The Poor Peoples's Campaign & The March for the Homeless

It seems most fitting to mark this year's celebration of Martin Luther King by announcing that there will be a Global March for the Homeless taking place on April 15th, 2015.

Martin Luther King's assassination took place just at the start of his Poor People's Campaign, which called for housing and guaranteed income for the very poorest people in the United States.In his words: "There is another America. This other America has a daily ugliness about it that transforms the buoyancy of hope into the fatigue of despair. In this other America, thousands and thousands of people, men in particular walk the streets in search for jobs that do not exist."

Our political and financial and cultural elite's collective  response to those remarks? 'Sorry Mister King, you can talk about race, you can talk about war, but Good Good Almighty, you may not talk about the poor -- not in in our America!

'Here's what we'll do, Reverend.  First we'll Martyr you, then Canonize you, and in time that will make everyone forget all this talk about the dreadful plight of poor people in America.' 

Boy, did that work?!

When is the last time you heard a major political leader in America talk openly, not dismissively, about poverty and homeless in America. If you said never, you get an 'A'.

Since King made that speech, the federal government has slashed the housing budget by 74 percent, eroded public assistance and, if you take in consideration inflation, cut wages. King would be horrified to learn that today, every major city in the United States has thousands of men, women and children, wandering around with no place to call home.

So if our politicians don't even want to talk about poverty in America, let alone do something about it -- besides  make it worse -- then let's stop banging on that beat drum.

How?

By re-framing the issue of poverty and homelessness -- as Martin King was trying to do before his untimely death -- as moral agendas, as the civil and human rights issues of our time:

ECONOMIC SECURITY AND AFFORDABLE HOUSING ARE HUMAN RIGHTS.

This will be the theme of our March and our unequivocal demand. Poverty and homelessness will no longer be negotiable items on the table for politicians to play with when they feel like it. As with other social issues that became human rights issues -- civil rights, woman rights, LGBT rights -- the politicians will get on board after the fact and try to appear as if they were righteous all along.

Fine, let them play their game, but  let us not be fooled into thinking any of them will be leaders on this issue. There's going to have to be a worldwide grassroots movement to end poverty and homelessness. And it starts on April 15th, 2015.

Please join us!

https://marchforthehomeless2015.wordpress.com/

World Homeless Action Day

World Homeless Day takes place on October 10th, 2014.

Throughout the last half of the twentieth century until the present many groups that were being unfairly treated by American society – racial minorities, women and gays – made great strides toward correcting those wrongs by organizing and aligning themselves with movements that in effect forced the American public to hear their grievances as well as acknowledge and act on their demands for change and reform.

What the members of these various groups have in common is anger: anger and resentment about being treated as second-rate American citizens. Black Power, Women’s Liberation Rights, and Gay Rights  were aggressive, forward looking movements. The movements grew and became empowered as the result of a weariness on the part of their constituents to wait any longer for the government to make good on its constitutional mandate to provide all of its  citizens with equal opportunities to live without prejudice and succeed.

I feel that World Homeless Day has the potential to be a seminal event that will help to galvanize all of those fighting to reduce poverty and eliminate homelessness into a Movement called ‘Leave No One Behind’.

It could not come at a more pressing time.  The United Nations estimates that there are more than 200,000,000 people living in the world without secure housing. The National Law Center on Homelessness estimates that more than 3.5 million Americans experience homelessness annually.

According to the National Alliance to End Homelessness, homelessness in America actually decreased by 1% from 2009-2012, while in the midst of one of the most severe economic crises since the Great Depression. This was due in large part to the Obama administration’s Homelessness Prevention and Rapid Re-Housing Program funded through the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009.

President Obama gets very little credit or acknowledgement for this. Why? Because it is a political liability for any professional politician to overtly initiate any legislation that will help the poor and disenfranchised in America. There is still a place deep in the American psyche that does  not consider or recognize that food security  and housing are human rights, and instead projects onto them all of the fearful notions and misperceptions that came to be associated with socialism during the Cold War.

