I'm writing this on the bus on the way to Walgreens to get my diabetes meds. I'm writing on my phone which is always interesting. When I walked down to the bus stop Sonya was just waking up and setting up her space for the day. It's always tidy and inviting. Last night I walked by Mr Wizzard's where there are bushes and heard a rustling and saw her hiding there tucked in tight. I kept walking. It's not where she usually sleeps so I wonder if she was hiding from the police or something or someone else.
And the entitled view we have sometimes about us and them is so shaky. Its not hard to get homeless. A fire. Lost job. A catastrophic illness. Most of us don't live that far away from homeless but some of us act like it's a morality issue of some sort. Like homelessness is always a choice. Sometimes it's a choice. Sometimes it's just where you land when you get thrown out of the house as a kid or you lose your job and your house because your kid has pneumonia and you won't leave him alone in the hospital because he's close to dying. Sometimes homelessness is just something that happens when you are going about your business and too many things go wrong.
I was lucky both times I was homeless. I had places to go at night to be safe the first time and a car the second time.
Now they are making it illegal to sit on the sidewalks. Police cars cruise by and I get eyeballed sitting on the sidewalk writing as if I were about to rob the 7-11. Making poverty illegal (which it already is- if you don't have money and an address and they want to hassle you they can do that) doesn't make it magically go away.
The second bus:
There is an old woman in a red hat and gravelly voice telling the driver he shouldn't be rude. He tells her to just sit down and be quiet. She launches. It is a wonderful seat I have here. Here is what she is saying: I am a bad motherfucker and I'm going to throw your your ass out. I'm not afraid of you, I'm not afraid of anyone. I have five children and four grandchildren and I'm 56 years old and I know people. You'll never drive a bus again you hear me? I will take you down. I will fucking kill you mother fucker.
I like her. I'm sad seeing her get off the bus.
I'm still moving. This is disjointed writing this morning. This is the only way I can make it happen this writing in bits and pieces.
Ann's Diner All day wifi
A plate of greasy breakfast, decaf coffee and Emma is sitting across from me working. She is leaving today for awhile so we are doing our work together. The table is quiet. The sound of noise from the kitchen, the bang of plates and dishes going in the dishwasher, the quiet conversation of other people having breakfast. Here I have a moment now to write you something important. To get to some good writing. I look at the computer clock. It's 9:50 and I haven't even looked for poems yet. I am remembering waking up exhausted at four and going back to sleep and wishing I hadn't. I'd have had some more time to put into the prompt. I am seeing the light hitting the ketchup and hot sauce bottles and feeling that it's going to be hot again today. I can't find it for you today.
Too much frantic and rush and hurry. Lines at the pharmacy. Arguing with the checker about the wrong prices in my receipt. A bus that roared past us instead of stopping. Too much hurry. It makes me re-think my not wanting to have a prompt or two on stand by for mornings like these.
What can I give you today that isn't babble. That isn't just the woman I fell in love with on the bus.
Just this- even when it's like this, all ragged and nothing substantive and it feels like such awful writing, nothing smooth or flowing, nothing rich and true, you just keep writing because later on you will hit a good spot. It always happens. Sometimes it's hard work sometimes it feels like flying but it happens in the end. You can write in bits and pieces. In snatches of time. On buses, at crosswalks, in diners, on the sidewalk, in your own head when you don't have paper in front of you.
This is all I'm giving you today because it's 9:53 and the cat hasn't been fed. It's almost ten and I have work trade work to do today and 15 pages of novel to turn in for Dive Deep on Sunday.
I cannot find a poem. I've looked in all my favorite places but nothing fits. It's one of those days all the way around. It's past ten. It's already hot and getting hotter. Emma is riffing poems for me making them up across the table.
It's hot.
The sun is on my arm
I'm eating potatoes
it's going to be hot later
what are you going to do about it.
Emma
***
How about a list about hot
is this heat wave something that makes you happy or tired and sweaty and cranky like me?
Heat
Sweat
sticky underarms
failed deodorant
sickly sweet weed/crack coming in the window
fan
mean
cool streets
temper
sex
sweat
heat
that's my list
make one if you want
see where it takes you
I hope this day is good to you in this October heat, whether it makes you want to play or hide away behind dark sunglasses with iced tea.
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