Nowhere can also mean everywhere

Most of the time I forget that I'm an outcast. Every now and then people remind me that I don't belong. It's always people, only people. For example, weather is neutral. Weather doesn't care where or how I live or die. Whether skies are sunny or gray, no judgment. Trees, grass, flowers, all that spring greenery that makes me sneeze, that stuff doesn't care if I dump my pee jar where dogs pee. Trash cans are neutral, too. They receive my neatly bagged trash no matter what I throw away, be it poop or my ziplock bag of clip-on sunglasses or a hand towel I really liked or a rain jacket that no longer repels rain. I really like trash cans for their stoic receptiveness. I think I'd be a lot happier if I were more like a stoic trash can.

It's people that remind me I'm not safe. 

I've more or less assimilated the trauma of waking up to thieves trying to steal my gas. It was a week ago. The upside of getting old is that traumas fade. However, today I was reminded again that I don't belong, even in my old neighborhood, even parked on a public street maintained by my tax dollars. An irate homeowner came out to see what I was up to. I was writing, just doing my thing, but from her point of view, I could have been shooting heroin and watching porn on YouTube. I mean, who could blame her for being wary of a strange car outside her house. 

I got out of my car and asked her if I was making her uncomfortable by parking next to her house. She asked me why I didn't go to a shelter. I wondered if she had ever been to a shelter. I haven't either but I imagine we've both seen similar images of shelters on the news: rows of cots in a big cold room, no place to store your belongings, constantly having to worry about being assaulted by weirdos and druggies. Why on earth would I do that, given I have my house with me. Her house happens to be stick built on a nice corner. My house just happens to be small and have four wheels. So what?

I told her I used to live in this neighborhood, just around the corner. I could tell she didn't believe me. Why should she? We probably don't watch the same news shows. To her, every homeless person is a lying drug addict.  To me, every homeowner has a stick up their ass. 

I don't really believe that. I understand why homeowners don't want low-income riffraff pulling down their property values, even if the riffraff happens to be seniors scraping by on social security while they wait for their name to come up on a subsidized housing unit before they die. If I had property, I'd probably feel the same way. Circle the wagons, don't let in the other, because if you do, they will destroy you, your family, and your way of life. 

A life lived in fear is a life half lived. Said the person who has nothing left to lose.

Hiding in plain sight in Portland, Oregon

I find myself driving aimlessly around the city, looking for something that isn't here. Home, I guess, although I'd settle for someplace safe to park and get some work done. Portland is rife with huge parking lots, many unused, surrounded by chain link fences to keep out the bedraggled unhoused. Seeing so much unused space ticks me off. You could put a lot of tiny homes on that acreage, if only the neighbors would allow it.

I'm not bedraggled, so I can sneak around and blend in. I'm the elite of unhoused, living in a veritable mansion compared to some of the tarp and tent contraptions I've seen strapped to trees and buildings. Some of the motorhomes along the main streets haven't moved in years. The only thing holding them together is the piles of trash around their wheels. If you removed all that trash, some of these rigs would collapse into a heap of metal and meth. Allegedly. 

From an unhoused person's perspective, Portland in the spring is a sad, lonely, dirty place with really crappy weather. We had a few sunny days, but the breeze still bites. I got a bit of solar to charge up my batteries. Then the clouds rolled in and my head started churning. The relationship between weather and my vestibular system couldn't be more obvious. I wanted to blame Arizona. 

I have been doing a lot of walking, which is good. I need the exercise, and it gives me time to think. I know what you are thinking: Thinking is a highly overrated past time best left to those equipped to handle it. But I can't help it. I make sure I have my phone on me so my step app can congratulate me or berate me, depending on how I did, and then I focus on where I put my feet while I ponder my plight. 

A few documents have arrived at my brother's house. I could go wait in line at a DMV location, but that could mean sitting all day shoulder-to-shoulder with weary, irritated, coughing strangers and screaming kids (if I'm lucky enough to get a seat), only to have an employee shut the doors at 5:00 p.m., so sorry, come again tomorrow. Well, I'm sure they would not say sorry. They would say, make an appointment like a civilized person. My appointment is May 5. Do I want to take my chances, waste a day as a walk-in nobody, or wait until May 5 and waltz in ahead of the walk-ins and only waste an hour waiting for my number to be called. Decisions, decisions.

Back to walking. I used to live near a large park. If you have been reading my blog for a while, you might remember I mentioned Mt. Tabor, the extinct volcano inside Portland city limits. It's still there. The cinder cone, the tall trees, the steps, the reservoirs, the trails, it's all still there. While I walk, I encounter many other walkers. The older ones acknowledge me, especially if they are alone, and if I smile first, they will smile back. Rarely does anyone say good morning. If hikers are in pairs, they rarely look at me. If they are young, they ignore me completely, except for a few random hippie girls who probably say hello to trees and flowers, too. Nothing against hippie girls. I'm happy if anyone acknowledges my existence these days.

In this city, I lead an undercover life. Street parking is easy to find, but you need to be careful of parking in front of someone's house. Park by a fence, but not an industrial fence, and not too far away from other cars. Park on a street where there are other cars, but not so many you get blocked in. Find streets that don't have steep gutters, else you will end up sleeping in the crevice between the wall and your mattress. Watch out for streets with fast cars. Be careful of neighborhoods that have services for the unhoused nearby. Make sure your doors are locked, your windows are covered, and you don't make much noise. 

And be ready to leave as soon as it's light enough to see. 

It's easy to leave a place, but it's not always simple to figure out where to go. I don't regret leaving Portland, and I look forward to leaving again soon. Where to go is the question. 

That's why I find myself navigating back to the neighborhood, the park, the store, the streets where I grew up, where I lived with my cat, where I took care of my mom, where I packed up and left because I couldn't afford the rent, complaining to nobody, I just want to go home. 

In the broader context of what is happening in the country, my challenges are minor. I'm okay for a while. It could be worse. I could be trying to maintain a life under a mildewed tarp or a tent pitched in tall wet grass. My problem is a luxury problem compared to the existential challenges of so many people in the world. 

In other words, quit whining.

Chop wood, carry water. Speaking of which, I joined the protest yesterday in downtown Portland. Nobody noticed me, but I felt satisfied to be one insignificant drop in an ocean of determination.