My God is Dead

posted February 08, 2012
by wmyers

my god is dead,
he dies everyday
then lives again:
he dies with the wildflower, the grass and the caterpillar
then lives again in the tender green shoot and the new-born butterfly.
my god is alive,
he lives everyday
then dies again:
he lives in the graceful huntsman, his wife and their hounds
then dies again beside the river with the arrow-stricken elk.
my god is the god of
all that is quickened
and all that is still,
my god is the god of
the whippoorwill.

By Wayne Myers
 

What to buy if you are homeless, and other info

posted December 28, 2011
by maryc

http://www.squidoo.com/what_to_buy_if_you_are_homeless

I spent a lot of time fantasizing about what I would buy if I ever got some cash when I was homeless. When I finally got some cash, I had a plan on how to spend it. You can read more about my homeless experience at What I Learned While I Was Homeless.

The Grace of The Material World

posted December 21, 2011
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers

When someone's dog slips its collar
and runs across the yard to lick
my hand or when
a hummingbird stops and hovers
right in front of me and slowly
draws closer until it's close enough to
bow upon the dazzled air and touch my nose (very
gently) with the tip of it's microscopic
beak or when
the wind and the ocean and the stars cascading
overhead suddenly blur together and become one thing,
one seamless, immeasurable moment that
leaves me melancholy and jubilant and
near blind with tears

then by god, I know I'm doing my work,
fulfilling my incomprehensible purpose,
somehow.

I know this, not only when I gaze into the
eyes of a cordial bird but when I encounter myself
in a mirror and examine the fissures and scars that
weave my flesh and my existence together into the
beautiful myth that sustains me:
it is a good face, I think,

with two eyes that have seen angels rejoicing
and angels falling like hailstones from the heavens
and mistook them both for scraps of brittle paper floating
on the wind.

Wayne Myers is a prolific writer and frequent contributor to this blog. He is currently homeless in Santa Barbara.

Three Poloroid Pictures of Astonishing Clarity

posted December 05, 2011
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers

1. dope-house, 1977
 


in this one he is standing in the hallway

illuminated by a bare bulb in the ceiling.

the bulb is casting a shadow that nearly obscures his entire face.

his hair is as white as milk

his skin the color of an old copper coin:



in the play of harsh light falling 

upon his immense shoulders

the stumps where his wings were

are prominent.
 




 2.viet-nam, 1968
 



this is an intelligence photo taken the day i got to viet-nam:



it shows a crashed huey gunship and it’s bugeyed crew

who swore to a man that they’d been attacked by a gigantic bird
 


escaped by the skin of their teeth, they said.



one of the crew is standing next to the fuselage pointing to something

and if you follow the gesture you’ll see a feather lodged in the crumpled metal

it looks like a white decal but it’s a fucking feather, sure as shit.
 


the angel shrugged when i showed him the photograph

but over the years he developed an obscure phobia towards 

helicopters which has yet to be sufficiently accounted for.
 
 




3. okinawa, 1964
 


 
my father snapped this one:



he is sitting on a log in a verdant green forest,

his ancient sword is stabbed into the ground

in front of him.



sunlight is dripping through the trees

and falling upon the blade of the great weapon
like 
bright molasses and for nearly its entire length

the sword is revealed in blinding detail:


the hilt is formed in the likeness of God

(angels know His terrible face)

so that the blade is protruding out of the

Deity’s gaping mouth and in order to wield
the sword one must take God by the throat.



a peculiar perspective

for a champion

of The Most High




 
God.




my father fought in three wars; two tours in

viet-nam alone, in bad places like pleiku and the 

central highlands and other places too. he was a taciturn, 

guarded man who never wept openly until he chanced to take

a picture of the angel as it rested there upon the green log,

suffused with divine power, it’s sword a sliver of frozen lightening
leaping out of the ground near it’s hand


the angel.
he is staring directly into the camera and if you look

deeply like my father did you will see the jungle

and the fiery sword and maybe even God Himself

all reflected in his beautiful eyes


Wayne Myers is currently homeless. He regularly contributes poems, essays and short stories to this blog.

Heart to Heart, a Love Story

posted December 02, 2011
by Carol Damon

           When he walked into the room I knew I had to meet him. He just attracted my attention from the start. I said to my best friend, "Did you see the guy who  just walked in?" She looked over as I pointed him out way across the room and said “Hey he’s cute.”  I went outside and asked him for a cigarette and introduced myself. The moment I touched him I knew he was going to ask me to marry him someday.  It was that magical.  I saw something in his heart  not even he was aware of. 
           Over the next few days we talked a few times. He heard me talking about a tattoo I wanted and said he would do it for me. (He’s a great tattoo artist). I heard his name was WoJo, short for Jeff Wojciechowski as I found out later. He began  greeting me by saying, “Hi beautiful,” and I would look behind me to see if he was talking to someone else. Back then, I didn’t think he meant it, but he did.
On July fourth we ran into each other at the cigarette store and I asked  if he was busy that night because I was going to the fireworks show. He said he was going to be busy, unfortunately, so I went with friends. Then he disappeared. For a couple of weeks I just didn’t see him anywhere and  wondered if he had left town for good. But on the 15th of July, I was walking through the dinning hall at Casa Esperanza, and though I didn't notice him sitting at a table with his friend, he noticed me and, having forgotten my name, called out, “Hey beautiful.” I turned around and there he was. The sight of him took my breath away. He was back. He told me he had been in jail and had just gotten out. So we talked for a few minutes about the tattoo I wanted and we made plans for him to do it the next day.
          The next morning he met me at the shelter  with a book of tattoo designs and suggested  I pick one out. But I already knew what I wanted so he sketched  it out real quick and we walked down to the beach to do it--the tattoo. I kept thinking to myself, he's going to be touching me. I couldn't wait to feel his touch on my arm. I was breathless the whole way there thinking about it. In the end, the tattoo took about 20 minutes, and I was so enjoying his light touch that it didn't hurt at all. I proudly wear his art now and show it off all the time.
          When he finished the tattoo I went to a nearby public bathroom. While I was walking, I was wondering how I could get him to touch me again. Turns out it wasn't a problem because when I came out he was lying on the grass. I lay down next to him and snuggled into his arm. He didn't protest or push me away so I stayed there. The next thing I know we were sitting up hugging and kissing and kept it up all day. So around 5:00 pm that night, he asked me if I wanted to share a pizza.and we walked down to get some pizza and  were talking non-stop we got along so well. He told me I couldn't walk on the outside of the sidewalk because he wouldn't sell me for millions. I found that  so sweet. He held my hand the whole way there and the whole way back to Casa Esperanza, where I was staying. We stopped on the corner and kissed for a minute and I kept thinking, “This is really happening. He really likes me.”
        When I got back to Casa I told my best friend about the day. She was dying to hear the details but I don't kiss and tell so I told her just the simple parts plus that I thought I could be falling in love with this guy. But I also felt it was too soon to tell. When he came the next day to meet me at Casa, he hugged and kissed me and asked if I wanted to spend the afternoon with him at the beach. Of course I said yes I would love to. So we arranged to meet later that day at the beach, right where we were the day before. But I got sick that afternoon and had to go to the emergency room. So missed seeing him and thought for sure he would be mad. But he was just worried and thought I had other things to do. I saw him at Jack in the Box the next day. I was there with a few friends and he came over and got me. We went outside. I was just so breathless when I saw him. He still to this day takes my breath away. When we were outside, he said he wanted to give me something but that he wasn't actually giving it to me, just loaning it to me. He took a beautiful cross out of his bag and asked if I would wear it. I said yes I would and then he put it around my neck. I wear it still.  Meanwhile,  my friends inside the restaurant were taking pictures of us through the glass and we didn't even know they were doing it. I told him we were going to the library down the street and he said he would walk with me. He didn't take my hand that time, but when we turned the corner he took my hand and asked how his lovely lady was doing.. Then he said he loved me. It was the second time he’d said it and I let it pass because I didn't know what to say. I didn't think he really meant it, but I know now he did.
        The next morning I met up with him and his friend. They were on their way to eat so he hugged me and told me he would meet me in a little while at The Habit and that I should wait for him there. But he never came. WoJo told me earlier he was had to go to Lompoc to see his daughter and pick up his things. So I thought that’s where he was until four days went by. Then I thought he was just avoiding me. But I finally got the courage to call the jail, though I had to find out his real name first  and that took some creative effort. Plus a question directed to  the right person. By this time, I was really missing him and I so sent him a letter. I wrote that I thought he was avoiding me and didn't want to tell me so. I got the sweetest letter back saying that he was so happy to hear from me and would never avoid a lady he cared for as much as he cared for me. So I went to visit him that Saturday and he again told me he loved me. Oddly, by that time,  I believed him and confessed that I had fallen in love with him too.. Then he sent me a second letter. It had a drawing on it that said everything it was so beautiful. And inside, on page seven, he asked me a question that blew me away and made me cry because it was a proposal of marriage. . I shed tears of joy all night. I couldn't believe this wonderful man truly thought I was  beautiful and sweet enough to be his wife. I wrote back that afternoon . . . a full sheet of paper and  all it said was yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. “Yes”  a hundred times. Yes that I would be happy to be his wife.. I visited him the following Saturday, and he proposed  again through the glass on the phone. I cried and all I could say was again “Yes, I will marry you.”
        We’ve been getting to know each other better these past five months and I love him with all of my heart and soul. He is so special.  And such a gentleman. He pulls out chairs, walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even opens doors for me. I can't wait until he gets out. I wait with baited breath for his touch, his loving kiss and everything else we haven't gotten to do yet. This wonderful sweet man spends hours drawing me pictures and writing me letters. He professes his undying love for me with every beat of his heart. I visit him twice a week and every time is like the first time we talked. We have six more months to wait and I will love and cherish the moment he comes home to me. I even at this moment consider myself his Mrs. Wojciechowski and so does he. The love we feel is like a centuries old love story, we are the happiest two people on the planet and will be forever. This wonderful man has taken me out of the dark and made me whole again. We will marry on June 25th, 2012. and from there, our love story will continue.
 
Carol Damon is currently homeless in Santa Barbara. She's a frequent contributor to this blog.

Praxis: A Spiritual Process That Can Save Our World

posted December 01, 2011
by Wayne Martin Mellinger

Our society, our species and our planet face a number of severely
grave problems which threaten our survival. Social injustice,
including all forms of hatred and oppression, along with ecologically
unsustainable practices, dominate our lives. The number of people
living in poverty is increasing. The levels of racism, sexism and
other forms of structural violence tend to intensify as the economy
falters. Climate change, pollution, and the misuse of our natural
resources have already devastated our planet’s ecology to such an
extent that some scientists predict that we only have a few years to
turn the situation around.

While things look bad, all is not lost yet. We can greatly improve our
situation and change the world through a relatively simple set of
practices that I want to outline here. These practices are so
elementary that we can use them in our everyday lives. Yet they can be
so profound that they amount to a revolutionary spiritual awakening.

To do the right thing I sometimes stop what I’m doing out of habit,
contemplate the (often unintended) consequences of my potential course
of action and consider the ethics involved. When I change my behavior
and put my values into action, I’m engaging a process philosophers
sometimes refer to as praxis.

Praxis is an ongoing process of action-reflection in which our conduct
is brought into alignment with our intentions. When we switch off that
“auto-pilot” which seems to run so much of our lives and act with
conscious awareness, we have the ability to make the world a better
place.

That awareness of our ability to create the world through our everyday
actions is referred to as reflexive consciousness by sociologists, who
also say that this form of awareness is not only uniquely modern but
increasing. Supposedly earlier humans did not really grasp how the
structural features of their social worlds were the direct consequence
of their actions. The structured nature of their social worlds was
simply regarded as “the way things are.”  To borrow sociological
language, society’s structure was seen as “external to and
constraining of" (Durkheim) their actions but not really meaningfully
connected to them.

This leap in consciousness and realization that we make the world
through our actions compels us to act with intention. When we
re-evaluate our habitual actions and choose to change the way we do
things, and thus put into motion our most cherished values and ethical
standards, we are doing praxis based on reflexive consciousness.

Most likely, you are like me and hope to create a better world, a
world that is more just, more peaceful, and more sustainable. In this
essay, I want to encourage people to engage in these “sacred
processes” in which we consciously evaluate the fairness, peacefulness
and sustainability of our  actions. Social justice enshrines as an
ideal the value of fairness in social relations, such that all people
are accorded dignity and respect, and are treated fairly economically
and as people.

Peace refers to more than merely the absence of violent conflict and
refers to ways of dealing with difference with compassion and
equanimity. Sustainability entails deep concerns for the long-term
viability of our ecosystem through using renewable resources,
recycling materials and implementing other changes necessary for our
planet to remain healthy. My vision of a better world incorporates
these values and others.