That is why this Movement has so much in common with those in the past: It is about breaking down dated ideas that have calcified into hardened prejudices and regressive policies.

Who are the homeless in America? Rather than break it down demographically and provide stats and graphs, I’d like to offer just one example that speaks for many, and is also about a special person with the courage to be an open public advocate and leader in the movement to reduce acute financial distress  and end homelessness in America.

Aaron Elijah Colyer is a United States Marine Corps veteran who in July of this year was threatened with arrest and cited with a nearly $500.00 fine for being in violation of the Alameda Municipal Code, section 8-25.1 "Sleeping/Living in Vehicle." He is fighting the fine and organizing a demonstration in Oakland to raise awareness of the criminalization of homelessness. The demonstration will take place on the same day as Colyer’s court date, and World Homeless Day: 10/10/14.

According to Barbara Thomas, Mr. Colyer’s defense attorney, “On behalf of Mr. Colyer, we are asking the City to rescind this discriminatory ordinance and set aside Mr. Colyer’s ticket and focus on the causes of homeless rather than punish those already homeless due to lack of funds, by issuing a $480 citation for doing exactly what the court has already struck down as a denial of due process as guaranteed by both the United States and California Constitutions.” She pointed to Utah’s highly touted ‘Housing First’  program, which provides housing for the homeless rather than citations. 

Aaron Colyer was sleeping in his van that night because he had moved from Tennessee to California in order to be nearer to his 2 yr old son. When he got to California he discovered that he could not afford the market rate for apartments and was living in his van while he sorted things out.

Did the policeman ask Aaron why he was sleeping his van? No. Did he care? Probably not. All he saw was ‘someone sleeping in a van’ and fined him, further setting back Aaron’s chances of finding affordable housing accommodations.

The telling part of this story is not that Aaron Colyer was arrested for being homeless – that, unfortunately, happens every day in America – but what Mr. Colyer is choosing to do about it.

He is extending the Marine combat oath to ’Leave No One Behind’ to his civilian life.  His mission now is galvanize  the groups advocating for Homeless Rights into a Movement that calls on all Americans to leave no one left behind – veteran or not – to the ravages of poverty, homelessness and despair.

How fitting is that?

We can support Aaron and join the Leave No One Behind movement by connecting with him on his Facebook page: Leave No One Behind #Homelessness is not a Crime   and his website The Church of Occupy.

In Aaron’s words: “10/10/14 is World Homeless Day and as many cities criminalize peoples’ rights to exist, we feel it is necessary to rally in remembrance of those who have died on the streets from lack of shelter, to raise awareness for the need for more shelter as the upcoming winter approaches, and to put out a call to action to establish safe harbors.”

It’s time for us as Americans to join Aaron Colyer in this truly patriotic mission and Movement to Leave No One Behind -- on World Homeless Day, and beyond that.  

James Abro  is the author of An Odyssey in the Great American Safety Net, a personal memoir of homelessness and recovery. He is the founder of Advocate for Economic Fairness and 32 Beach Productions.  He works locally with faith-based Homeless Outreach groups, and nationally as an advocate for Homeless Rights.  He is a regular contributor to Rebelle Society  and Talk Poverty.

Be Forewarned: Oz is not for sale...

But Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man
That he didn't, didn't already have

America(the band),  1974

If you read any of my previous articles for Rebelle, and this website, than you know that I’ve been through a very challenging personal ‘Odyssey’ and that I am always on the lookout for ways to heal, mend and move forward.

Recently, I had an encounter with a truly gifted teacher and healer, who opened me up in a very personal and vulnerable way, and then gave me a pamphlet listing the programs she offers on 'tuning into one's divinity', and their cost. Afterward, I wrote this to her:  "at this point in our collective spiritual evolution, I feel it should be untoward for anyone to charge someone else for teaching them how to be 'more spiritual'. There's such a void, such a longing to fill, that I'm sure one can make a fortune. Even if you say that's not why you are doing it. It amounts to that in the end.  I've watched this phenomenon all my life. It truly sickens me.

