A Breeze

 

Love Affair

I remember you,

even when you are,

nothing but a feeling.

I remember you,

even when all there is,

is hints of us.

Somewhere in time,

a feeling o despair, loneliness, nostalghia.

A feeling of a loss

of something,

that was never ours:

to possess, to claim

to forever long for.

In all my memories

of you

is the present that never was

a long for what we never became;

as if we exist somewhere 

and I alone remember 

each moment of it.

Your life moves forward 

and I can’t tell whether or not,

you miss me, think of me,

even once remember my existence.

I long for what you represent:

a family,

companionship,

complicity.

All that never was; 

and isn’t that,

the ripped fabric of a lost affair?

❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 

The Edge of Self

When one thinks of writing, one thinks of a person sitting alone and making things up, while the reality of it is that it’s in the real world that we manage to connect to the things we care about or the things we don’t necessarily care about and must one way or the other express those parameters to ourselves.

 The connection one has with a reader is the purest connection, since it is the reader acknowledging that he too feels the same way about: our place in the universe, our day to day, the conditions of the life around us and how we can’t seem to fit in anymore.

When you don’t fit in anymore is only because you outgrew your position, you outgrew the place you once felt comfortable in and you are growing, expanding, moving on to new things. There is no point in fighting this because not moving forward, even though you are afraid or worse, nostalgic, is a mistake and it will lead to mental health issues. 

As you walk forward in your life, it seems, every once in a while you come to the edge of yourself and you can no longer remain in stasis, you must cross the threshold of yourself and find something anew, something you didn’t even know you cold be.

RED LIGHT of the dead.

 I sat next to them on a red light; busy with their phones, all of them; frantically trying to send out their smoke signals, to whomever. I watched them, one by one, trying to determine what we had in common, and it came to me: a moment. We will never meet again and the very next moment we’ll share will be when we die. Yet, with so much on the line, none of them showed any interest in each other, their world safely downsized to their small devices.

We don’t share death anyway; we don’t face it, we don’t accept it; these are linguistic psychological tools the living use to soothe themselves. Ironic, since death will be the most soothing state our bodies will ever be in. Death will take us all and one hundred years from now, on the corner of LaBrea and whatever that other street is, new people will be there waiting for a green light, typing away on their phones.

It occurred to me that technology might be advanced enough that they won’t need to type at all; perhaps they will all have a chip on their heads which will allow them to communicate to whoever, at will. 

On the few minutes that it will take for that light to turn green what will remain the same is our aptitude to create ingenious ways to allow us to do the same things over and over again until the end.

🚘🏍🛴🚲✈️⛵️

L.A. nights

 

3 feet away from legal

Downtown L.A. at night

Los Angeles, 07.04. 2021 

Day 4

     I'm sitting at a café thinking how my night is gonna go; feeling guilty. Homeless people are not relaxing somewhere, making plans, before they start their night, they are out there with a sense of urgency I have not seen anywhere else. I wonder if ever crosses their minds that after being homeless for awhile, getting a job, paying bills, working late and dealing with deadlines would be like being on vacation.

     I have to think like them since I am sleeping on the street tonight, doing exactly what they do for the next five days; following their footsteps. Trying to answer the question of where they all go after the security officers, paid by the opulent buildings in the area, supported by the LAPD get them to move on. Where do they go? Where do I go? How to make sure I don't take the wrong bus and end up in a dangerous area at 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning. The subway goes off circulation at midnight, so wherever you end up, you are stuck there until they go back online at 4:30 in the morning.

     Tonight I'll take the 460 bus to Disneyland; it is a four hours roundtrip and the homeless use it because it allows them a place to sleep safely for a longer period of time. Catching the bus at the wrong time means ending up at Disneyland with no way to come back. Alone. I'm pretty sure Mickey will be asleep. In the middle of the night, as my grandmother would say: " nothing good ever happens after midnight." I grew up in the theater so 11 pm is when I am applying make up and clicking my heels three times. Nevertheless, getting to Mickey's house to find him sleeping is a bit screwy. 

     I make it to the bus and they are there, about 12 of them. I'm fully vaccinated now but being inside a bus that is packed with people is fortunately a choice that I can make; and I make the choice of not doing it; instead I follow the other group that hop trains all night. Most of the homeless that surf the buses and trains are men; I have not seen any homeless female roaming the streets at night so I guess and hope they have made to shelter which is the next place I will go to after these five days.

     I am flooded with the memories of my children; beautiful memories: running, walking to the Santa Monica beach, watching them playing at the sandy playground and laughing while making castles. My son always in t-shirt complaining of being too hot while I'm wearing layer upon layer of long sleeves and wind breakers. Santa Monica is about 10 degrees cooler than downtown L.A. and I look at these men hiding behind smalls walls to avoid the cold air that comes from the ocean and feel sorrow for their routine.