Before we engage in the contemplative processes necessary for praxis
and reevaluate the consequences of our actions, we need to:

1)    Know our values;
2)    Have a vision of what a better world would look like;
3)    Have knowledge about how our current actions contribute to
social problems, social injustice and ecological devastation; and
4)    Accept responsibility for the state of our social world and our planet.

I want to emphasize here the spiritual potential of the praxis
process. These moments when we pause and contemplate the “right thing
to do” are sacred because:

a)    We consider the common good and well-being of humanity.
b)    We accept personal responsibility for the state of the world.
c)    We use the spiritual practices of prayer, contemplation and
discernment to decide what should be done.
d)    We acknowledge out complicity with “the system,” and acknowledge
how our simple habits of life reproduce a status quo in which
oppression, injustice and ecological destruction abound.
e)    We affirm the reverence of life through our intentional actions.

The emergence of modern life has led to a rapid and massive loss of
traditions. This loss combined with our grave ecological crisis
present us with an opportunity to create new ways of living and ways
of being in the world. We must seize this chance to recast how to
live, thereby bringing forth the unrealized potential of our species.

The moment is undoubtedly critical. We must now act with intention as
a whole species, not merely doing what is best for our kin or clan,
but what is best for all of humanity and for all the species of the
Earth!

What an adventure we face! The changes required are vast, no doubt.
Everything in the system must shift, including our perceptions of it.
Our connectedness to our brothers and sisters, to all living beings
and to the planet must be awakened and realized. To reach out fullest
potential, we must acknowledge our responsibility for the common good.
No other option is possible. The time to act is now. We must act with
intention and immediately change our ways of life and ways of being in
the world. My suggestion is that we embrace praxis. Take a moment to
contemplate the next right thing to do. Know that nothing less than
the survival of our species depends on it.



Wayne Mellinger, Ph.D. is a social justice activist and educator
teaching at Antioch University Santa Barbara.  Having been homeless
himself, he serves on the South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee and
is a social worker for the homeless here in Santa Barbara.

The Art of Dying Yourself

posted November 26, 2011
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers

Give me a blanket and six feet of the earth
 

and I will prepare my own grave.
 




There is no profit in driving a man into the ground like a spike
 

when you can sell him beer instead
 

and fine him when he can’t walk a straight line;


or haunt him as he lays dreaming at night
 




(brutal night-birds gathered on sizzling wires)
 




beneath the vault of heaven


or beside the moonsilver sea that is alive
 

and dreaming it’s own alien dream.





I’ll declare myself a national monument


if that’s what it takes for you to leave me alone,


I’ll sit and gather dust through my few-score years


and then dissolve into historied bones,


bones that even a dog won’t gnaw,
 



if you just don't hire the man
 



to come bust my chops no more.
 




Truly brother, sister,


this crazy world wasn’t cut out of cardboard


with a pair of scissors
 

and if you look up at the moon you’ll find

that it’s not stapled up there so
 




take my hand and I’ll show you around
 

my six feet of the good black earth


with it’s dandelions and intelligent golden spiders


who write love-letters in gossamer ink
 
 



and pin them to my blanket.
 
 
 
 



Wayne Myers is a frequent contributor of fiction and poetry to this blog. He is homeless in Santa Barbara.

Down at the Homeless Lot

posted November 14, 2011
by Hulse, L.E.

By L.E. Hulse

Hey Bro! You got any weed?
Talk to Steve.
Can I get shorts?
He’s a fuck’n idiot.
You got the time?
She’s a fuck’n idiot.
Does anyone want to buy a bus token?
I need a dime.
I need a drink.
You head’n out?
I’ve gotta take a piss.
See ya’ later.

L.E. Hulse is a frequent contributor to this blog. He is homeless here and somehow manages to stay dry in the rain and sane overall. 

Wanting to help more-Isabelle Walker-HELP!

posted November 10, 2011
by richelle

  Hi,   I am on the events committee & outreach committee for The Alano Club of Santa Barbara.  I and other members want to reach out more not only to support Recovery of those in need, but also to address urgent situational needs.  Reached out to Isabelle whose advocacy I greatly respect through Independent w/ no response.  Will answer anyone else who wishes to respond w/ suggestions on what we might do. - Ron Felgar 

A Love Story, Part IV

posted October 26, 2011
by NMcCradie

By Nancy McCradie

    Back in Santa Barbara, I'm sitting at Hot Spots. It‘s 5:45 am and the bathroom is out of order. For someone who is sleeping in a truck, that 's traumatic. I am sitting here thinking that the coffee I am drinking is going to cause even more of a problem. I guess I'll take off to find an open public restroom. I know that finding an open bathroom for the citizens of this City who are up in the early morning is next to impossible. I have a breakfast date at Moby Dick's at eight o'clock with one of Santa Barbara's City Council candidates. We’ll talk about homelessness, I suspect. But before I meet her, I have a beautiful German Shepherd to walk on the beach. Isis, a rescue from Coastal German Shepherd Rescue, is quite a deal. Plunking down $300 for her was easy, given her quality. The half-feral German Shepherd was found starving on the streets of San Diego. She was skin and bones and now, with me, is gradually recovering from starvation, kennel cough and fear.
    Isis was walking "The Green Mile" when she was plucked from a high kill shelter by Coastal German Shepard. I'm so glad she was. This dog is going to be a good friend for me. Ever since the City of Santa Barbara seized my wolf dogs and murdered them, I’ve been severely depressed. I will never forget the trauma I suffered from the loss of those hybrids. They were living out of a kennel built on the back of my truck. They were my babies. My husband Bob and I had planned to move them out of Santa Barbara to the pastoral resort of Green Valley Lake, California. I guess the city just couldn’t wait for the plan to materialize. Well, as they were mascots of the homeless movement in this country, they are now immortalized in a mural in Sacramento. I can always find them there. But from this day forward, I will always license my dogs outside Santa Barbara. As long as I live elsewhere more than 6 months of the year, I can legally do so.
    Sadly, rescuing this Shepherd has caused a problem in my marriage. When "Protest" Bob Hansen asked me to move to Green Valley Lake with him two years ago, to help remodel his mother's cabin, he  promised that if I left my beloved Santa Barbara, where so many of my friends and family live, I could get another dog to replace the ones I lost. For almost two years I've been waiting for him to give me the go ahead, to tell me I could finally get the German Shepherd I want. He's kept saying I had to wait. Well, I reached the point where I could not wait no more. Time was running out for me. If I was to get a large dog, I would have to do it soon because I'm getting older and I want to experience life with another German Shepherd.
    Well folks, I finally put my foot down. I stood my ground and went and adopted Isis. Meanwhile, Bob told me there was no room for a dog at the cabin. He said if I went to pick her up, I would have to leave. So I went to pick her up and left. So here I am, living in my truck, just like I did in the old days.
Now in fairness, Bob is correct when he says there's no room for a large dog at the cabin. But Bob is a hoarder. And as he’s gotten older, his hording habit has progressed. Now he has a whole cabin he can fill with stuff. Frankly, there's no longer any room for me at the cabin, much less a German Shepherd! Every room is cluttered; the attic is full; the basement is full; the back yard is jam-packed with stuff. The cabin boasts three televisions in the living room, four in the bedroom, three in the guest room and one outside to watch while trying to figure out what to do with all the stuff. Not to mention the two in the basement. (I think there might be one in the garage also.) Oh yes! And he just brought another one home the day before yesterday. You see, everyone is getting rid of their clunky old television sets and replacing them with flat screens. And there’s Bob eagerly holding his hand out for the remote-control that goes along with his new found friend.
    In Santa Barbara there are four storage yards full of stuff waiting to be transported to the cabin. Any wonder I feel rejected and backed into a corner? The sad part is, I'm not allowed to help fix the problem. I’m only allowed to clean the kitchen. He worries that I might touch or throw away some of his "stuff." What can I possibly take from him? I lack nothing. I just look around at everything and wish I could have a normal home. He locks all the doors to me. The basement, the garage, the bedroom when he leaves the house. What’s that all about? I'm beginning to think I made a mistake in coming to the cabin. I only know that I miss the walks around the Lake, the garden where I planted my fruit trees, blueberries and raspberries, the tomato plants that have yet to produce redness in the tomatoes on the vines. And yes, I miss Bob too. It goes without saying, though, that the man is going to have to do some real good apologizing to get me back. He broke my heart when he told me I had to leave if I got the dog.
    I remember one night, a long time ago, sitting at the counter at Sambo's 101, where Spearmint Rhino is now. While sipping coffee, I heard a commotion at the front of the restaurant. Standing there was Protest Bob Hansen, who'd seen my truck in the parking lot. He was wearing a trench coat, bells were tied to his shoelaces and he dangled a tambourine off the belt on his coat. He walked up to me and sat down. "Hello Bob," I  said quietly. We talked late into the night about everything from religion to politics. Wow! We had lots in common. I found out he was from a good family. His parents lived in Torrence and he had two brothers, one in Phoenix and one in Green Valley Lake. He seemed quite intelligent and we enjoyed our conversation. In fact we couldn’t stop talking. In the days that went by, we saw each other from a distance. But he was always somewhere in the vicinity. One evening we were hanging out at the Fig Tree. A freight train slowed down for its trek into the Amtrak station. Talking to a number of the homeless guys there, I was soon distracted by Bob who was running up to the train and actually jumping onto it. All of the sudden the train sped up and I began worrying that we’d be making a run down to Oxnard to pick him up. Only, it was just a ploy for my attention. My talking to all the men at the Fig Tree was just too much for him so he had to do something. Fifteen minutes later, he saunters up to the Fig Tree. It seemed that when the train sped up he was already looking for a soft landing. He was lucky that time. But he did get my attention. I ran up to him and asked him why the heck he did that.
    ”I just thought that it was a thing to do,”  he replied.....

**Nancy McCradie is a homeless activist in Santa Barbara. She co-founded Homes on Wheels (HOW) and The Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition. She is married to Protest Bob Hansen, a frequent City Council candidate and outspoken advocate for Santa Barbara's homeless residents.

WillBridge Provides In-Reach To Respite Patients

posted October 22, 2011
by Nick Ferrara

By Nick Ferrara

    As I look in the eyes of the late middle age man before me, I can’t help but imagine the pain, fear and uncertainty he is experiencing. I’m here on the 5th floor of Cottage Hospital talking with a man who four days ago was suffering such a shortness of breath, he was unable to walk without experiencing dizziness that verged on unconsciousness, a critical heart failure. Without the strength to find a safe place to rest his head, I learned that he’d spent the night in a ditch, without a blanket to cover himself. This man, one of many homeless men and women who suffer from conditions that warrant hospitalization, was referred to WillBridge of Santa Barbara by Cottage Hospital for medical respite. It’s my job today to interview and determine if Richard (a pseudonym) meets the minimum requirements necessary to be safely cared for at WillBridge. I will describe and define those requirements shortly, but first, let me explain the role WillBridge plays in medical respite.

   Medical respite is a gift for the homeless and for those who want to help them. It’s a gift because it offers a unique opportunity to conduct what I like to call  “in-reach.” What we’ve learned is that when somebody is weak and seriously ill, they’re more open than ever to receiving help. Life on the streets, or homelessness, closes that trust down. It seems that when our health is seriously jeopardized, people who feel alienated will finally allow others to help them get better. This is the gift medical respite has to offer and this is why the collaboration between WillBridge and Cottage Health System (CHS) is so important. WillBridge picks up where the hospital is forced to step back. When a patient is stabilized but still seriously ill, their capacity to believe that as he or she heals physically, the conditions that led to homelessness will change increases also, with the help provided by the dedicated and caring WillBridge staff.    WillBridge offers far more than just a safe and caring respite bed. It provides three meals a day, personal hygiene supplies, clothes, shoes, compassionate counseling from case managers, help securing employment, permanent housing, and applying for any medical and social benefits that a patient/resident may be eligible for.

    It's been found that long term medical respite leads to far less medical recidivism. When a homeless person is discharged from respite back to the streets after only a brief stay, they tend to repeat their trips to the hospital. If their respite lasts for three months or more, recidivism is reduced because of the social help they receive from case managers. Many who have stayed for multiple months learn to live on their own again and even hold a job.
    Though I’ve only been at WillBridge for a short time, I have worked with the discharge planners at Cottage Hospital on several occasions. What I have experienced is a caring, professional and hardworking staff. Discharge planning is not easy, as there are ever-changing plans and doctor’s orders which can arrive in the final minutes before discharge. Everyone does the best they can. 

