Pacing

I can’t remember the last time I have felt this lost. Pacing for days, crawling out of my skin and no comfort to be found. Redefining myself with no luxury of time, overwhelmed at the thought that all that I have built was so quickly stripped away with a signature on the dotted line. Committed to compassion in a cold industry no different than any other bureaucracy. The thought of saying goodbye to my oldest friend is breaking me. Without the genuineness of the stripped down existence I have come to know as a second home. I no longer know where I belong. And truth is I am scared.

I am the child who disappeared before I was grown and the girl on the skateboard just to out roll the boys. I was the teen who died handcuffed to a door and the woman who sat besides men with no souls. Perhaps not having anything before made it easier to ignore the fear.

Too tired to really write, I feel unable to even catch the thoughts that race through my mind like particles of dust being swept up by the wave of a hot breeze. My anger displayed in alone moments in my car as I curse those around me. Even the exhaustion from the day that began at dawn has not lulled me to sleep. For a moment today as the rain fell upon my head as I stood in the silence of the trees and the hills, I could breath deeply as the flitters through the trees harmonized with nature’s songs. My world colored in grays and greens since Friday brightened by the sight of the yellow of an enormous slug. I think about the red of the Viking, which has always brought calm and I long for just a moment in his arms. And now that night has fallen, I feel the urge to crawl on my floor like the accused awaiting trial familiar with the routines behind the gate. I recognize the panic like waves lapping at the shore, as the clouds above turn dark. And I repeat to myself, “I am strong, I am strong.”

Firefly

I found myself wandering from room to room to room looking for any trace of him having been there. I knew it was silly of me to want to hold on to some forgotten item, but it was the closest thing I could have to holding him near. I almost giggled at my reaction to his toothbrush no longer glistening from use. For some reason, the house seemed emptier, quieter than before. And I kept wandering, finally plopping down at the kitchen counter staring into my kitchen. It seemed like hours passed before I took a breath. I couldn’t sit still, my brain firing thoughts so rapidly and me crawling out of my skin. And it was late. I began to write and erase and write and erase until my body hurt from sitting as each muscle beckoned me to simply go to sleep.

I wanted to find his sent on my pillow as I crawled onto my bed, while allowing myself to feel the sadness. The night air was warm as my exhaustion betrayed me with no ability to sleep. And even the rumble of the cross-eyed beauty’s purr provided no comfort. I was confused by the sorrow as the lump grew in my throat. And I longed to feel him tender and warm even while recognizing I was fooling myself.

Ultimately he was just a stranger to me with his impenetrable walls contradicting his inviting arms. Perhaps it was that. Maybe we were no different than two fireflies in the night, sending out signals no one else understood. I am not even sure we understood as we found ourselves attracted to one anothers’ light. And we did glow, even if it were for just a little while. And like the little flies shimmering in the night, I soon found myself alone glimmering with the possibility that he and I could radiate as an us. But now here I am wandering from room to room to room looking for his light that no longer shines.

Ah Nicotine...

It's the crack of dawn as the caffeine slowly makes it way through my veins. Nicotine cravings remind me of the years I spent cigarette in one hand coffee in the other. I think about how often I used to deny being a smoker even while I was taking a drag. The smell would still be lingering on my fingers and my hair. I was convinced there was no evidence; no smell on my clothes or in my hair. But yet, I can always detect that distinctive smell on everyone else. Funny how invisible I felt I was.

I remember years ago, the way I used to walk down Market Street, almost as if I was tiptoeing past the bodies wrapped in blankets and boxes. The air would be still as the city began to wake and no one would notice the curly-girl with the coffee and the smoke. I would walk past the shop owners who would be slowly opening up their metal gates and begin the process of hosing down the evidence that too many people have no where to live. And I truly felt I belonged as I made my way to Boedecker Park before they built the fences. Just like every nowhere man the suits would step over and never even notice, they'd look right through me as we crossed paths. I nod hello to the girls done with working for the night. I wonder if I look as tired as they do and whether the bruises on their legs will ever go away.