"Let me cut to the chase further:  I have as much experience and knowledge of the things you are talking about, but I choose to use that energy directly with the people I meet every day. There's no program; no cost.  There's only Life getting better through the personal exchange of two human beings being fully open with one another. Therein lays 'real spirituality'.

"The whole present Gestalt of bringing 'spiritual awareness' to people assumes that they don't have it, and need it (and if they can afford to, pay for it).

"It may not happen in my lifetime, but I'd like to help blast that tripe into the deepest part of the ocean forever."

I then went onto to recommend her to read Rebelle Society and Chris Gross’s meme Indie Spiritualist.

From my perspective on Life, it seems to me that when people have their basic needs met – food, clothing, 

shelter – they then rise up on their hind legs, look skyward, and want for spiritual and sexual fulfillment. (Not necessarily in that order.) 

There are people among us who are either innately blessed with adept knowledge and skills in these areas, or they practiced until they mastered them.

I know from experience that being around spiritual adepts, like Yogis, hastened by own spiritual growth simply by osmosis. This past weekend I spent Father’s Day at Muktidham, The Abode of Liberation, where Shrii Kripalvanandji did the last four years of Kundalini yoga sadhana. Just being there for an hour in silent meditation revitalized me in ways a hundred yoga classes, or books, would not. The real thing is palpable.

In the same way, I’ve had special sexual partners who opened me up to states of ecstasy and bliss that I would not have encountered on my own, or with ordinary partners.

And here’s my point: when you sell spirituality or sex you not only sully the practice but dissipate its potency.

How?

Because, the only way to truly advance in one’s knowledge and experience of these aspects of Life is to be intimate with the source of the teachings and experience. Without that intimacy, it is just mechanical spiritual practical or rote Eros.

I’m not saying it is never all right to pay for guidance in these areas: if you have a physical or emotional dysfunction that prohibits you from advancing personally, then yes, by all means get the therapeutic help you need.

But by and large that is not the case.

One should not charge money to get into Oz if, for no other reason, than that sooner or later, your ‘clients’ are going to figure out that Oz is free. I’ve watched this happen over and over; what was once cherished, and rightly so, becomes yet another disappointment, something you overpaid for and lost energy on.

It doesn’t have to be that way. But rather than leave you with a rather dour cautionary note, I’d like to offer  a brief video that shows two people in a loving relationship sharing their spiritual intimacy. You don’t even have to listen to their words: just observe the sparks in their eyes, and the barely containable joy in their smiles: http://thecoolvegetarian.com/blog/2014/05/the-key-to-powerful-lasting-love-gabriel-cousens-shanti-gold-cousens-video/

Have a Blissful Day!

Spiritual Evolution

I do not like being an apologist for the country I am living in because I recognize that America has produced many exceptionally talented artists, inventors, innovators, athletes and scientists -- but it has also produced way more than its fair share of Dumb Fucks (DFs).

DFs distinguish themselves from regular stupid people in that they are not dumb at all, but take great cynical (and nihilistic) pride in appearing that way. Case in point: Not even the most DFing Yah-Hoo Marlboro smoking cowboy, whose cattle grazing lands have been blistered by droughts, and livestock funneled up into the air by tornadoes during the last few years, can possibly think that the weather and climate around them is not changing dramatically. But rather than admit that, they will proudly & stubbornly deny it.

(Cows DO NOT graze in trees, Billy-Bob – something is WRONG!)

Okay, part of that denial is general human nature.  None of us wants to hear bad news, and our first reaction is often to avoid it. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m referring to arrogant stupidity, because it will even deny good news. (When it’s not delivered from a familiar ‘trusted’ source: white, Christian, non-intellectual and male).

Next case in point:  In July of last year, Rebelle Society posted an article by me called Darwinism Debunked – by Charles Darwin. In it, I simply point out that Charles Darwin was wrongly credited with ‘survival of the fittest’ and all the bad behavior that it ‘justifies’.  What he actually wrote was:  ‘Humankind arose through the higher agencies of love and altruism. Selectivity and survival, being foundational, are retained, but in service of this higher and more complex life-form.” (The Descent of Man, 1871.)