     Given that WillBridge, at this time, does not provide nursing care; for the safety and well-being of medical respite patients, we require the following:
 
    *Patients must be ambulatory with the ability and strength to climb stairs and care for basic self needs.

    *Patients must be knowledgeable about administering their medication and medications must be with patient upon arrival at WillBridge.

   *A patient’s discharge summary and aftercare instructions must be reviewed and approved by WillBridge staff prior to placement.

   *Patient must be interviewed by a WillBridge staff member before placement at WillBridge;

   *Whenever possible, twenty-four hour notice must be given to WillBridge prior to placement of a patient.  Initial transportation to and from future medical treatments must be arranged by Cottage Hospital until WillBridge can make other transportation arrangements;

   *In addition, prior to placement, Visiting Nurse Services must be arranged by Cottage Hospital, as well as arrangements for special diets and therapies, when necessary.


    WillBridge welcomes the need for medical respite for the homeless, and looks forward to serving the homeless community for many years to come in this way. WillBridge also looks forward to continuing its successful partnership with Cottage Hospital. Together we share the goal of ensuring that those less fortunate receive the best medical respite possible, and go on to make the life changes that will reduce their need for future hospital stays. In addition, WillBridge welcomes the opportunity to expand the number of medical respite beds it can offer, and ultimately, bring on board licensed nursing staff.



*This essay was written in collaboration with Lynnelle Williams, Executive Director of WillBridge of Santa Barbara.



*Nick Ferrara is Program Coordinator at WillBridge of Santa Barbara




Homeless Man Walking

posted October 13, 2011
by Hulse, L.E.

     The rain dropped in last night and danced around on my sleeping bag for a couple of minutes before moving on. I curled up and held my ground but when it was over, I was wet. Had I been able to, I would have blown a big hole through one of those dark clouds hovering overhead. But with a few minor adjustments, and a little patience, I was able to drift back to a dryer place.

      With the early arrival of rain, I’m reminded of all the things I could have done last summer to make my life a whole lot easier . . .  things like winning the Loto, finding a diamond ring, or maybe setting aside a little time to lighten up my backpack. As luck would have it, I got stuck with the backpack and what a shock that turned out to be. I never realized how much I was carrying around until I started to unpack. How did I ever manage to put so much into such a small place? And where did I find the strength to carry it all for as long as I did? I don’t know what Freud would have done with this but I’ll do my best to try and explain it.

    It’s not easy keeping your head on straight when you’re homeless. Not only are you dealing with your own set of problems, you’re dealing with a lot of denial and deception in the minds of other homeless people. Overtime it really does become a balancing act. And if you’re not careful, you can lose sight of the day-to-day practical stuff that must be handled if you’re going to function like a normal human.

    So when I load  my backpack up with books that never get read, I’m punishing myself for being a homeless idiot. (And you thought I didn’t know anything about psychology.)

    Speaking of abnormal behavior, when are the City Councilmembers going to make their way down to the streets to discover first hand how the homeless survive? It would be my guess that the majority of them has never even punched a time clock.  God forbid if they were ever spotted in the vicinity of a soup line. It’s hard to have a democracy when you base your decisions on how those that are most comfortable see the world. Those Councilmembers should really make an effort to talk to at least one homeless person before they throw us all to the lions.

L.E. Hulse is a homeless camper in Santa Barbara and a frequent contributor to this blog.

Merger may retain SCHAC

posted October 12, 2011
by SCHAC_Mem

The below document was submit to the South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee for a Brown Act notice agenda item in which Rob Fredericks or designee will present a proposal for merger of the BOCH and Common Ground. This copy is provided to the blog as a public service may be lightly edited for the convenience of homelessinsb readers; copies of the official submission will be distributed to interested members of the public at the meeting which shall be at 10:30 AM October 13, 2011 in the David Gebhardt Meeting Room.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Comment on BOCH/Common Ground merger and establishment of a new

SCHAC to Consider Letter to Gov re AB312 Veto

posted October 12, 2011
by SCHAC_Mem

The below draft is a public record submit to the South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee for consideration at its October meeting.
Interested parties may attend at 10:30 Am Thursday 10/13/2011 at the Gerhardt Meeting Room.

==============DRAFT========================

GREETINGS:

The South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee (SCHAC) is an
inter-jurisdictional advisory committee consisting of elected officials,
county and city staff and NGO representatives established by the Santa
Barbara County Board of Supervisors and municipalities in the county. We
have one of the highest rates of homelessness in the US, with over 4,000
known such persons for a population of 400,000.
The SCHAC wishes to express concern with veto of  Assembly Bill 312. We
concur with the majority of state representative that sentencing
enhancements for crimes meeting the strict definition of hate crimes are
indeed warranted for cases including those in which the victims are
targeted on the basis of perception that they are homeless.
We believe that the record of such crimes makes clear that such persons
should be able to invoke the remedies of the Ralph Civil Rights Act
along with the listed categories of race, color, religion, ancestry,
national origin, political affiliation, sex, sexual orientation, age, or
physical or mental disability.
Please consider issuing a statement  providing terms under which you
would be willing to allow a renewed legislative proposal to be
implemented in California.

                    Hopefully remaining, 

                            Your friends and allies,


(List of names/Farr,House,McConnell,Reddinton FOR THE COMMITTEE)

A Love Story, Part III

posted October 07, 2011
by NMcCradie

By Nancy McCradie
 
    Once again I find myself awake at 3:30 AM.  I enjoy the solitude and peace that surround me when I walk into the kitchen to brew my beans into a drink that will hurtle me into the day. Bob and I have to prepare for another crack at installing an over]-the-stove microwave. It’s a big job that’s taken a couple days work so far, but we might be successful today. We also have to seal the windows and paint the trim.  The air is starting to turn crisp and the leaves turning a little. We don’t have much more time to prepare the cabin for winter.

      I remember a Sunday morning in the early 1980s when I was delivering the Los Angeles Times to my inside accounts on State Street. Pulling over at Santa Barbara Liquor Store on State and Cota, I marveled at the quiet. There wasn’t a soul on the streets with the exception of the clean up crew. Where were all the old men who waited for the store to open so they could cure their shakes? I still find it amusing that some people portray State Street as unwelcoming to tourists and locals today.  Obviously, these people weren’t around when the City allowed public drinking. State Street was wild in the early 1980s. Men and women out and about at all hours with drinks in their hands, laughing raucously and loose as a goose. Sometimes, back then, it was hard to make it through all that. But we survived and learned that in order to have "safer streets" (yawn!) we needed to stop the public street parties.  
      But back to my inside accounts.
 
      That particular store took a lot of papers so I climbed out of the truck and began to reach for bundles when out of the quiet came a drawn-out wolf whistle. I whipped around not wanting to miss anything. Across the street was a bearded, unkempt stranger. Taking in his overalls, rumpled shirt and filthy bare feet I thought, “Oh my God, is he coming over to my side of the street?” A grin stretched between his auburn moustache and beard and as he approached I realized he was carrying a five-gallon bucket of ice cream (from a dumpster dive) and dipping into it with a stalk of celery. Ice Cream was running down his body adding to the flavor of this guy. As I turned to finish getting the paper bundles, I was aware he was watching me.  
      "Do you want to get married?" he spewed.  
      "Gawd!  No thanks," I answered, with emphasis.  
      "Do you want to live together?"  
        I examined his face to see if he was serious. Not knowing quite how to respond, I told him I was just getting over a broken relationship and that my son and I weren’t ready to bring someone new into our lives. We were happy living in our camper and pick-up, getting to know each other again in a peaceful environment (i.e. without the violence of my last marriage).
       Undaunted, the idiot then asked if I would go out on a date with him. What was the matter with him?  “No,” I barked. Then, thinking myself a bit of a shrew, I told him I was always available to friends who wanted to sit and talk over a cup of coffee. Then I walked around to the front of the truck, climbed in and boogied to my next store, thinking  . . boy, was that a strange encounter.



**Nancy McCradie is a longtime Santa Barbara homeless activist. She is co-founder of Homes on Wheels and the Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition. She is no longer homeless, but sometimes, still sleeps in her van when visiting the area. Nancy is a frequent contributor to this blog.

The American Pipe Dream

posted October 03, 2011
by Michael W. Stowell

       The promise of the American dream has given hope to many people that they too might one day climb the economic ladder. But according to a study from the Pew Charitable Trusts, nearly a third of Americans who in the 1970s were part of the middle class, have fallen out of it as adults. This finding suggests the relative ease with which Americans can end up in low-income, low-opportunity lifestyles, even if they started out advantaged. The idea that children will grow up to be better off than their parents is a central component of the American Dream and sustains American optimism. However, it seems that a middle-class upbringing hardly guarantees the same status over the course of a lifetime.
      More Americans are now living  ‘doubled up’ in shared-home situations. This spring there were 21.8 million “doubled-up” households across the nation, a 10.7 percent increase from the 19.7 million shared households in the spring of 2007, according to the Census Bureau. That means 18.3 percent of all households were combined households. And millions of other Americans are living in long-stay motels. These Single Room Occupancy hotels (SROs) are the lowest rung on the housing ladder, just a notch above a homeless shelter. Also, as the country’s problems worsen, millions of Americans have moved into low-budget long-stay motels. The grisly rooms are only just a little better than a cardboard box. With their tiny rooms, paper-thin walls and nylon sheets, vulnerable Americans are managing to keep a roof over their heads with a few hundred bucks a month.
      Another study warns that homelessness is spreading to middle class. The economic downturn and the government’s deep cuts to welfare are expected to drive up homelessness over the next few years, raising the specter of middle class people living on the streets. The report, from the homelessness charity “Crisis,” says there’s a direct link between the economic downturn and rising homelessness as cuts to services and draconian changes to benefits shred the welfare safety net.

      Then too, the job market is worse than the 9.1 percent unemployment rate suggests. America’s 14 million unemployed aren’t competing just with each other. They must also contend with 8.8 million other people not counted as unemployed — part-timers who want full-time work. When consumer demand picks up, companies will likely boost the hours of their part-timers before they add jobs, economists say. That means they have room to expand without hiring. And the unemployed will face another source of competition once the economy improves: the estimated 2.6 million people who aren’t counted as unemployed because they’ve stopped looking for work. Once they start looking again, they’ll be classified as unemployed and the unemployment rate will likely will rise. 
      A smaller share of men have jobs today than at any time since World War II. Employers are increasingly giving up on the American man and men who have jobs are getting paid less. After accounting for inflation, the median wage for men between 30 and 50 dropped 27 percent to $33,000 a year from 1969 to 2009, according to an analysis by Michael Greenstone, a Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) economics professor who was chief economist for Obama’s Council of Economic Advisers. “That takes men and puts them back at their earnings capacity of the 1950s,” Greenstone says.
 
      Of course, anyone can lose their job and fall behind on bills in this economy, but its never been an obstacle to finding new work. This week’s credit check: Six out of 10 employers are using credit reports to vet job applicants and more than 20 million Americans may have material errors on them. Where should they turn when they’ve lost a steady paycheck but still have to keep up with bills such as mortgage payments, student loans, and the basics like rent and food? With no money coming in, many understandably have to turn to debt. But taking on debt and being unable to pay it back, or  any of the debt they may accumulated, — could now become the  thing that keeps them from becoming reemployed.
According to a new study from CardHub.com, we’re on track to increase our collective credit card debt by $54 billion in 2011. We added only $9 billion in new credit card debt in 2010, and actually reduced our credit card debt in 2009, so this is a significant reversal. All told, Americans now have roughly $772 billion in outstanding credit card balances. “For millions, they were living in a bubble,” says Odysseas Papadimitriou, CEO of CardHub, referring to Americans living on home equity and credit card debt five years ago. “If we end up over-leveraging ourselves again, it’s going to be the same thing repeated in a few years.”
        The share of federal student loan defaults rose sharply last year, especially at for-profit colleges and universities, where 15 percent of borrowers defaulted in the first two years of repayment. According to Department of Education data, 8.8 percent of borrowers defaulted in the fiscal year that ended last Sept. 30, the latest figures available, that’s up from 7 percent the previous year. At public institutions, the rate was 7.2 percent, up from 6 percent, and at not-for-profit private institutions, it was 4.6 percent, up from 4 percent. “Borrowers are struggling in this economy,” said James Kvaal, deputy under secretary of education. “We see a strong relationship between student default rates and unemployment rates.”