    The ghost of my children plague me now and I realize that that time in my life is gone and it will never come back, maybe I get to experience that again with grandchildren. For now, the memories cut me like the cold air, as I see them everywhere; and a profound feeling of sadness wells me up in tears, as if the very purpose of my existence has vanished. They are now entering the college years in one of the most disturbing periods of our human history, so I am sure that they are having thoughts of their own about things passed and gone.

     I need to focus. I need to walk to the train. As I walk I notice a commotion ahead of me, an older black man is talking loudly, surrounded by security guards and he is trying to kick them and saying things that I am too far to understand. 

     I quickly grab my camera and stand across the street taking pictures; it is too dark here so I walk closer and approach the security guards, whom by now stand in the corner a few feet away from the man; who has now gone back inside his make shift tent and is trying to sleep. Young people on the other side of the road are laughing and carrying a conversation on their way to a club, on their way to a good time. I approach the security officers to ask a few questions. 

     Before getting to them I decide to approach the homeless man  first and see if he is willing to talk to me; " How you doing there, my man? My name is Marco. Like Marco Polo. What's your name?" As he talks back to me I hear that none of what he is saying is directed at me or anyone in particular, he is addressing his own demons and it is no wonder he is angry with the the security personnel; when you have to appease demons in your head sleeping becomes essential. 

     

     They go back to their argument but it becomes obvious that seeing me taking pictures had an affect in how they proceed, for now, they had made a call to the LAPD. While we wait, I am careful to stay out of their way, but I quickly realized that their job is done and there is nothing else to do than wait for the calvary. Even though we are just standing there I ask them if I can talk to them; situations like these are never over and can become dangerous in a blink of an eye.

     I tried again talking to the man lying on the street but he is not home; I engage the security officers and one of them introduces himself as the supervisor and a full minute into our conversation I come to the conclusion he is not home either. Everything I ask is repeated back to me and he claims not to understand me, which is fine, I have an accent so I always take people at their word when they say that; I begin to enunciate every syllable but another minute goes by to see that my accent is not the issue, he doesn't like the questions.

"Isn't that a sidewalk? Why can't he stay there?" "Excuse-me, " he says. And pretend again not to understand me. I pretend he is not a certifiable jerk and ask another question. " If you get him to move on where will he go?" " That is none of my concern." he says.

Good it appears my english has improved. " What's his name? " I ask. That question he understood clearly because his expression spoke to me before he had to mutter the words; "well, I don't know that. My job is to make sure he is not sleeping on private property." "It would probably make your job a bit easier if you took the time to ask his name; it is everyone favorite sound." His clueless look told me that he needed more. " Human beings like the sound of their own name." I say,  but he had lost interest in talking to me and told me so.

    I ask him if he minds, being the supervisor and all, if I talked to the man again. " it is a free country." he said and I laugh but say nothing. What I think is " How free is it when you can't  even sleep on the sidewalk?" I tried to talk to the homeless man and get his name but he was busy talking to someone in his head; I noticed the LAPD approaching and prepared my camera to take a few pictures. What the homeless man did next reminded me of the boy who had the common sense to toss his filthy blanket outside. The police officer was polite, respectful, but firm: " Sir, you cannot sleep there. It is private property." and proceeds to show the man where he could set up his bed. A couple of feet away from where he was. I asked myself if all the drama was worth the bother for a few feet.  Eight people altogether engaged this man, including two police officers. Stretch your leg as wide as you can if you are sitting down and you will see the distance he moved too. 

     The next thought I had was that this system was missing a third phone call. The first call will always be made by the security guards when they call each other to try to get the person to move; the second call they made after they failed to convince him to move was to the police officers. The city of Los Angeles has groups that exist with that sole purpose: to offer an option to a human being that, instead of moving a few feet and sleeping on the sidewalk, that they can be placed somewhere warm for the night. That should be the second call, and only after they go nowhere, they would engage the police. Police officers should not be engaged with that, they are trained to deal with crimes, and complex situations and moving a homeless who has his things leaning agains a building is a waste of their time. And two feet away? That is total insanity.

     I took some more pictures and watched the police car drive away; I watched one by one, as the security people drove away too and in the end it was just the two of us there. I stood watching him sleep for a bit, just as someone once did, a long time ago. 

Sleeping on private property

Waiting for the police

LAPD officers resolve the conflict

This is where he was...

...this is where he was moved.

Watching him sleep

Next morning I went to check and he was still there.

Girl by the Bridge

 

Los Angeles, 07.02.2021 

Day 2

     She emerges from one of the shacks with a plastic water jug and her pocket book; jeans, a white t-shirt and a stride of those who understand time. Even within the few seconds our interaction lasted I could see the sadness in her eyes; her face, pretty, but tired. She displayed a different kind of sadness, one that indicates resentment, like the boy we met at the café. The difference is that the boy was angry and she is sad and a bit unhopeful; while the boy didn't engaged me at all, not saying a single word, this girl told me that she didn't want to talk to me and it sounded as if her words had come from disappointment. 

