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The Fear permeates the city with a dense fog in the mornings. As the day lingers, the fog dissipates, but the Fear just stretches out over the people, engulfing us all in its decadence.

We stroll the streets, looking for some kind of trouble to get into. But nothing comes. Sometimes it’s like that. No matter what you do, or where you are, you can’t get anything done. Creativity fades and seeps through the cracks in the sidewalk and you are left with nothing but some sunburn.

Courting the muse is a long forgotten path. These days people don’t wait for inspiration, or even try to draw in inspiration. They just do. And so we end up with a bunch of crap that is passed for “art” or “poetry” or “fiction” or any number of other things. But when you see it, it just fucking bores you to tears.

Court your muse. Find your inspiration. Then bang out that piece of crap you’ll never be proud of. Life keeps on moving down the line. The train will not remember you, and it does not forgive. Walk out on the tracks and stare at the ground. See those are steel rails? Is this what we’ve become?

And so here I am, waxing melancholic, for no reason other than I know not what to write.

Jack
I Listen.

Fragment #7
May 06, 2008

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It’s hard to quantify things when you are looking backwards through the filter of memory. What happened? What did we do? Where did we go? Two months in California, surely I have stories to tell. For a singular moment in time, I am that goofy, straight-faced, storyteller again. I remember. I remember good things. I remember bad things. I remember sloth and melancholy. I remember unbridled joy and wonderment. If anything I mention here has been in a previous post, I apologize. Perhaps the stories will be slightly different now with the influence of time.

So, let’s get started.

Scarab and I are walking down Sunset Boulevard to the library so that we might check emails and such. We’re a little early and the library is not yet open. We light up cigarettes and try to kill the ten minutes or so before we can go inside and get out of the heat.

A man, no younger than 60, approaches us. His clothes are tattered and he carries a small backpack and a 3 day beard. He asks for spare change. We scramble through our pockets, but find nothing. Scarab offers him a cigarette and begins to roll up several as we talk. He tells us that he’s homeless, which we could have guessed. Talks a bit about his former life. A happy gleam in his eyes. Then the present breaks through the dream-memory. He says his wife is gone. His children won’t speak to him. Everything he owns is in the pack on his back. He was a Vietnam Vet, like so many of our nation’s homeless. He sleeps on the wheelchair ramp to the library when the LAPD doesn’t run him off.

Scarab finishes up a handful of cigarettes for the man, and he departs. I’m sure we’ve already faded from his memory. But we don’t forget.

Jack.
I Listen.

Fragments
#2
Homeless in LA