Rebelle readers responded positively to this information. But when I posted an excerpt from the article on a site where people were having a heated debate about whether Life originated through random molecular and chemical reactions, or if it was created by a Divine Intelligence, my article was attacked from both sides.

Creationists cannot accept that humans organically evolved emotions like altruism, compassion and self-less love; they can only conceive of those attributes being given to humans intact as a gift from God in order to make humans singular reflections of their Creator. (Try running that past dolphins, orangutans, gorillas, elephants, or for that matter, the insect crawling across your floor.) And the fundamentalist scientists will say that giving biological reactions and adaptations that improve survivability abstract names like altruism and love is wishful or ‘magical’ thinking (as opposed to being brutishly reductionist).

(Magical thinking allowed me to produce a quartet of kick-ass novels – thank you very much.) 

Why can’t Life be seen as both an evolutionary process and divinely manifest? Because there are DFs on both sides of the issue who will not accept the other side’s viewpoint of the issue for reasons that have nothing to do with the issue. Instead, they resort to pride, arrogance, belligerence, snobbery – DFing nonsense.

But let’s not let that claptrap stop us – non DFers – from examining the issue intelligently & creatively.

In another article I wrote for Rebelle in June of 2013, called If You Have to Struggle, Then–for Heaven’s Sake Prevail, I described an encounter I had with a rare Kundalini Yoga Master while I was in India researching my book on Kripalu Yoga:
 

I would dare say, because I believe it to be so, that if you were to plop a Kundalini Yoga Master down in the general population (this is hypothetical, because no true Kundalini Yoga Master would ever let this happen), you’d have a sharp increase in your rates of murder, rape and suicide.
Why? Because Kundalini is pure, unadulterated life-force energy. And what do humans in general, at this stage in our evolution, most commonly use the life force for? Dominating others (even if it means killing them), sexual reproduction (even if it is by force), and all sorts of self-destructive behavior (including suicide).

I then went on to opine that: A person … in the process of mastering Kundalini Yoga sadhana, is literally someone pushing the envelope of human intelligence, liberation and enlightenment — he or she is experiencing in this lifetime what I believe evolution has in store for the rest of us in the future, assuming we do not self-destruct en masse before then: an intimate, personal and dynamic union with the Creator.

The visionary author and Tantrist, Stuart Sovatsky, elaborated on this in his book, Advanced Spiritual Intimacy: The Yoga of Deep Tantric Sensuality, and in his forthcoming book that I had the privilege of reading a draft of recently. 

In Stuart’s cosmological perspective on spiritual evolution, it comes down to you, and me, and how we relate to the most important aspects of our lives: our parents, our siblings, our lovers, our children and our extended families. When we have a fully-developed mature relationship with those aspects of our lives, we are moving the evolutionary ball forward. When we are not, we don’t.

It’s simple, and profound.

I don’t think that even Billy-Bob and his cow, lodged so comfortably in their Tree of Ignorance, could argue with that. Or maybe they could; but then again, who will give a FF (Flying Fuck)!

 

Leadership

                      
 

In 2004, I signed on to help crew a 53-foot Catamaran sailing vessel from the port of Norfolk, Virginia in the USA to Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands.

There were four of us on board: the Captain/Owner, two other sailors and me.

It was in the fall, so the purpose of the trip was to get the boat safely out to sea and over to the Caribbean before hurricane season started. The year before, hurricane Katrina had shattered and battered many vessels in ports along the Atlantic Coast of the U.S.

We were part of a ‘Rally of Sailing Vessels’ that included around 50 boats. We’d ship off together, go our separate ways, and then stay in touch by daily radio contact in the evenings. Every captain and crew prided themselves on being superior navigators and sailors to all others, so there was a serious though good-spirited competition about getting to the islands with the most speed and efficiency. After much deliberation, some captains bet on a due east course; others due south; and variations thereof -- so in the evenings we kept track of one-another's progress. (I liken this pre-sail talk to the pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo that takes place before a horserace. In the end, ‘Lady Luck’ plays as much a  role in your outcome as anything else.)

