. I don’t mind that all my ‘earthly belongings’ fit into one ratbag.

I kinda like it.

Talk to ya later, John.

Words my mother told me

Called my mother the other day. She lives in Boston, with my father. I won't tell ya how the conversation went, but let me tell ya this: when my mother hung up the phone, the sound of the dead line was more alive to me than our entire conversation. Jeez.

Ya see, my parents know I live on the streets and all and that is not a part of how they look at life in general. They, when raising me and my sister Kathy (who also lives in Boston) expected life to become a collection of christmas trees, sunday morning breakfasts, ball games, high school sweethearts, college graduations, pink grandchildren, beverages in the park and a little of that old booze at the open fire. Needless to say, life took another turn.

So now, when I call my parents to simply hear how they are doing, I count myself lucky when my mother picks up the phone. You see, when sweet old dad picks up and hears my name on the other side he just hangs up. Like that.

I talked to Kathy 'bout that once and can you believe she was actually fucking moved by that? She told me that our father was just some old cuddly teddybear, unable to cope with his emotions by the sound of his only son's voice and therefore hangs up the phone. Ya understand? Man, I told Kathy what I thought of that and that was the end of Kathy and me. Guess she didn't think of me as some cuddly kinda guy. But I mean, c'mon, a father that witnesses his son's life goin' down the drain without ever reaching out to him and then refuses to talk to him on the phone is not a father struggling with his emotions. It's a stone cold coward and that's it.

Anyway, my mother always sounds like a trapped, little bird when talkin' to me. Probably expects me to ask for a big, sweaty wad of money or something. Sorry mum, that'll never happen. So relax. But she's unable to. I always feel some kind of relief when we end our conversation. And I know the relief is mutual and all. But I have to talk to her ev'ry once in a while just to find out how they are doin' and all. Don't know why. Maybe it's best not to know.

Like my mother always said when I grew up, when times were still innocent and comforting, when I did talk to my dad and my dad listened, she used to say 'there is no use in worrying a lot today because tomorrow is a new and different day'. Strange thing to remember.

Sounds

Hey there, readers.
Got some bad news the other day. Hector, at whose house I'm living asked me to leave at the end of next week. Poor guy, he had difficulties tellin' me, but I understand. Here's a guy who has been givin' me a place to stay for a couple of weeks, me knowing all the time that it wasn't anything permanent. I told him I totally understand. I mean, there are other people who deserve the same thing that has been bestowed upon me by that beautiful guy Hector and his sweet wife.
I told Agnes but she wasn't very enthusiastic in joinin' me on my quest for a new place to stay. I kinda feel like a knight from some damn medieval time on a holy quest for a bed or something. I'll manage, I always do (big words from a soon-to-be-totally-homeless guy, huh?).
Hector did tell me I can always drop by for a quick cut-and-dry session at the barbershop. Man, if I am suppose to be a knight in this scenario, he's the fuckin' saint I should worship. Hector with his happysad eyes and elephantskin hands. Gonna miss seeing that guy ev'ry day.

Tried sleeping at the shelter last night. Ya know, better get used to something else and all, but damn, I could not get some shuteye the entire night. Let me paint the picture for ya: you lie in this kinda stinkin' bed in a room occupied by round and about eight other guys. Next to 'your room' is another one and next to that many others.
There are sounds all night long.
Ya hear people mumbling, singing, crying, praying, moaning, farting, chuckling, hissing, turning, shouting. I mean Lionel Richie style: All Night Long.

Now let me tell ya something and you'll probably think of me as some kind of nut (if ya didn't allready). It's like hearing little bits and pieces of your own life in those sounds. Like you doze off into that welcome state of sleep and all of a sudden ya hear a name among the sounds that is familair. So sleep moves out of the way and you do your damn best to make out what's bein' said by the others. But when your concentrating on that, ya hear nothing, just a lot of rubbish and bullshit and all. Then you doze back to sleep and, again, ya hear a familair part of a sentence or another name and that pulls ya back into consciousness. Let me give ya an example. Last night, I was almost asleep when I hear (or thought I heard) this guy saying 'Helen Wiesel'. After that I'm all awake because Helen Wiesel is my mother's maidenname. I'm listening and listening really hard but: that's it. End of story. Here I go again, back to sleep and suddenly I hear someone moaning and saying 'Dobbie'. Dobbie was my childhood petdog.
Ya kinda catch what I'm sayin' here? I know it sounds cuckoo, but hey, it is what it is.
Shelters freak me out. Talk to ya later, John.

Reality

Ya know, there are times, more often then not that I see the world around me as a collection of scenes.
Ya know what I mean? The only damn thing in this stinkin’ world that’s real is me and all other people, buildings, animals, memories are all just scenes from the movie of my life. It simply ain’t real.
I keep people at a distance because I don’t wanna hear them, don’t wanna see them, smell them, feel them and all of that shit. The songs I hear is are nothin’ more than an added score. A soundtrack, meant to enhance the feelings I have at that particular moment.

I think that’s the way I get through life. I think I’d go nuts when I meet people and would shake their hands, feel their skin, smell their breath and look ‘em straight in the eye. I’d loose it when confronted with their realness.
You know what I mean? You do. It’s like realising your parents had or still have a lot of sex with a lot of groanin’ and sweatin’, going nuts all over the damn place. It’s meeting a sweet girl and imagining her takin’ a long, big, satisfying dump after a long, day’s work at the office.
It’s too much to bare, isn’t it?

