Sunny morning, walking towards chai and a window to write beside, an older man sits cross legged on the sidewalk, shirt off, flaccid white wrinkled man breasts, he is rubbing the crook of his arm where I notice the random punctuation of dark dots as if he couldn’t find the end of the sentence. Continue on. Walking home after journaling I pass what used to be a vacant lot that was depaved and turned into a playground for the kids at Escuela Viva, a preschool whose main principle is Love and respect permeate every aspect of our school community. Warms my heart to hear their yelling & laughter. Just past the playground there is a man sitting at Triumph’s outdoor table, bent over the crook of his arm from which is dangling a syringe filled with reddish brown liquid (blood, drug, or both?). Chemotherapy flashback, how I loathe needles as do my veins which will only respond to the most professional phlebotomists now. I remember a guy named Paul who used to read at the Cafe Lena open mic every once in awhile back in the nineties. It seemed like he always reading these weirdly romanticized, erotic poems about heroin addiction. Some serious, deeply committed needle fetish. I go into Triumph, which happens to be the new name of the cafe I used to do spokenword at several years ago and alert the staff to what’s going on outside. Continue on. Log in at home to find out an old friend who’s been slowly dying an excruciating death may be reaching his breaking point and I cannot in good conscience wish for him to stay in the hope that I may one day see him again. When is enough enough? And how will I know when he has decided, I wonder? Continue on. I go for a walk to Ladd’s Circle to enjoy the lovely afternoon warmth & sun. On the way down the street an older man staggers towards me from the opposite way. His stagger is striking for the obvious agony of its effort and yet remarkable, and quite grim determination. He is clutching a full bottle of Jack Daniels, its liquor glinting in the sunlight. Continue on to Palios for some freshly baked German Chocolate cake and Assam tea. I sit beside the window with my notebook, trying to think about what to write about when a homeless man I have seen for many years in my neighborhood who I am friendly with spots me, says he’s had a rough year so far and that last year was rough too. He tells me that he got hit by a car which broke his leg in three places. He tried to recover by staying at a homeless shelter, (he always camps) but he got scabies really bad. He said he’d been homeless for over twenty-eight years. I tell him I’m sorry and wish him good luck, which feels completely ridiculous to say. And then I return home, take a hot bath, and meditate.
May you love
& be loved
& be love