Being on a 50-foot state-of-the-art Catamaran, we were favorites to arrive in the first echelon of arrivals to the islands. Plus, our Captain was a very skilled and proud sailor from West Texas. He certainly did not want us arriving behind any traditional wooden sailing vessels

It is generally a six to nine day trip depending on wind and currents, and we were sailing on target to reach the port of Tortola in 6 ½ to 7 days. The Captain had chartered our initial course due south, in the trail winds of a tropical storm that was expected to hit land in Puerto Rico and lose its force. From there, we expected smooth sailing northward to port. Cap’n  had picked the right course and we navigated it successfully.

Though on day 6, a high-pressure front on the opposite side of the island of Puerto Rico pushed the storm back out to sea and right at us. Even though tropical storms usually do dissipate with land fall, sometimes they don’t; and when they don’t, they come back to sea with even greater intensity (more moisture) than before.

Before we heard the updated weather reports, we knew something was ‘up’ when we sat down together on the back-deck and while eating barbecued Texas Ribs and listening to Roy Orbison, 12-foot swells lobbed  us up and down like a toy in a bathtub.

This is when you learn the real and literal meaning of ‘weathering a storm’. Because that is all you can do – weather it, survive it any way you can. All sails come down, the Captain mans the helm and you find a safe place to stow away on the boat while remaining awake and alert to help out in an emergency if need be. Though your main job is to not go overboard, and, not let any vital equipment or supplies go over.

So that’s what we did for the next 36 hours or so.

The storm finally passed in the early evening of the second night. Then the four of us, feeling and looking shell-shocked, gathered together again in the cabin of the boat to listen as the Captain made radio contact with the rest of the Rally for the first time in a couple of days. (Seemed much longer.)

It’s hard to describe the sense of relief, exhaustion and discomfort one feels at the end of  being battered around like that for the better part of two days. Naturally, you don’t sleep, or eat, or change your clothes.  You are soaked from head to toe with briny salt water, sweat, and other bodily discharges we won’t get into here.

We learned that a few boats had high-tailed it to the Bahamas, and another ducked under the storm and snuck into a port on the southern coast of Puerto Rico. (Obviously, they were the ones with Lady Luck on board.)

Everyone else was fine save for an older wooden vessel that had been demasted during the storm, which meant they were no longer able to set sail. Additionally, they were not sure if they had enough fuel reserves on board to power their way to the Virgin Islands, which was now at least another day and a half of further travel.  The Rally-Master asked for our position, the longitude and latitude coordinates. Turns out we were the closest vessel to the one in distress. Plus, as I said, our captain was from Texas: we had by far the largest stock of fuel-oil reserves (along with bourbon and cigars) than any other vessel in the Rally.

To give you an idea of how terrific the storm was, the boat in distress and its crew had circumnavigated the globe several times and never once had to be assisted into a port.

I had never felt more exhausted in my life, and when I heard my crew-mates mumble something about a Coast Guard rescue, I half-heartedly thought that it sounded like a sensible idea. The Coast Guard would be better equipped, and their crew fresher.

2004 was an election year in the US. George W. was trying to win a second term as president against Senator John Kerry. John Kerry was a decorated war veteran, and Bush, well, was Bush.

So the issue of leadership became central during the campaign and there was a national debate about what constituted leadership, and what attributes made someone a leader. Presidential elections in the US rarely produce interesting unpasteurized candidates, but some of the issues that come up inadvertently during the endless campaigns often raise thought-provoking considerations. ‘What is Leadership?’ was the leading one this year.

If my crew mates and I were tired, our collective fatigue could not compare to what our Captain was feeling. He had stood at the helm of the vessel throughout the duration of the storm literally driving through it head on. But when the Rally Master asked our Captain if he was willing and able to go and rescue the other boat – deliver it the fuel it needed to motor to port – without hesitation, our Captain said ‘Yes, sir. Tell their Captain we will be there just before sunrise tomorrow morning.’