    Last Labor Day, Mother Jones Magazine published some eye-popping statistics: he true size of the unemployment crisis is 25.3 million Americans. The figure includes people out of work, forced to work part-time, unable to find a full-time jobs, as well as those who want to work but have given up searching in the past month. There are currently 6.9 million fewer jobs today than in December 2007 0.22 jobs - is the number of jobs out there for every person looking for work. (In other words, one job for every 4.5 job seekers.) This stat underlies all those stories of fruitless job searches as well as the historic long-term unemployment level. Speaking of numbers, here’s another, 25. That’s how many times monthly job growth failed to keep up with basic population growth since January 2009. All those headlines saying job growth has stalled are wrong, it's not even doing that. The percentage of jobless workers who haven't pulled a steady paycheck in more than six months is 43%, that's 6 million workers. The jobless rate for African-Americans is 17 percent. Black unemployment is now at its highest level in 27 years. The Hispanic unemployment rate is 11.3 percent. This figure has held steady since February 2009. The unemployment rate for 16 to 24-year-olds of all races, ethnicities, and educational backgrounds is 17.7 percent. Often overlooked, youth unemployment has a long-term toll. Young people who enter a weak job market are almost guaranteed to earn less over their lifetimes than those who find jobs during boom times.  The number of jobs the American economy needs to add each month to fill its 11.3 million-job deficit by the middle of 2016 is 280,000. The average number of jobs the economy actually added in the past three months is 35,000.
 

Michael Stowell is currently homeless and staying at the Santa Barbara Rescue Mission. He is a regular contributor to this website.      

Autobiography in Verse

posted September 26, 2011
by Mitch Goldstein

    My name is Mitch Goldstein and my father’s name is Sid.
    My mother’s name is the same.
    I was her fourth happy kid.
    Never really have seen trouble heartbreak or shame,
    I have had my chances to reach a little fame.
    Looking back on my days of youth
    we played football in the street.
    Larry my oldest brother just loved to compete.
    Steve, who’s two years my senior,
    felt cheated many times
    when Larry would be sneaky
    and cross the brotherhood lines.
    My two sisters Gayle and Debbie
    I loved them both the same.
    Gayle became a doctor
    and Debbie forgot my name.
    Because of my illness
    she would not understand
    that I needed more attention than the average man.
    Small crimes were just a symptom if you will
    that might have been more balanced
    with some Adavil.
    But self-medicated I was a different sort
    and the saddest thing I remember
    was the baby she did abort.  
    Now living in the balance,
    a karmic debit if you will,
    I play doctor for my ailing wife.
    Keeping her from her demons
    is the story of my life.

Mitch is currently homeless in Santa Barbara.
    

       
 

Sadie and Me

posted September 24, 2011
by Carol Damon

                                                Sadie and Me
 
 


After a 36 hour bus ride I had finally arrived in Tulsa, Ok were I would be spending the next few months of my life with my aunt. At the time I didn't know that the stay would be shorter then planned. I had heard the stories about the house being badly haunted (by) my aunt's husband who had died the year before. I was however, prepared for the worst, as I had always know that in life he did not like my siblings or myself.
 


My aunt picked me up at the Tulsa bus terminal and we started the drive to the little town 20 miles outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma. A small and quiet little town to live in, nothing to do and nowhere to go. But fortunately for me I had made an internet friend that lived in the area, and he kept me busy most of the time when I was not at work.
 


My aunt brought her 2-year-old black Labrador with her when she picked me up at the terminal. . Sadie was a sweetie and took to me  immediately. When we got to the house, Sadie started growling and clearly did not want to be there. My aunt told me when she went anywhere Sadie refused to stay inside and alone, even on the coldest days, so most of the time she was at the day kennel if it was too cold, or left in the back yard. Sadie clearly did not want to go inside, but she knew I needed her so she came in with us.



It was just before Thanksgiving when I arrived in Tulsa and very cold. I walked into the house and knew immediately that the pain and feelings of loss experienced within these walls had been intense. My uncle died in the master bedroom, and his angry spirit could sense in every room. Perhaps he had unfinished business and couldn’t go into the light. I was told his heart exploded in that room. The ambulance crew arrived in five minutes and got him out of the house, but though he died in the ambulance, we all know his spirit has remained in the house.


 
The first night there, I couldn't sleep in the assigned room.  So I just slept in the living room on the rocking sofa. I woke up the first night with Sadie standing over me, growling and trying to cover me, almost like she was protecting me from something.  . I looked up and saw Frank leaning over me, running his ghostly fingers through my hair. Sadie was trying to warn me of impending doom. . I was alive and in his house, Frank didn't like that at all.  was trying Sadie scared him away for the moment and I was able to go back to sleep but remained restless the rest of the night. The next night I woke again to the sound of Sadie crying out, This time, my aunt was standing over me with a gun to my head, Frank was there within her, and she was going to allow him to shoot me. Through her, he found a way to do more then scare me. She just turned away in time, I had the chance to grab the gun and she fell away still sound asleep. She never knew what had happened. I managed to dispose of the gun, so she could not be used to get me again.



Frank is a strong ghost, strong enough to wield an object from our living world. He could pick up and move anything he wanted. The house is heavy with his anger and hatred for the living. Every room feels like a horror movie come alive, like just around every the corner an evil event is waiting to happen.

 
Frank was coming down the hall, not really walking, but more like gliding along the hallway. He had a huge knife in his hands, ready the use on me and I believe to this day that if not for Sadie he would have taken me with him to the other side. Sadie jumped into his path and stopped him, giving me time to run out of the house.  And then she followed. It was very hard to go back into that house, knowing he was still there. My aunt came home, so we weren't there alone. Sadie and I were still unsettled, and we stayed awake all night making sure we both stayed safe.

 As we got closer to Christmas, the house was in constant turmoil.  My Internet friend Richard kept me out of the house most of the time. We shopped and ate out frequently. I stayed with him in Tulsa to get away from the house. Every time I returned though, a sense of dark foreboding flooded my senses.  On Christmas day, Sadie and I were in the house alone. All of the sudden, I heard an unusual noise. I was waiting for Richard to pick us up. We were going to Tulsa to spend Christmas with him. I realized that the noise was coming from the room across from the master bedroom where Frank died. Sadie wanted to get me out of the house and tried everything she could think of. The room was alive with animated toys and dolls floating around and all playing tunes that, under normal circumstances, were innocent enough. But these things were being moved around the room with no reasonable explanation, except that Frank was causing this to happen.


 
I could see him there laughing, and we ran out without thinking of the weather. It was snowing and freezing cold. Richard arrived soon after and we left, never to return. Sadie came home to California with me a few days after Christmas, I couldn’t leave her. To this day, she is my one true guardian angel. 
 



"Sadie and Me" is one of collection of stories that Carol is hoping to publish in a book. 

The Lonely Highway Chapter 2

posted September 23, 2011
by mrswojo

Enter your article here.             The Lonely Highway

                                                  Chapter 2

The Lonely Highway

posted September 21, 2011
by mrswojo

           The Lonely Highway

A Love Story Part ll

posted September 19, 2011
by NMcCradie

I used to take old Los Angeles Times that did not sell to the recycling center every Friday for my boss so that we could keep the warehouse clear of the fire hazard stacked up newspapers could cause.  He gave me the money that hauling to the center would pay me for bringing them.  Sometimes it would be as low as seven dollars a ton.  Other times it could blow up as high as one hundred and twenty dollars a ton.  That was when it was lucrative enough to hire my son to help me so that he could have some spending money to get in trouble with.

My life was going so well.  Sean and I had separated from his father and I was finding it a challenge to live in my camper and pick up.  It did not mean that I was unhappy.  I was finding the lifestyle quite an adventure.  I was working along side some of the other homeless putting together a movement towards help and shelter for all of the City's homeless.  The Homeless People's Association was in full swing.  We had been given help by Don Olsen who worked for the City of Santa Barbara.  He had told me of different organizations that we could bring our agenda to and make our plea for a shelter other than jail for our City's homeless.

A media story about the "Car People" who were springing up all over the place brought Donald to us to teach us how to work up through the ranks to bring our story to the community and how this was the way to creat our movement.  The idea of protesting, civil disobedience, and other negative aspects of moving forward was obhorrent to me and it seemed much more important to use the method of education, friendship, and contacts to get our message across.  The homeless who were members of the HPA couldn't agree more and so we were all on the same page with these ideas.

Friday came and after dropping off Sean to school I went to the warehouse to load up my truck with the recyclables and headed to the recycling center.  This day was just a little different.  My friend who worked at the recycling center came up to me and handed me a piece of paper with a name and phone number.  He explained that the listed was nicknamed "Protest Bob" and that he wanted to know if I would call him and enlist him into the HPA.  I did not know this man yet just the name "Protest Bob" gave me the creeps and I knew that he was nobody that I wanted to contact.  Tossing the small piece of paper into the trash I went upon my merry way. 

 I had been contacted by a broker who wanted me to come into his office to talk to me about the possibilities of creating a 50 bed shelter and I was terribly excited to meet him.  He needed a tax write off and was willing to fund a whole year of shelter for 50 men who lived on the streets of Santa Barbara.  After discussing this we parted after my new friend and I set up another meeting in the near future.  I was to bring a member of the City staff or City Council to the meeting where collaboration could take place in partnership between him and the City.  Hardly able to contain my giddiness I drove to the Fig Tree to let the guys know about what I had learned.

We sat in a circle while I told of my new adventure.  Somebody asked what kind of broker he was.  I responded he was into first commodities and blue chip stocks.  When asked what that was I began to list first commodities as Gold, Silver, Wheat, "Sex" somebody piped into my list.  Confused I looked around not knowing where that came from....It was time to pick up my son from school.

A love story

posted September 15, 2011
by NMcCradie

I am sitting in the living room of the cabin up in Green Valley Lake listening to the quiet.  I am getting ready to go to Lake Arrowhead for a little bit of shopping.  But I want to submit this Prelim to the Blog before I do.  Bob is down the hill spending time with his doctors at the Loma Linda Veteran's Hospital.  They are worried about his blood pressure (he takes two different medications to lower it) and he is getting his hearing checked.  I guess we all worry about our spouses.  For I am somewhat worried about Bob at times.  I know that he worries about me.

I am remembering back into my childhood.  We traveled in the Summer months when my father, who was a music teacher, was able to take two or three weeks out of the summer when school was out to drive across the United States or go camping in the many National Parks this country has to offer the public.  On this trip I am remembering we were driving back to Santa Barbara from a visit with my grandmother and uncles in Bristol, Connecticut. 

 We were all traveling in a Volkswagon window van and it was pretty crowded with all seven of us.  You see I was the oldest of five children and at the time I was 15 and my little brother was less than a year old. We could hardly wait to get home.  Our favorite song was the English Ditty "I've Got a Sixpence." and we sang that many times as we drove down the road.  "As we go rolling, rolling, home."  One afternoon as we got closer to home I looked out the window and watched the shoulder of the road flash by.  Mesmorized by the ground I began to see footprints appear as we moved along.  Was that supposed to happen to me?  I jumped back from the window and shook myself.  "Mom!" I called out to her.  "When I grow up I am going to find a man who will walk across the country with me someday."  That's nice dear," she replied.....

I Believe in Santa Claus

posted September 13, 2011
by Courtney Caswell-Peyton

       It’s Christmas Eve and of course, I am excited!  Other than New Year’s Eve, it is my favorite night of the year because the hush that comes at nightfall has murmurs of excitement in it. So while there is the illusion of quiet, there is also the whispery chattering of anticipation. The black of night seems darker than any other night of the year and if there is snow, it always reflects brightly against the night so that Santa Claus can see where he needs to land his sleigh.
        “You are an adult,” people say to me. “Adults are too old to believe in Santa Claus.” And my mother might agree with you. But I still believe in Santa Claus!  
         Once everyone else was asleep, I had tried my best to fall asleep as well.  I have already been warned by Mom that no one else in the house intends to get up at between 5 and 6 a.m. to open gifts.  So I have to be patient.

        “You are getting older now, so we thought we’d celebrate by having a leisurely Christmas. Sleeping in…brunch….”  She makes no mention of presents.  I am nineteen at the time and I still care about presents.
 
        “What about the presents?”  I probe.

       “They’re going to be much lighter this year but there will be some.”

         I finally fall asleep despite my restless mind.  But I’m awakened by some sort of thud that sounded like someone has jumped on our house. 

         “If that’s Santa, we have no chimney. How will he get in?”  I think to myself.
  
       I look at the roof intently.  Someone’s definitely up there. Then I see  
 unexpected light that guides me into our living room.  
        “Is it the tree?  Maybe.  I should look.”
 
        I skulk out to our living room in nightclothes and I swear that I see a shadowy figure of a man putting a present under the tree.  (He sure looked like Santa Claus to me!)

       I wake up early (between 5 and 6 a.m.) with an urgent sense of eagerness. I tell no one what I saw.  Everyone else rises at 8 a.m. I go out to the tree with Mom.
 