So I keep it all at a distance. Makin’ casting calls all around me. Old people are either sweet or moody, little children are adorable, dogs are man’s best friend, black women are proud and silent, family is lovin’, friends are trustworthy and new girlfriends are romantic and as crazy ‘bout me as I of them.
Doin’ this makes life so much easier. I’m not able to cope with life in the real way. That’s me.

Thanks for your attention, we’ll talk later, John.

Food

Hey there.

Maybe you’re wondering where a homeless guy like me gets his food, huh? Well most of the ‘homies’ go to this carecenter somewhere near central park, I believe it’s at 81^st street or something. I myself have found some better ways to get food then to stand in line with old farting women and itchy little heroin users.

At Times Square (which is supposed to be the centre of the fuckin’ universe and all) there’s this funny old chinaman who runs a small take off restaurant. He has this buffet where tourists can pick up all kinds of food and eat it there or take it to some other place. Well, when the restaurant is closed he opens up the backdoor and there’ll be a line of guys like me. Then he picks out two (sometimes three) people and they can get a plate of food for nothin’. All you have to do is help the chinaman clean the restaurant. He has this very ugly daughter who tells you what to do. You either clean the tables or vacuum or take a mop through the shithouse. The food is worth it so the line at the backdoor is at times all the way ‘round the corner. But when he picks me out I make sure that I work so hard to make the place so gruesomely clean that when I’m done the place looks like those mirrorplaces you can find at the fairs and amusementparks. He notices this so he picks me out ev’ry damn time. When it’s not my day his ugly daughter picks out the guys and she always goes for the cute ones and that apparently does not include me. What’s on her mind? That homeless guys go the restaurant looking for a Chinese woman to marry? Man, all they want to do is eat and let me tell ya, the sight of that chick alone is enough to make you appetite disappear like snow in the sun. I guess ya kinda know by now I don’t really like her, huh?

By the way, I kinda have this girlfriend thing goin’ on at the moment. Her name is Agnes and she’s from Poland or something like that. She used to be some kind of mail order bride for this fat guy in uptown Manhattan ‘till he got fed up with her spendin’ all his money on clothing and 5^th Avenue chocolate and he chucked her on the sidewalk of his fancy apartment. Now she’s roamin’ the streets like me and I kinda hooked up with her at the busstation. She can be real sweet at times. She made friends with some old broad from Russia who has this big old house in Jersey and she can crash there some nights of the week. Then I sneak through the window like some kind of pimply, horny sixteen year old kid ‘fraid to get caught and we kinda mess around for a while. The old woman doesn’t hear a thing anymore but she has this mangy ol’ cat walkin’ about the place like he’s Napoleon Bonaparte or somethin’. Ev’ry time Agnes and I are fumbling at eachother this fat furball comes crawling in and starts rubbin’ his head against my bare ass. Jeez, I hate that, but when I start pushing the beast away it starts howling like some kind of scudrocket and I swear, the old woman may be deaf to ev’rything around her, but when that cat starts screeching and singing she comes running in with guns blazin’.

I’ve had a few close calls when Agnes and I were nearly busted by the old goat so I kinda put up with the cat. Can you picture it? Me and Agnes hittin’ the spot with that cat rubbing my ass at the same time? Bet ya don’t wanna imagine that again!

Okay, talk to ya later, Hector wants me out. John.

On Writing

I’m not real good at this whole writing, but Hector doesn’t want me around doing nothing. I’m not very good in cleaning things (including myself) so I have asked him if I could check his e-mail ev’ry once in a while. While I’m behind this computer I might as well do some writing, right?

My name is John. It’s a common name and I don’t use it very often. People usually call me ‘hey!’ or ‘whattayawant?’. I’m thirty one years of age and I am homeless. I was born in Brooklyn and these days I can be found around the Port Authority Station in New York.

The last four weeks I’ve found a place to sleep inside a regular, warm house. It’s Hectors house. He is a very nice, Portuguese man whose name you oughtta pronounce as Ek!Tor!. He has a barbershop at Columbus Avenue. He is married to Carmen, a sweet schoolteacher. Every now and then Hector and his wife pick up homeless people and offer them a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Rules are very simple; you don’t bring friends and you have to enter the house between 9 and 10 pm and leave at 7 am. If your lucky they’ve saved some food for you.

At the moment I’m not the only guy staying in their house. There is also this Dominican guy named Fernando who has this crazy obsession with his little brother who is supposed to be mentally challenged (or whatever they call these people nowadays). The boy is three years old and is still breastfed by their mother and ev’ry time he bites her in the nipple, that’s how the know he’s not a 100 percent up there.

I don’t really want to write down the reasons (yes, as in multiple) why I’ve become homeless. I guess I kinda have to and all, because this writing thing is supossed to rid me of all kinds of bad emotions and stuff, but if you don’t mind I’d like to save that long, long story for another time.

At this moment I’m in the back of the barbershop, placed strategically out of the customers sight and am supposed to check if there’s mail for Hector, print it out and put it on his desk. Truth be told, the man doesn’t get any mail, just these advertisements for renting cheap apartments and how to keep your equipment stiff when you’re over fifty and all.

So I think I’m going out the back in just a moment and check on some of my friends at the station. Homeless friends that is of course. Don’t have real friends that own houses and dogs and flatscreen televisions and all.

I’m kinda done with the typing now. I hope you come back again and I hope that when that happens I’ve found the time and motivation to have put some kind of interesting thought here.

Talk to ya later, John.