I contemplate the comfort of my bed but I'm now on the clock handing out these sticky smelly rubber sheaths that will never be used by the men grabbing them. They linger and speak to me grabbing handfuls of Trojans, Durex and Kimonos. And even though they all know I am here every week, they grab more and more. I ignore the comments they make as they size-me-up from head to toe. I smile at the compliments as the hungry and the toothless offer to take care of me. I am only 22 years old and I don't try to pretend I understand the life anyone here has lived. There's the guy with one-dread who enters the park shuffling his feet and mumbling. I never say hello or he'll yell at me all morning. I never understand who he thinks I am. Then there's the super-tall guy, last week he was a famous lawyer, this week he is a surgeon. He stops by my table to tell me about the patient waiting for him at the unnamed hospital he works at while his 5th of gin peaks out from his pants pocket. Then there are the girls. They stop by to tell me where they will go to get their surgery once they have the money saved. I compliment their dresses and hair and ignore their 5 o'clock shadows and hormone-induced breasts. Of course, what they really want is a cigarette and truthfully there's a brand new pack in my pocket I hope no one notices. I am convinced no one does, even as I reach for one and light it.

A View from the 'Loin

I am sure it was the narcotic stupor that brought on the flood of memories of a time that was much like Boston in the dead of winter. It’s funny to think of the Tenderloin as this dark place when really it’s quite plain with indistinct buildings and sporadic gated parks that are stripped of all character. And many of the residents are even less evident due to their nocturnal nature. During the day, the Tenderloin is much like a bog in both its smell and stillness. And as the darkness of night creeps through its streets, the tenor changes. Like a sleeping animal, the neighborhood begins to stir. And yet, it’s still not quite dark. Perhaps the word I am looking for is shady.

It’s a thieves market filled with the forgotten ones who traded their souls for a rock.
It’s strange how I find myself longing for the ‘loin I once knew filled with the drunk and crack addicted.

Instead the speed-fueled shells bounce from corner to corner to corner. I stopped in my tracks as I watched this young punk digging deeply in a rare patch of dirt. Elbow deep with his hands muddy and worn, he had located the roots of the tree but not the solution to his waning high. How long would he dig?

I found myself feeling heavy with thoughts of my past even though the faces were no longer familiar. I no longer knew the streets to take nor the sides to avoid. I held my breath as I passed the dope man hoping he wouldn’t be annoyed at me passing through his deal. How green I must have seemed when really this was my turf or so I thought?

How strange it must have been to see me at 20 marching along these same streets. How naïve I must have been to feel immune to what was transpiring around me. And even as I watched death daily, I still kept the smile on my face. I remember the tongueless man who always said hello and as soon as he caught my gaze continued to speak. I never had a clue what he said but simply nodded and grinned politely as I walked away. I remember the man with one ear with the scary tale of losing it in his homeland faraway. His punishment for a crime he would not confess. And then there was the man in the wheelchair who would walk himself into the middle of the street then sit back down. As the cars honked he held out his hand. I wondered if he ever was hit since now he can’t get up from his seat.

I remember the days trooping into residential hotels to visit my clients. Never once did I think of the danger even as I witnessed it first hand. My friends recount my tales of being held by gunpoint or watching the police shoot a man just feet away from me or the time I was slapped in the face by a transgender prostitute who was sure I was having an affair with her “husband”. And even now, I feel disconnected to these events as if I had simply read about them in a book. Truth is I have read about these stories in the pages of my own journal, but somehow it doesn’t quite sink in that this was once my life.

I was the converse-wearing “condom lady,” chain smoking as I walked and noticing nothing along the way. I remember the shouts of “hey condom-lady” or “hey, leave her alone. That’s my social worker.” I somehow felt safe wrapped in the fog of where I was. But now here I am, with my distinguished gait leading me instinctively through these streets, which the forgotten call home.