     “Want to open some presents?”  she asks.

      “Sure!”  I say.

       Mom looks confused.  Very confused.

      “I didn’t buy that one, but let’s see what it is.”
 
      “Santa bought it,” I say.
 
      She rolls her eyes.  “You are far too old to believe in Santa Claus!”

      I disagree.


Courtney Caswell-Peyton is currently homeless in Santa Barbara. She is a prolific contributor to this site.
Photo of Courtney taken by Nick St. Oegger.

How Did I Get Here?

posted September 08, 2011
by Denise Gersh

Wow, how did I get here?  So many things… “Homeless.”  Just the word and then, of course, all it encompasses: the shame, the shock, and the terror. Those are just a few of my personal feelings.  Then how society views it: trash, dirty, drug addicted, alcoholic, crazy. The funny thing is, I used to think the same thing.  “Get a job,” I would say to them. And now I’m one of them.

My story started with the downward spiral of the economy.  In 2005, I put $150,000 in cash down on a 750 sq ft. condo in Goleta at the price of $400,000.  Having never bought a place that included a loan; I didn’t realize it was a bad loan.  I made my payments faithfully every month on time.  I wasn’t making the money I was used to making, so I got a second job.  I’d been employed at this one company for two years and when the business atmosphere started to change.  The CEO of the company, trying to stay a step ahead of it all, laid me off.  Being a receptionist, I was easily replaced by a phone on everyone’s desk. I had quit the part time job a few months previous because I was doing okay  . . . not dreaming I would lose my other job. My performance was not the issue.

I was raised to believe real estate was a wise investment.  But my investment wasn’t.  Right after I lost my job, the forecast for job hunting changed. There were no jobs. No jobs.  I went out everyday looking for either an office position or a waitressing job—my two main skills. I took in foreign exchange students.  I moved my bedroom into the living room and rented the only bedroom to 3 students. This made ends meet for a while, or until my unemployment ran out.  I continued to seriously look for but to no avail. I went to almost every restaurant on State Street. I actually got a little angry one night as a customer at a very popular downtown watering hole.  I was looking around noticing that none of the servers were more than 25-years-old and all looked the same---cute and size two. . I asked for the manager and pointed this out. When she was laughing it off I   there was a chance of me being hired there.  She point blank told me that I wouldn’t, I was too old, but I might have luck at the Elephant Bar because they hire older women.  I was completely blown away. 

I started to go a little crazy.  I knew my load was a balloon, due in five years, and that it also had arm, going from 6.5 to 10% within 4 months.  My mortgage was $1,800 a month, interest only. I became suicidal and self mutilating.   One day I was so flipped out, I chopped off all of my hair.  I had nowhere and no one to turn to.  I was cutting and burning myself . . . so scared of a future of the scariest unknown. 

During all of this I met a man. I guess being so alone I was vulnerable.  He was a drug dealer.  I had been around people like him before having grown up in Santa Barbara (this town is infested).  But I have always been dead set against drugs. I despise everything about them.  Yet I was desperate.  I asked him to help me.  I had never tried this particular or even seen it for that matter I left all the details to him, thinking I would be involved for a few months, keep the mortgage paid until I found a job.  But one of this man’s customers turned us in. All of eight days and we were in trouble . . . serious trouble.  There is no excuse for these behaviors but there is an explanation -- sheer and complete desperation.  Words can’t even describe it. .  There is no way to express the terror you feel when you’re about to lose everything. I resorted to desperate measures.   I was facing jail time.  Never having been in serious trouble before, it   was all too overwhelming.  But I still kept looking for a job!  But with this on my record it wasn’t good.  I ended up doing four months.  In the middle of all of this, I had entrusted a friend to take care of my place with a little money I had saved. I let him stay in my place rent-free to care for my cats and possessions.  I figured when foreclosure came I would have a friend who could place my cats and belongings with someone I trusted, and put the rest in storage.  Not so.  My very dear and costly antique furniture and audio video equipment was sold off to who knows who and my cats were gone.  I walked out of jail with the clothes on my back, no car and nowhere to go.  I was homeless.  I walked the streets bawling my eyes out not knowing where to go.  The people I thought were friends were not. They had a hand in taking my things.  I am now at the Casa Esperanza.  This is not a place you want to be.  I am trying to start my life over and it’s very overwhelming.  The pain is indescribable. I am alone and trying to sort it out.  I can only feel that this is a lesson that somehow I’m supposed to endure.  It is not easy.  My life is nothing like what I had known for 45 years.  I don’t know if I will ever recover from this experience, but I’m trying. 

This is my story.  I will be writing for the homeless. Now, having experienced both sides of the coin, I think I can speak for each side.  I look forward to making a difference in this small way as I see so much that needs to be done.  I thank you for your time and interest and look forward to your comments if you like responding 

 Denise Gersh

Houseless Information Team Narrows Focus, Renames to Houselessness Anti-Defamation League

posted September 07, 2011
by HANDEL

Press Release
September 7, 2011

The California Houselessness Information Team (CHIT) will be changing its name to the Houseless Anti-Defamation League. CHIT which will henceforth be known by the acronym HANDEL. The scope of operations will be constricted to specialize in tracking defamatory, derogatory, stereotyping and hateful speech by elected officials, candidates and other potential opinion leaders with respect to persons experiencing homelessness or utilizing non-traditional housing options.

A secondary mandate is to educate such persons and the media on the range of acceptable speech with regard to persons experiencing homeless, houseless or alternative habitat arrangement.

HANDEL will explicitly ally itself with residents and housing providers of mobile or modular homes, so called "trailers" and will explicity ally itself with institutions such as the ADL in combatting stereotypes that certain ethnic groups have disproportionate control over rental housing, mortgage finance and other real property markets.

HANDEL anticipates issuing a report prior to the next Santa Barbara city council election indicating which candidates may have made statements qualifying as hate speech. HANDEL maintains a robust capacity to take action including but not limited to litigation for civil damages. HANDEL's Director of Operations, Geof "White Antelope", is experienced with false light defamation and ordinary defamation litigation and California Civil Procedure and has extensive contacts with the legal community including the civil and criminal bar.

Attracting particular scrutiny are certain comments made recently, according to press accounts, by members or candidates for Santa Barbara City Council, including contentions that homeless people are "terrorizing" other citizens. HANDEL is in the process of verifying that statement, attributed to Councilperson Michael Self.

That statement is particularly disingenous in light of the following: there has never been single act of terrorism commit by any  homeless person or organization purporting to act on behalf of a homeless constituency. Moreover, since the last SCHAC meeting, a well known, non-violent homeless person suffering from chronic mental disease was beaten to death in a nearby California County. The perpetrators were sworn on-duty law enforcement officers. The matter has roiled that city's government, leading to a recall election; one of the ironies is that the victim's father was a retired police officer and the victim's grandfather had been a police officer. This shows that homelessness can hit any family, even one which is a pillar of civil government. However, it raises the question of exactly who is terrorizing whom.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
HANDEL is non-profit non-partisan, non-ideological and practices lawful non-violent process focusing on education.

Ketchup Time, Continued . . .

posted August 30, 2011
by Courtney Caswell-Peyton

Part Two:

Over the next several weeks, though Terry and Wendy might have thought evil thoughts about Beverly and Sarah, the joking subsided and there was little to no rattling of the window panes.  And it was during these weeks that Wendy thought it more appropriate to write down her angst than give voice to it so frequently. So she began to sit in front of her computer for longer periods of time  creating plots  for stories..  

She worked everyday for the better part of the day, and began to see promise in the way the pages were developing.  Pretty soon, she had written a few stories she was proud of.  So proud in fact, that she wanted to find ways to share her work with others on a semi-anonymous basis, maybe even post them where they could be read by someone in a position to purchase them for money.

 Once Wendy was sure she had four  solid stories, she began to look anywhere and everywhere for places they could be read  and critiqued. .  And, truth be told, Wendy discovered that writing the stories seemed to be much easier than getting  anyone to read  them. .  Finally, after  hours of intensive effort, she stumbled upon a site called e’rasewrite.com.  (Which she thought, if you read between the lines, you could take to mean actually erase what you write).  

“Not the best omen for a writer wanting to keep track of her masterpieces,”  thought Wendy.   But she tried to remain optimistic, as it was the only site  in a search of hundreds  that promised anything resembling money to writers for their postings. So Wendy posted her first two stories on e’rasewrite.com and waited.  Within a matter of days--though no checks seemed to be arriving as yet---her email in box was full of messages praising the stories and asking for more.

Wendy wasn’t sure she wanted to reveal personal contact information in case the demand for work got too high, but she pressed on. How could she not? .Her mind was brimming with ideas for stories, and perhaps this sudden burst of creative inspiration would yield a high personal and financial return? With over 200 messages received in two days, and with her finger firmly affixed to the delete key, she was reticent to delve deeper into the web site to complete a profile with a real  address and phone number. Email was one thing—it could be easily managed and ignored if necessary. But what if I provide my real phone number and  audience demand overwhelms the answering machine?  What then?”

Wendy knew the idea might seem far-fetched to  family and friends, but anything was possible. So she began to explore the different links on e’rasewrite.com out of  curiosity.  And when curiosity alone was no muse for her boredom, she began to view the entering of   personal information in to her profile on this web site as some sort of obligatory activity—like passing a test with flying colors would be if you were in school..

  Little by little, almost by reflex, she began divulging bits of information about herself.  A pang of nervousness overwhelmed her as she imagined  many more than 200 responders a day calling  and she began to envision what that might be like.

“Should I press return and let this page go live” she wondered?   “Or should I wait for the internet connection to go dead and only press enter once I know that I have lied about my most personal information?  ?” Wendy  wasn’t sure that she wanted to settle for honesty and so she held her breath and  pressed return.
 
Part Three:

Within hours, Wendy’s mother’s  office phone was lighting up like a Christmas tree and her email account contained a flurry of messages from  strangers with compliments requests.  

“God, and I’m a nobody.  I don’t even have a famous name as a writer yet,” thought  Wendy..

One stranger seemed particularly persistent and interested in her work.  He’d either hit the send tab too many times or sent 8 separate emails in fifteen minutes.  This eagerness intrigued Wendy, but when she clicked on the email handle to reply,, she was met only with connectionless, empty space.  Yet, she could read his comments clearly.

“I love piece #2.  Is it finished or will you expand it in the future?”  And, “With regard to piece #1, its length impresses me.  How much more work do you have?”

Wendy again tried and failed to respond to his message, and so settled for the explanation that fate was not aligned properly for a connection to happen Then her mom’s office phone lit up like a Christmas tree again and she saw no harm in answering it just this once.  She picked up the phone and waited expectantly for the person on the other end to speak. .  She tried hard not to breathe  into the phone, so as not to appear  eager,  nervous or too present. .  Then,  a happily colorful tone she  someone said, “Are you going to write any more stories?”  She wanted to respond  to  the  person on the other end, but couldn’t  think of an answer, so she hung up.

From that point forward, her Mom’s phone would again light up like a Christmas tree every few hours.  Only during this time, Wendy felt it best not to encourage the caller by answering.  So she flicked on the switch that saves the messages and left it at that. Time passed  and with no other money-making ventures at hand, and her mom too busy to be concerned with the hours  Wendy was spending in front of the computer, she just sat stumped and silent in the dark, waiting restlessly  for the words to come together on the page. When her inspiration was at a particularly low point, she  switched her attention back to the answering machine messages and whether or not the eager caller had again tried to connect with her.

Part Four:

But Wendy’s inspiration never lagged for long and pretty soon, she was firmly situated in front of her computer again, not only drafting but writing story after story after story  as visions of what her life would be like when they began selling like hotcakes.  Often she would momentarily divert her attention back the answering machine to see how much pestering was going on.  Sadly, while there were a few messages inquiring as to whether Wendy was still among the living,  calls from the mysterious and demanding stranger had tapered off and all that remained was a call from her mom suggesting they might go shopping.  

“Shopping would at least get me out of this crick,” Wendy thought to herself as she very gingerly straightened and stretched her body until she could feel her muscles again. .Wendy ignored her immediate impulse to RSVP to her mother about their impending excursion and returned  to the words that flashed before her on the screen.  

She sat stagnant and stunned for several minutes, but vowed that she would finish story number 6 before  throwing  in the towel for the day. For, surely without consistent quantity, her  readers would become bored and her dream of becoming a not only a working writer but an earning writer  would die an  untimely death. “The trick is to write something original every single day,” Wendy told herself.  “Only that will captivate my readers’ interest and assure my success.”

 So after several more hours in front of her computer manuscript #6 was finally penned and Wendy felt  a step closer to realizing the seemingly impossible dream of earning a living from writing.