‘Leadership?’ I thought to myself, ‘There it is.’

For a detailed account of the trip click here.

Down the Rabbit Hole (& Back)...

Last week I set out to participate in a ‘Story Slam’, at the Housing Works Café Bookstore in downtown Manhattan.  It was being sponsored by the very popular National Public Radio show, The Moth.   

The way it works is you show up a half an hour before the show, sign in, and if your name gets drawn, you tell a five-minute story without using notes. You improvise. 

The story I was going to tell was, ‘No Shit, An Artist Saved my Life.’ It was from a memoir I wrote called, ‘An Odyssey in the Great American Safety Net.’

The Bookstore has two levels and there were between 500 and 800 people crammed into every nook and cranny of the store.

This would be the first time I would be telling a story from my book outside of the secure confines of (small) group therapy sessions.

So of course I was a bit nervous, though as I looked around at the crowd, well, a downtown NYC audience in a bookstore is not exactly the John Birch Society. It was not hard to imagine that my audience was a very large group-therapy session. I wasn’t selected to read; but it’s a random pick-from-a-hat selection process so it doesn’t make any sense to feel personal disappointment.  And I did learn what makes a story teller engaging, and what listeners respond to.  Next time.

But the story is still fresh in my mind so I’d like to share it now with you:

Nearly five years ago, I found myself without a place to live and no money. But when I went to Social Services I was told that not having a home or any financial resources does not make you homeless and destitute. (Yes, this is Kafkaesque: think K and the Castle.)  According to HUD (Housing and Urban Development) in order to be considered ‘officially homeless’ and  qualify for assistance, you had to prove (in writing) that  you were no longer able to live where you used to ‘through no fault of your own’. (Like who the fuck would choose to be in this situation?)

I was living in my home, but I had a court order to move out. That was ‘too vague’ for Social Services, so I had to go back to court and get a formal written eviction for a specific date.  When I got that, I was told to return to Social Services, but only come the day before my eviction date. They would then check to see what was available.

Boy, was that assuring.

My eviction date was on a Sunday (the Lord’s Day) so I stopped in to Social Services on Friday. So what could possibly top prancing around like Kafka in a bureaucratic nightmare? How about a trip down the Rabbit Hole with Alice in Wonderland?

This was in January, so it was the off-season for shore motels. Some were kind enough (for a price)  to allow the State to dump its forlorn human detritus into their rooms until summer. Ready?! I was told that the name of the motel where I would be staying was The Purple Plum. In order to get the key for my room I would have to go see a woman who owned an adjacent establishment called The Cookie Lady Cafe. (And this isn’t even the ‘no shit’ part.)

So this is funny; and it’s also not so funny. The home I had to vacate was modest, but it was also clean, bright and sunny, and filled with warmth and love. It’s where, on and off, I had taken care of my elderly parents for the past ten years, both of whom died at home with me at their side. The room in the Purple Plum was small, dingy, and reeked of stale cigarettes, boredom and despair. I was here, and no longer at home, because my sister was a very aggressive, successful and wealthy estate agent, who saw the house, and me, only in relation to that.  

I could have fought the eviction and won, or at least got an extension, but the home no longer seemed like the sacred place where by parents spent the last years of their lives; it was now just another thing of a certain dollar value in the housing market. I’ve lived most of my life in America; people who think and act like my sister are the ones who are admired for being realistic, practical, responsible. I’d already been to court in order to get legal guardianship of my mother. I was tired of it all and just wanted to get away; to grieve, heal and get on with my own life.  Besides, imagine telling a US court that you want to remain in your home because you feel it is Sacred?  Look what that argument got for the American Indians.

As I’m sure you can imagine, uprooting into the complete unknown sounds easier and better than it will turn out.  Especially under these circumstances: I’d spent the last two years helping my mother deal with Alzheimer’s and I was physically and emotionally worn out, stressed and anxious.

I discovered that it is very important during a challenging transition period such as this, to create positive experiences for oneself and avoid people who want to complain and feel victimized by whatever happened in their lives to bring them to The Rabbit Hole.