     "I live beside the highway because I gave up on everything, family and friends and society norms." it was the subtext of our interaction. So easy it is to point to mental illness to explain the complexity of this issue; so easy to forget that we are living in an age where everyone is apologizing for everything, to everyone, every day in fear that they will be cancelled. This girl has cancelled us. The boy in the café has cancelled us. In a world where everyone is displaying their status on social media, the homeless lies on the sidewalk.

I look at the shacks and think that the city of Los Angeles is determined to do something about the homeless and I ask why. Is it sympathy for the plight or because we are tired of seeing this encampments everywhere we look? it crashes with our nice buildings and our way of life. We need to clean up the city, seems to be the new mantra and amidst that sentiment rises the new politicians: " If you are leaving in tenths we are coming for you." 

Say that again, Sheriff Johnny Good Old Boy? It reminded me of the Bob Marley song: 

Sheriff John Brown always hated me

For what I don't know

Every time that I plant a seed

He said, "Kill it before it grows" 

- Bob Marley -

     Sheriff Johnny Good Old Boy took the temperature of the Los Angelinos and is certain that we will look the other way while he threatens TO HUNT these human beings; he is certain we will look the other way as long as he cleans the city. Anyone who goes before a live mike and is comfortable saying things such as, " we are coming for you" to people who don't have a place to live is seriously dangerous. There is an office somewhere this man has measured, bought furniture for, and with the help of his loved ones decided to use the homeless as a stepping stool to get there. He has visualized a better place for him and his and the homeless are his ticket there.

     A security guard told me the other day that thousands of people are coming here because we are fools and giving them things for free; it made me think that the homeless are the new Mexicans; what I always thought was racism is turning out to be hatred. There are people in this world who hate other people and the very moment they think they can get away hurting someone, they will do it. They will do it for us. For our city. For the hard working people of Los Angeles. And all we have to do is look the other way while they enjoy themselves harassing the homeless. It's a win-win.

     In any other city I would say that it was a given; people would in fact look the other way and allow it to happen as long as they could keep their hands clean. In the city of Los Angeles I thought that it would be harder since people here do have a sympathy for the less fortunate; having said that, the cowardice they are displaying with the canceling crowd, apologizing for everything is extremely disappointing. Not very inspiring at all.

     Sheriff Johnny Good Old Boy has placed a bet and had the courage to stand in front of a live mike to cast himself as the savior, the villain, the hero who will clean up the streets of Los Angeles; by doing so, he called all the Hollywood elite and the powerful rich liberals a bunch of wussies. His bet is that when things get rough they will run to their mansions until the dust settles. Perhaps they will tweet from inside the safety of their castles their indignation. Time will tell if this "good old boy" is right.

For now, I watch this girl walk away and wonder how her day will be. Who is she?  Who has once loved her, bathed her, set her blanket over her shoulder and kissed her good night? 

I know you are out there. Look carefully at the picture; I didn't want to intrude in her life so I took the shot it from afar. Zoom in and see if she is yours. Come and claim her as the daughter you gave birth to. She is living in a tenth by the I-10 highway. Come for her.

Come to claim your daughter before Sheriff Gung-ho does.

     Every human being I encounter at night and talk to: police officers, homeless, security guards, passerby, leaves me with more and more questions. 

     I look at the tenths, at the faces sleeping inside buses and subway cars and I hear over and over again, the anthem of the inhuman kind: " we are coming for you." 

No empathy. No compassion. No humanity. Just disdain. Hatred. Opportunity.

This is heartbreaking!

a couple of personal anecdotes: 

1

in 2010 when I moved to Los Angeles, I was sitting inside my car at around 10pm at night when a boy, around 10 years old, knocked on my window. I opened and he asked me for money. 10 years old. I gave him money and asked him if he was alone and he pointed to his mother. I opened the door to talk to them and startled them; they ran away. I called the police and reported it and after waiting for them to show up for more than an hour one of the police officers, after explaining the situation with beggars in Los Angeles looked at me and told me: " If you are so worried about these people take them to live in your home" I lost my cool with him and told him that he should do another job because being of service was not his calling. In the end, the kid got $20. I lost my time. And the police officer was a lost soul in a police uniform.

2

My youngest daughter Isabella, 8 years old, would give $5, $10, $20 for every homeless person she saw on our way to the Santa Monica beach. So much so that one day a homeless person recognized her and crossed the street to say hi, and hand her a $5 bill. 

They recognized immediately a soul that understood the plight of being a human being and they loved her.

My 8 year old daughter would have made a great Sheriff.