Wendy logged into e’rasewrite.com with confident fingers and went about the business of posting her sixth impeccably rendered creation. She saved her file to her computer’s hard-drive and copied it, but upon entering it into e’rasewrite.com’s site  and pressing the enter key, her sixth stellar achievement stayed still instead of flowing onto the webpage.  In fact, it and froze both the site and her computer. As hard as she tried to position the cursor’s arrow onto the send box and press it  onward both in action and in thought, stellar six sat stagnant.  Ever optimistic, Wendy wondered if  there was some  server lag time  and within several minutes, her repeated adamant pressing of the send icon  revealed itself visually and whisked  stellar six off to the expectant eyes of e’rasewrite.com.  

But that’s not what happened at all.  Indeed, there was some sort of server lag, but when the site’s became unfrozen, Wendy’s
 adamant pressing of the enter button had transformed  both the words of stellar six and the words on e’rasewrite.com’s web site to a blur of zebra stripes  dancing  around like  confetti in a kaleidoscope.  Then the computer started beeping, the screen turned  white and  gave way to a link on her e-rasewrite.com posting page that held  all of her stories.  For a split second, the uploaded files containing her cherished stories appeared intact.  But within seconds, with Wendy watching helplessly, each carefully crafted file vanished. .  Wendy did not know enough about  file recovery to beat the  ominous deleting at its  own game, but she did know enough  to be able to email e’rasewrite’s Customer Support Department.  

She clicked link after link until she found the right email.  “For comments, questions, or concerns, please email rightwrites@e’rasewrite.com the top of the  read.  So Wendy entered her first and last name,  email address and a short phrase about her problem. .  Then in the largest box that filled up almost the rest of the whole page she wrote:
“Why does it look as though e’rasewrite.com has deleted all of my stories?   Are you or are you not a web site that pays small dividends to writers who post on your site?Please provide some feedback on your deletion (or my writing if you prefer).
Your hardest working writer,
Wendy

                                 To be Continued

Courtney Caswell-Peyton is homeless in Santa Barbara.
 


 

ON TOP OF THE WORLD

posted August 27, 2011
by spirit moon

WHEN I WAS 5, I HAD A DREAM. 35 YEARS LATER MY DREAMS ARE COMIMNG TRUE. THERE'S ALOT TO LEARN AS I GO. BUT AT LEAST I FINAILY GOT THERE. HERE, WHERE IM SUPPOSED TO BE. YOU MAY ASK YOUR SELVES,WHAT TOOK ME SO LONG? THOSES OF YOU, WHO DON'T KNOW! WELL, I WAS A GIRL INTERUPTED!!!!!!             AND NOW, IM FOCUSED ON: ME, ME, ME. AND AS I HELP MY SELF, I CAN HELP YOU. HERE'S THE CATCH. DO YOU REALLY WANT THE HELP, OR ARE YOU JUST WASTING, MY TIME. I HAVE A TIME BANK. PLEASE MAKE A APPOINTMENT. PLEASE AND THANK YOU. WHEN IM OFF THE CLOCK. THIS IS THE BEST I CAN DO, FOR THOSE WHO CHOSE NEGITIVES OVER POSITIVES. THANK YOU, SPIRIT MOON

Protected Class

posted August 21, 2011
by NMcCradie

 I do not know if this is proper for this blog but did want to share this photo which was taken at the Hank Show at Pershing Park this morning.  People are extremely upset with the passing of "Old Joe"  after being tasered by the Police department.  We all thought that it was time to start a campaign to protect the homeless from bashing, any hate crimes etc. 

Ketchup Time, Part One

posted August 10, 2011
by Courtney Caswell-Peyton

                     (Part One)
    Wendy always joked with her mother that no one she knew  spoke  English properly. They spent hours laughing as they thought of the many words, phrases and sentences that every one of their acquaintances and friends misused. With the TV as background noise, one of them (either Wendy, or her mother) would look dramatically into the air at nothing in particular as one or the both of them would  blurt out a word or phrase that cracked them up  from its mispronunciation.  
    “I need driven,” Wendy blurted out loudly.
Her mother, whose name was Terry, stifled her inquiry as to where her daughter had heard that usage, and snorted out a trail of  laughter despite herself.      Wendy, knowing full well that she sounded like one of those Midwestern hicks that she had  warned her mother she might become when she returned from her first semester of college, then felt obligated to respond with an off word or phrase to keep the gleeful domino going.  
    “O-B-K-B,” she said in a slurred, dunce-like tone.  
    More laughter echoed through Terry’s sparsely decorated apartment.  Then she shot her daughter a glance that Wendy understood to mean their joking had gone too far—at least for today.  
    On more stoic days, when Wendy actually gave some serious thought to what she might like to do when she grew up, she vowed to become a serious writer and copy editor so that she could publish books that were devoid of linguistic errors. But up to this point in her life, she still felt young and nestled safely in her mother’s financial wings rather than on her own. So the concept of growing up and quitting the joking completely did not yet appeal to her. She did not know any other writers personally. She had no idea if she even had the creativity and stamina to sit in front of her computer long enough to come up with original story ideas. And she had no idea whether or not a writer’s salary was  respectable enough  to constitute a “real” job. So there was absolutely no hurry to squelch the unceasing chortling—at least not today.
     Except that there should have been. Unbeknownst to either Wendy or Terry, their next door neighbor Beverly Littleton (who coincidentally hailed from Southern Ohio) had been insulted for years by the two sarcastic women degrading her poor speech. Beverly had endured the caustic stings  from the  comments delivered at booming volumes that were  more easily heard than either Terry or Wendy realized through the open windows. But for years, Beverly had been stuffing her anger and resentment, afraid that sticking up for herself would expose her as a habitual eavesdropper. So she suffered in silent, paralyzed shock as the walls rattled from the bitingly sarcastic laughter.
    Beverly made a pact with herself that Wendy and Terry were safe from a tongue-lashing as long as the rattling glass didn’t break. But if even crack appeared in the panes,  Beverly promised herself that she would go next door and let them  have it. Luckily for Wendy and Terry, while the rattling was more than a regular occurrence, nothing had been broken besides Beverly’s spirit.  
    Then one day, the fragile panes that divided a broken spirit from a dead one shattered completely. Wendy met Beverly’s not-often-visiting daughter, Sarah, outside the condominium complex and struck up a conversation.  
    “Hey!”  Wendy said weakly as her mother’s open door to the outside revealed Sarah standing there.
    “Heya!”  Sarah replied in mutual greeting, small talk fashion.
    “It’s hey, not hey-a,” thought Wendy, “but let it slide, let it slide,  unless she says something else off-color.”
    “How’s your Mom,” Wendy inquired  politely though in reality her interest in Sarah’s mother was somewhere between minimal and non-existent.  
    “Her’s fine,” Sarah drawled in Midwestern hick. “Yours?”
    “Well, she’s well,” said Wendy with emphasis, hoping that her firmness would prevent  Sarah from making another mistake.
    “So, what’s going on in your neck of the woods?”  Sarah inquired casually.
    “I’m not the one that lives in the woods. I live in a house—you’re the idiot that lives in the woods,” Wendy thought with a bullying meanness..  
    “I don‘t live in the woods,” Wendy said to Sarah.
    Then Sarah, with a delayed reaction because she didn’t realize she was being picked on and was trying to stay light and cordial with the veritable stranger in front of her, said:
    “I know that, silly,” she said, and the twang was enough to make Wendy cringe. But she responded with an aloofness that this overly friendly twanger seemed unwilling to pick up on.  
    “Well…”  Wendy paused for a moment, focusing on how to make her tone sound diplomatic and not as uppity as she felt.  
    “If you must know, it’s Mom‘s and my weekly barbecue day.”
    “Oh, that’s so nice,” Sarah chimed in almost on top of the long a in day, and then continued in a southern hick smothering fashion, seemingly unaware of Wendy’s subtle tone of rejection.  
    “Mama and I do that sometimes.  How ‘bout I git some tater salad and have it brung over later?”
    This time Wendy had had it with this stranger’s ignorance and made no attempt to soften the bitterness of her displeasure.  “It’s MOM,” Wendy spat out with hostility while clenching her teeth. “And if you MUST know, there is no such thing as tater salad, and brung is not a word. Don ‘t you know that,”  Wendy snapped..  
    “Sure, hon.”
    There was a pause as Sarah hung her head dejectedly and spoke again in ill-confidence and the sudden realization that she was the target of  an     undisguised venom that lay dormant in Wendy.  
    “Sure I do.  But you know us Southerners.”
Sarah tried to up-inflect the end of her sentence to make light of the rejection that had hit her like a ton of bricks and to sound more positive than her sinking heart was making her feel. Much in the vein of an intellectual battering ram, Wendy ignored Sarah’s demeanor and continued.  
    “Mom,” Wendy punctuated, “not mama and I like to eat alone on barbecue days.”  
    “I just thought that we might like to get to know each other since we’re around the same age and there’s not too many of us in the division, is all.”
    “It’s a complex ,” Wendy thought angrily to herself as she sported a beaming smile on the outside.
    “Well, you thought wrong,” Wendy sputtered.
    “All right, hon.”
Sarah sheepishly asserted her power at having the last word and gave up.  
     A few days later, Beverly thought it was time to address Terry and Wendy’s endless chiding of her culture and inflection so she knocked on     Terry’s  door, rapping her fisted knuckles boldly, hoping to rattle her as much as she had been rattled by the occupants.  
    On the other side of the door, Terry’s expression changed as she processed that the volume of the rapping was an unmistakable indicator of a confrontation waiting to happen. She paused before walking to the door, but moved slower and slower with each step as she took in that the knocker was far from a happy camper. Terry keeled ever so briefly and then managed to drag her entire body toward the door clumsily, reach for the handle and open her home to the stranger on the other side.  
    “Terry?”  Beverly questioned.
    “Yes?”  Terry replied.
    “Your daughter hurt my daughter’s feelings and I want to know why.”
    “I can’t answer that, Beverly.  I have no idea what happened between the girls. As far as I know they barely know each other.”
    “Well. Your daughter would certainly like that if that were the case,” Beverly retorted sharply.  
    “I’m sorry. I had no idea that there were problems.”
    “I bet you didn’t,” Beverly countered in utter disbelief.
    Then, giving Terry no time to react, Beverly lunged over the threshold and let her have it—literally. Beverly socked Terry one right in the nose, so that, even if for a pulsating minute or two, Terry might feel a portion of the pain Beverly had felt in all the years she and her daughter’s mocking laughter vibrated down to her very core.
    “Ketchup later,” Beverly said as she stared down for only a millisecond at the wounded Terry and turned her back to exit. Terry thought  she had heard something about ketchup—like the food.  But then realized it was more logical that she meant to say “catch up” later and that it had just come out wrong—like every other word from Sarah that had led up to Wendy’s and Sarah’s fierce fighting in the first place.

To be continued . . .


Despite being homeless and living in a shelter, Courtney Caswell-Peyton is a prolific writer. She won second prize in this blog's 2011 writing contest.

Who's On Third?

posted August 03, 2011
by Hulse, L.E.

By L.E. Hulse

    When someone with very little or no experience goes to work at a homeless shelter, you would assume that they would be ready to learn a thing or two about the people who stay there. And you would think that over time, management would know how to pick the right people for the job and provide them with the kind of training they need. But often, that is not the case. It must be said that there are a lot of people who work at homeless shelters that do an outstanding job. But it just takes one idiot with a little authority to turn the place into a three-ring circus.
    To begin with, the homeless population is probably more diverse that most people think and when you bring everyone together into one place like a shelter does, you can count on a lot of confusion. If the people in charge know what they’re doing, a lot of that confusion can be eliminated and the people who stay there can get on with their lives. But if the policies that are in place are not in line with the real world or if management is out to lunch, the staff will be forced to take matters into their own hands and that can be a recipe for disaster. It will only be a matter of time before a self appointed expert arrives on the scene ready to take charge and save all of the poor homeless people from themselves. This is when you prepare for what might be your worst nightmare.
    Anarchy may have a place somewhere in society but it will never work in a homeless shelter. The chronic homeless already have their own brand of anarchy and they certainly don’t need someone with a major character disorder telling them what they can and can’t do.
    After everything has been said and debated about homeless shelters, it would be my guess that the majority will continue to be self-serving until they are held accountable by the people who use them and that could be forever. After all, when you’re staying at The Last Chance Hotel, you’re going to think twice before you start any trouble. The homeless need to understand that they have certain rights and responsibilities and that they are a lot more than just a number that the shelters can take to the bank. Most homeless shelters depend on private and government money to exist and that money is made available to them on behalf of the homeless. If there is a problem that can’t be worked out, don’t hesitate to take it to the top. A well-written letter to the board of directors can sometimes make a world of difference. The staff and management may have a job to do but you’re not there to deal with their incompetence.