I still had a car (though no insurance) and I noted while driving around looking for an apartment, that there was going to be a free live chamber music concert at a church located about ten minutes from the Plum on the very next Sunday, just a few days away. .

This was the bleakest and most trying time of my life, so I looked forward to going to the concert like a little kid would Christmas.

It was a huge church. Protestant: they had money. By this time, it was early March and the inside of the church was filled with fragrant and brightly colorful spring flowers; light streamed in softly through stained glass windows. I thought to myself that I would simply declare asylum, and refuse to ever leave here.

Then the musicians appeared. A cellist accompanied by piano. The cellist looked like a character from a 19^th century Russian novel. Dark hair and beard; gaunt facial features; not shabbily dressed in a dark suit, but not smart either. The pianist was a short, round man with a ruddy complexion and shiny bald head. He had a perpetually giddy expression on his face that would make you think he woke up every day of his life with a winning lottery ticket.  Even some of my Plum-mates lit up on crack would appear like dim bulbs compared to him.

They played Dvorak. The cellist played as intensely and soulfully as he looked; and the pianist bounced around on the keys with astonishing speed and precision.

I closed my eyes and felt transported: I was a kid again, hanging with my dad at some Eastern European Social Club on the Lower East Side. Men with warm wool coats and dark hair like the cellist; and the intoxicating aromas of strong coffee, cigars, pipe tobacco, brandy.  But most of all, to be surrounded by huge strong confident men who sounded like steam-pipes when they coughed or laughed, and all of whom treated me like a son. I would always be this safe, protected, valued, loved…

Then, of course, eventually, the musical program concluded and the spell was broken. But I felt better; a whole lot better than when I got here and that was the real point of the mission. Something, anything, to make me want to keep going, living…

It was a small audience, twenty-five people or so, so the musicians accommodated a brief Q & A session afterward. There were a few boring technical musical questions, and then I heard myself gush forth, unfiltered: ‘How can you do something so good and make a living?’

I was dead serious, but everyone seemed to find it amusing and thought I intended my question that way.

I was no longer (seriously) entertaining the idea of asking for asylum, but I didn’t want to leave right away either, so I wandered up to the altar where the musicians and parishioners (I guess) were talking informally.

There was only one person I wanted to talk with, if I wanted to talk with anyone, and it was the most alive person in the room, the cellist.  We made eye contact and smiling he walked up to me and thanked me for the compliment, which I really didn’t mean as such. But hey, I’ll take it.

He asked me about myself, which was generally a subject I avoided at this time, especially with ‘normal’ people living happy conventional lifestyles.  But he didn’t seem normal and sounded genuinely interested. You get pretty isolated (and lonesome) when you are living alone on the margins, so I guess I let it rip.

I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I do remember the Purple Plum coming up. He cut me off and made an excuse to go and talk with someone else. I was left hanging in Limbo, and now I was feeling even worse then before I came here.

This is a scary feeling; you feel like you’ve just fallen off a steep cliff and there is nothing under you now, forever. I felt like an ancient hunter who needed to bring home some game in order to survive for another day – only my game was positive feelings and some hope. Now I was empty handed and there wasn’t much time left in this day.

I felt flush and that I should go out and get some fresh air; but I was also temporarily paralyzed by fear and anxiety. What would I do with the rest of this day? And tomorrow? Why even bother?

Then I felt a finger tapping me on a shoulder. When I turned to see who it was it was the cellist. Though now he had a more sober look on his face (like he did when he was playing). He apologized for reacting like he did. He wasn’t expecting to meet anyone here who was ‘living like that’.

Before I had a chance to say ‘fuck you!’ he went on in a very deep and assuring voice (that brought me back to the men’s Social Clubs). He told me that when he was young his father, who was also an excellent musician, never learned to speak English and had a very hard time getting work and supporting his family.  They had rough times; he knew what it was like; understood what I was going through.  Then he embraced me in a manly hug and wished me good luck.

Well, I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the rest of the day, but I was no longer considering doing that. So maybe an artist did save my life….