L.E. Hulse is currently homeless in Santa Barbara. He does not stay in a shelter.
   

     
 

Black

posted July 24, 2011
by Debi Mills

By Debi Mills

Deep,
Exquisite,
Sorrowful,
Grieve.

Love night,
Love dark,
Love thought,
Mean.

Please!

Black doesn’t,
It isn’t. . . mean. 
Grieve . . . said.

I can be very,
Very,
Black.

Debi Mills wrote this poem after finding out the van she lives in was towed.

Sisters In Homelessness

posted July 21, 2011
by Carol Damon

We Don't Fit In
By Carol Damon 
     Being homeless is not what everyone out there thinks it is. Anyone can end up homeless in the time it takes to miss two paychecks.
     It’s hard for the homeless, myself included, to get jobs because of the address we use on the application. There are a lot of pre-conceived notions as to how someone “home challenged” will act in a job situation. The first thought is, ‘This person will not show up on time, and if they do, they will not be prepared to perform job as required.’  For the most part this is wrong. Most people in this situation are educated and willing to do whatever job they’re given. . When we are able to get a job, we’re grateful someone has chosen to trust us   to do the job. We therefore do the job to the best of our ability.
     Throughout the homeless community, we are all left to wonder, how can we prove ourselves if no one will give us the opportunity? Instead of giving out tickets and putting the homeless in jail, find a way to put the homeless to work and let them be productive. It’s the only way to lessen the blight of homelessness in this and every other city in the country.  The Bible says, "Give a man a fish and he eats for one day, teach a man to fish and he eats everyday". This is so true, yet it seems the homeless are the only ones who understand it. . Have some heart Santa Barbara. Give us a chance and we’ll show you what we can do.
 
 
Sisters in Homelessness
    What follows is a plan and a plea from   a group of women who are bonded together sisters a state of homelessness and who want to   create a shelter just for women.  Please read on.
 
The Goal:
     To help women who sleep outside or walk the streets of Santa Barbara all night, every night. We are trying to do this on our own, and not wait for city and community leaders to tell us  "It has to be done this way or no way"
 
The Plan:
     We want to create a home-like environment where women on the streets can come   and rest at night, whether it’s to find a mat on the floor to spend the whole night or just to warm up and have a cup of coffee. I want to have food available, healthy food. I want to have clothing available  . . . from socks and underwear to warm jackets and sleeping bags. A place with beds, even if they’re just mats on the floor. We are trying to get donations so we can fund this new creation into the here and now, as well as into the future so no woman in Santa Barbara has to walk the streets all night just so they don't get a ticket they can't pay or end up in jail because they have warrants for tickets they can't pay for.
     Because of the way local shelters work in the non-winter months (December 1 to April 1) a lot of homeless women spend eight months of every year outside because they are unable to meet the requirements of the various shelters. . One shelter in Santa Barbara charges resident’s two thirds of their income--one part to be saved and the other part for rent during these months to stay in the facility. If they have no income, then it’s very hard to get in unless the ladies have severe medical or mental problems. This leaves a vast majority of women in this city excluded from a housing source. Another shelter has the ability to house 49 women, but it only use about half those beds during the spring and summer months. They have 150 beds for men, yet men are better able to take care of themselves on the streets then women. Another shelter in Santa Barbara will house women ten days a month, after which extended stays require approval from a manager.
     The facility I want to start will exclude the very intoxicated and those who want to cause disruptions. If a woman from the streets can come in and be civil, and peaceful we will allow her to come in and rest, and of course, get every kind of help we can offer.
     We also want to have a small program for married couples on a limited basis. Our main goal is to help women on the streets get off the streets and be safe and warm without harassment from law enforcement or interference from other street dangers.
     So Santa Barbara, we are counting on your good grace as a wonderful city with compassionate people to help this plan come into reality.
    Please Help Us, so we can help them.
 
Thank you,
 
Carol Damon
Sister in Homelessness

Carol is currently homeless in Santa Barbara. Her photo was taken by Paul Wellman.
 

Proclaimation for Dr. Hank Drost

posted July 18, 2011
by NMcCradie

Proclamation for Dr. Hank Drost

Posted By Nancy McCradie

In my story about Hank Drost, “Jesus is His Boss,” I mention a woman who read a letter to The Santa Barbara City Council the Tuesday before he was meant to be arrested, back in the late 1980s. Since we are still friends, I asked Susan Cobb to send me a copy of the letter. I submitted it to the blog so members of the community will know how powerful we can be when we actually fight for civil rights of the people we love. I truly believe Susan’s letter helped keep the City and the police at bay and the arrest of Hank retracted.

 "Hank"

We'd like to proclaim this Sunday, the 12th of February, Hank Drost Day and invite you all to come to Plaza Del Mar and meet this man. Your decisions regarding him have so much power to affect his life and the lives of others, and we believe you deserve to come and see for yourself what happens at the Hank Show.

Proclamation:

Members of the community of Santa Barbara issue this Proclamation in recognition of Dr. Hank Drost for his many hours of volunteer service to the community and for all the good deeds he has bestowed upon the poor and needy.  His selfless devotion and great generosity have gone unrecognized but his faithfulness is truly an inspiration to all Americans who can learn from this man the value of just one individual's ability to make a difference in the lives of others.  He has done this through the simplicity of giving whatever resources were available to him and from his hand he has shared them with others.

We, the people who have benefited the most, thank you Dr. Drost for the food when we are hungry, the clothes and blankets when we are cold, and for the opportunity to meet together with one another in a spirit of freedom and acceptance. You give us a moment to gather strength for the week ahead when so many of us know we might face the week alone, friendless, and afraid. You ask nothing in return, and so we give you grace as we listen to you share your heart all of these many years. The words of Hank cause us to smile in benevolent affection for the man we have come to know so well and love. We only seem to be able to hear the words that Christ speaks through you.  And Hank, we see through everything, and what we see is your boss, Jesus.

Susan Dunn Cobb

 


 

Jesus is Hank's Boss

posted July 18, 2011
by NMcCradie

By Nancy McCradie
Every Sunday for the last 30 years, a feisty dedicated man goes to Pershing Park to preach the Word and feed the people who live on the streets of Santa Barbara. It hasn't always been easy for him to do this, but he persists, not missing a single Sunday in all these years. This little man, this unassuming insurance agent named Hank Drost, knows Jesus is his boss and sports a cap that says as much just to be sure there are no misunderstandings. Drost does what he does because of his devotion to the Lord and out of his very own pocket. The people who attend his little outdoor church each Sunday affectionately call him and his entourage of volunteers, "The Hank Show."

I was lucky enough to know Hank before he began his weekly mission to the homeless. In was back in the late 70's when I was married to a pilot named Ross who specialized in light aircraft at the time. He had a multi-engine rating and was well versed in radio navigation. Drost hired my former husband to fly him to Las Vegas on occasion. My husband and I would be sitting in the downtown Carrows--a daily occurrence for us—when this whirlwind of a man, who turned out to be Hank, would run into the restaurant and ask Ross to take him to Sin City for a day or two. Ross agreed and would fly Hank to Las Vegas, wait around for him to conduct his business, perhaps gamble a little, and ultimately drink himself senseless. Ross liked to tell the story of having to go into the Casino, bundle Hank up and toss him into the airplane just to get him back to Santa Barbara safely and on time.

Whatever kind of a miracle occurred to allow Hank to reach the State of Sobriety was wonderful because he’s been sober a long time now. I do know one motivation is his mission on Sundays, the day of the week he gives himself to others. During workweek, he helps people too, finds them insurance they can afford, and helps families and individuals with this or that need.

Hank Drost has no enemies in the Street Congregation. The members of his informal congregation help unload his van at the beginning of the service, and by running errands and serving the sandwiches, soup and drinks he brings. At the end of the service, his congregants pick up trash, put the donated clothes away that Hank has brought and load up his van. When Hank leaves the park for the day, it’s as if he was never there. Some of the guests leave when it’s all over, some stay to soak up the peaceful vibes the at the park.  

But I remember a time when the Hank show almost went away. It was in the 1980s when the City Council fell into under the sway of the West Beach Motel Owners Association. Members of this association were holding meetings on the subject of the Hank Show, brainstorming ways to shut it down. Ultimately, the city jumped into the fray and Hank was soon notified that he had a month to stop his preach-feeds and if he continued beyond that time, he would be arrested. There was so much anger coming from the community towards the homeless, trying to blame them for all the evils in the world.

The week before his deadline, Hank preached one of his best sermons.  Taking the microphone in his hand, he bellowed out that the City of Santa Barbara could not stop him from doing the job God gave him to do.  "Jesus is my boss," he screamed, "not the City of Santa Barbara. Nothing can stop me from doing the Lord's work. I will be here next week and if the police come to take me away, the City will be in for an awful ride because God tells me he will send an earthquake measuring 9.2 on the Richter scale and that could well destroy Santa Barbara."  Ah Yes! Hank Drost is definitely a feisty man.

It was going to be up to members of the homeless community to keep Hank from being arrested. A few of us got together to give each other jobs. Bob led a sign making committee. Susan wrote a plea to the Santa Barbara City Council and read it to them the week before the appointed Sunday, at their regular Tuesday meeting. (There was not a dry eye in the house when she finished.)  Ken was able to get into the Motel Owners Association meeting the Wednesday before the Sunday Hank was supposed to be arrested. He actually was given permission to videotape the meeting. Had the members of that meeting known that Ken, during the editing process, would super-impose Adolph Hitler's face upon their pack leader's countenance, they would not have been too happy. My job was to surround the arrest site with plenty of media. It was time to get to the phone. I was not surprised at their response. They loved the storyline. After the phone calls were finished, Susan and I went down to the toy stores and bought up all their toy handcuffs.  We were planning on handcuffing ourselves to Hank and getting arrested with him when the coppers came to do the deed.  Ah! But we were good at organizing over-night, getting ready to do battle for Hank Drost.

Show time was everyone's concern in the week leading up to that Sunday. We could barely contain our excitement. Sunday was upon us and so were the police. It was interesting to note they kept themselves on the outskirts of the park. Of course, I knew in a flash it was the media with their cameras, notebooks and tape recorders. Handcuffs dangling from our rear pockets attracted reporters to a young woman with a child in her arms. She was asked why the handcuffs and responded with: "Why would the City of Santa Barbara want to arrest a man of God?"

West Beach Motel Owners Association backed off realizing that they had opened a can of worms that now needed to be quelled and forgotten.

Last weekend, Bob Hansen (my current husband) and I went to the "Hank Show".  We hadn't seen Hank in a long time. Recognizing me right away, he said the City of Santa Barbara is listening to the people who say that feeding the homeless keeps them in a state of homelessness. Hank fears that he will be told to cease and desist again. He brings up the Richter number 9.2 phenomena and tells me Santa Barbara could get destroyed if he is arrested in the future. I walk away sadly. Are we actually going to take this man's life from him?

 Think it over folks.

 
Nancy McCradie is a longtime homeless activist in Santa Barbara. She founded the organization Homes on Wheels and is a Co-Founder of the Homeless Coalition. She is married to "Protest" Bob Hansen, who is also a longtime homeless activist here.
 

An Alternative View

posted July 14, 2011
by Randy Laguna

    What alternative are you faced with when your life on the streets keeps you comfortable? When given nothing to do will lead to you doing just that . . . nothing.
    We need jostling around by men in Black Suits to enlighten us. Lines to form for services, for we cannot feed ourselves. Band-aids on our Boo-Boos. Children of God revisited, regressing back to nature and along with comes nature’s call and where do we go? There is no alternative.  When you’ve got no pot to piss in, you can piss your pants. And viewing us has its problems on both sides of the coin. Someone’s gonna’ get offended. Just don’t look won’t work.
    Thinking about this will stimulate any one that goes out in public with persons unknown walking around . . No place to wash, wee or work.
   You have no alternative once you’ve heard this.

    Randy Laguna.

Mr. Laguna--which is not his real name--has been homeless here, and in other California cities, for years. He currently lives in his car.

On My Way Home

posted July 09, 2011
by Hulse, L.E.

By L.E. Hulse

    I lost my only knife. A cheap imitation of a more poplar brand at best but it was solid and ready for action. A buddy gave it to me about two years ago and it had just about everything that a poor homeless guy might need except a key to the city jail. But the right person with a lot of time and a good imagination could get lucky. It was the perfect gift and over time, I managed to become something of a master hobo mechanic, fixing everything from throwaway tents to secondhand backpacks. And I discovered that it could also be a good form of therapy. As my skills improved I began to feel more and more like a real human once again. But for now, or until I can find a replacement, I’ve been reduced back down to just another homeless bum kicking down the sidewalk. Oh well, such is life. One day, you’re standing tall and the next you’re down on your hands and knees digging through your backpack looking for anything that might open a can of pork and beans.

    Speaking of gifts, someone I know who was leaving town walked up and handed me a monthly bus pass. It was good for another twenty days and I was very grateful indeed. Later on, it occurred to me that if you ever want to help someone that is homeless, a bus pass might just be the ticket in more ways that one. Lack of transportation can be a real problem and a bus pass can make a big difference.

    Of course, there is always that chance that they will sell it and use the money to purchase drugs and alcohol, but that’s not entirely a bad thing. The bus pass will probably go to another homeless person at a reduced price and there is a good chance they will make full use of it. It is not the perfect solution but it’s one where you can give someone a ride who is having a hard time getting around.

    When is this county going to make it legal for restaurants to take Food Stamps? Someone told me that they do it that way in San Francisco and it makes a lot of sense. Not that San Francisco always makes a lot of sense but this is right on target. It would provide people with a lot more choices and how can you go wrong when you can get a breakfast for two dollars? For those of us that are homeless and not entirely anti-social, it’s kind of nice to be among the general population. Regardless of what someone might say I don’t think that the homeless are going to move in and take over anytime soon when you have a thirty minute time limit and security guards to enforce it. So, I say, let them eat cake inside where it’s warm and dry. The time has come to throw down your backpack and relax. Open up the doors and let the revolution begin.

L. E. Hulse is currently homeless in Santa Barbara. Read his other submissions on this site by clicking "read more" at the bottom of the page.



   

It's Easy To FInd Yourself on the Road to Homelessness

posted June 30, 2011
by Joshua Hall, MS

    Wrestling within a troubled dream as I slept on the sidewalk, an old woman with a face I know like my own walked up to the corner of my makeshift bed.       She bent down real slow. A fearful and unbearable pressure paralyzed my heart. She said,
      “Son what are you doing here, my fear for you has turned me in my grave.”
       I said, “Mom I come to the beaches of the rich, myself to sell.

She said, “son on your journey across your life you have strayed onto the path to hell!

     In the shocking flash of the policeman’s light she was gone.
     
     I stood silent feeling like I had my head in a noose as I caught myself sizing him up and shifting to an advantageous fighting position.  Any minute now I was expecting all hell to break loose. 

“So why are you homeless,” asked the police officer. 

    Many people feel that homeless people are entirely to blame for their own miserable situation. Those same people tend to believe that under no circumstance could they find themselves homeless because they feel they are better than "those people" who have become homeless. In reality, people from all walks of life can become homeless and almost no one is immune from the possibility. 

I want to present a few reasons people become homeless, reasons often beyond their control or ability to deal with.
    

Most people are homeless due to circumstances that have overwhelmed them, combined with the lack of a family support structure. Others, particularly teens, become homeless due to an actively hostile, perhaps even hazardous, abusive or non-supportive family environment. Average people without a good friend and family support structure can be overwhelmed by events such as domestic abuse, divorce, unemployment, or illness and become homeless as well.

Many homeless people work. However, the minimum wage is often not up to the task of supporting a family. 

In many areas, working full time for minimum wage does not earn enough to pay rent, utilities and food. While people can combine incomes to rent an apartment, they often run into snags such as discovering that the number of working adults required to cover rent and bills combined with their minor children will exceed the number of occupants allowed by their lease.
     Additionally, many apartment complexes run credit checks which can prevent people with poor credit from renting; things like unpaid medical bills can prevent working people from finding a place to rent.

Some homeless people are on the streets due to injury or illness. Many of these folks had jobs and health insurance but through the course of their medical problems, both were lost. Many people don't realize that even "good" medical insurance is not a guarantee of medical care. They are then devastated to find out that their insurance will not cover their medical expenses or treatment. They are also shocked when they lose their health insurance due to illness or injury.

Hospitalization quickly consumes savings and too many absences from work due to injury or illness will result in the loss of a job. Once a person has a significant gap in his or her employment history and a bad credit score due to unpaid bills, it becomes much more difficult for him or her to get a job even when completely recovered.

People in all stages of recovery from illness or injury become homeless. Some never get well due to lack of treatment and are too ill to hold down a job. Others get well but get pulled down by their medical debt and illness or injury-related job loss. And increasingly, medical bankruptcy can result in homelessness.

      The President’s health care bill that passed isn’t going to be a solution. Medical bills are currently the leading cause of bankruptcy in America, and by a large margin. Surprisingly, over half of those claiming medical bankruptcy either have or had health insurance at the time their debt was incurred.

Becoming homeless is easier than ever in our current economy.

The reasons people become homeless are often quite easy to see, but less obvious are the things that trap people in homelessness once they’re there. Even if the root cause of a person's homelessness is remedied, that person will sometimes remain homeless.

An unemployed person might find a job; an addict might kick the habit; a disabled person might qualify for Social Security Disability, or a mentally ill person might get treatment yet still remain homeless. 

Homelessness often worsens mental illnesses to the point that formerly functional people become severely mentally ill. Many homeless people who start out mentally sound develop PTSD or other mental illnesses as a result of physical assaults, sexual assaults, sleep deprivation, and exposure to trauma while being homeless.

     Some types of mental illness prevent a person from being employed or in some cases prevent a person from being able to care for himself or even unable to seek help from others.

Some homeless people gain a disability from severe injuries that they cannot get proper treatment for. Assault is often a cause of injury. Head injuries due to beatings are very common among people experiencing homelessness. Exposure to the elements can also cause injuries such as frostbite, which, if left untreated, can lead to the loss of digits, dexterity, or mobility. 


     Once a homeless person becomes disabled, getting out of homelessness become extremely difficult. 

Many people experiencing homelessness have an inability to work due to physical or mental disability. Some are so mentally ill that they are not even able to apply for what meager assistance is available to select individuals. Additionally, the Social Security Disability application process is not easy to navigate even if one is emotionally and mentally stable. Without a stable phone number and address, it might be impossible.

Additionally, the process of applying for Disability is lengthy. The first rejection usually takes about six months and appeals can take an entire year. Over two thirds of disabled people who apply for Social Security Disability (and eventually qualify) are rejected the first time they apply. Also, most people wait to apply until they are out of money and have been disabled for some time so they don't have enough savings to support themselves for the typical one to three year wait for approval.

     Once a person becomes homeless, he or she can have a difficult time jumping through the bureaucratic hoops; they can't be available to wait for a call; don't have a dependable address to receive appointment letters mailed out to them by agencies. And when SSA makes an appointment for them a hundred miles away, getting there is another hurdle. People who are already homeless who then become disabled are in an even worse situation.


     In 1851, President Lincoln wrote that it is the role of government to care for those who cannot care for themselves or who are not so good of the task.

You can say what you want about this country, and I love this place, but I loved it when it didn't take a disaster to get us to care for each other.
 I love the fact that we are on camera from every angle all the time. 
Say what you want but we got some dumb politicians and newscasters floating around this country. 

     Holy jumping snake-oil, dumb as a coat of drying paint. Now this obviously doesn't include my reading audience. I am not just ranting and raving I actually have some evidence to support my claim. Take Politicians for instance. Although their level of insincerity is astonishing, I repeat some of the statements I have heard about the debt and economy. 

 They speak with great caution because they must take great care not to say anything.
     “As I indicated yesterday and as the president indicated to me...” (Some times they suggest.) 

    “Let me suggest that as I indicated yesterday, I haven’t determined that yet. (They don't decide they determine. If it is a really serious matter they make a judgment.)

    ”I haven't made a judgment on that yet but when the hearings are concluded I will make a determination as to what judgment I will make and advise you. 
(They don't tell you they advise you. Or they propose an initiative. An initiative is an idea that isn't going anywhere.)

    “When the Senator responds (they don't answer they respond) to my initiative, we will move the process forward in a bi-partisan way to address this challenge. “ 

     In  California,  moving the process forward is to take $15.00 from the checks of the very homeless and elderly who can least afford it. While the insurance and pensions of the public and government workers that put California in debt remain intact.

 Folks, Let me tell you first, We have strayed onto the path to hell.

Joshua Hall currently lives in Colorado, in a home, but he was homeless in Santa Barbara at one time.

Post Santa Barbara

posted June 17, 2011
by houseofhealing

 I was on the streets in Santa Barbara from 1997-2006.  The last time I was there Sheriff Brown and I had a talk in front of the movie theater on State Street just before he was to go in for a movie premiere that was raising money for the homeless. After talking to me, (I had been drinking) Sheriff Brown invited me in for the purpose of being part of a panel of homeless advocates that would speak about the issues of the homeless, just before the movie was to begin. I accepted and sat right next to John Jameson, and Ronny Maxwell, both of whom I know well. Ronny taught me survival skills of living on the streets; John was the first to give me a room at the Faulding.
     I did not speak that night because Chief Sanchez was not in attendance and It was his officers I had watched, and dealt with relating to the efforts of some in Santa Barbara to eliminate the homeless through harassment and straight up brutality. Anyway, I walked out of theater in disgust and left Santa Barbara 3-days later, I have not been back since.
    Which brings me to the reason for this contact. First, I knew Greg Devoy well. I considered him my friend, and to hear of his passing reminds me of all those who were my brothers and sisters in a family nobody could understand unless the slept with and ate with them on the streets. Anyway, I have recently began trying to apply new tools I received during my latest incarceration, tools I have never received in the past. I have learned that the first step to beginning to build a new foundation is responsibility. I have stepped out with faith in the belief that I can live right through learning the rules, then doing the rules.
    Let me give a little background to my connection with the city of Santa Barbara. First off, in the summer of 1997 I was released from the Santa Barbara County Jail after a short time. Five months prior to serving time there I was married, had a daughter and a son and a well-paying job. I always had problems growing up with maintaining the "social" life on society’s terms. Well I got drunk again and ended up on a binge that caused my wife to divorce me, and I ended up dealing with the courts in Santa Barbara because I drove off drunk with the auto of the person who had kidnapped me in 1973 from Mass, and brought me to Santa Barbara. I don’t understand why I went from Mass to Santa Barbara while I had a life. I am an alcoholic with mental issues I have been able to manage now but couldn’t then. I guess that could be the reason. Now I was living in Massauchuetts my whole life until the summer of 1997. So I’m released from Santa Barbara county jail with three years probation, my wife was through with me. I had no money, no place to live, and I didn’t know any one west of the Mississippi, and I’m not allowed to leave the County. Oh, by the way, up to that point, I had no idea what homelessness was. So there I was on the streets. My life had become unmanageable due to drinking, and the first place I went to was West Beach were I met "Frenchy." He was a regular who everyone thought, this and that about. Well "Frenchy" (and I was there the day he passed) and me built a relationship. So there I was on the streets, learning that if I could drink and have fun that I wasn’t hurting anyone.  I was a lucky one. I learned faster than most I had seen come into town and go from smiling face, to a face of hopelessness and then death. "Cowboy Bill", "Rabbit", "Stony Tony", "BuckTooth Mary", "Hooper & McGruder,"etc, etc. I could go on for days with all the names of those I shared the streets with, but I also knew all in the city: Marty, Ken, Peter, Hons, Casey, Baker.  I was the one who did sand sculptures on West Beach, not the mermaid guy that everyone seemed to think was not a good person. I was the one that made 5-10 sculptures at a time and did not care who took a pictures of it. Anyway, I did those sculptures for 4-years without ever asking for a dime but managed to make 700 dollars in one day and would sit beside the bike path with Greg and "Shorty" and drink beer all day. I was there the day Stephen came down with the first wheel barrel full of crosses. He told me he was going to do a memorial --- the rest was an incredible manifestation that changed many lives, including my art efforts, for I made a Peace sign sculpture, and gave every penny I made those Sundays to the Veterans for Peace, an organization that  I became an honorary member of. I could go on and another time with more memories but all I want is to thank you for the opportunity to bring something positive out of my experiences by writing to you, and joining the few who do follow His charge of going out to the Nations to help widows and orphans.
    God Bless you and all those who walk in the Light.
    With Much Love,  Anonymous

A Conversation With John

posted June 16, 2011
by Roger Thompson

    This morning I awoke and, rather than having a bowl of cereal, found myself engaged in a conversation with an unexpected guest. I didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to recognize the hallmark signs of mania, delusional thought patterns and impulsive behavior. This woman was arrested six times in the last two weeks. Allegedly, she made the news as the dumbest person in the state.

“That’s right. I’m John the Baptist,” she said several times. She jumped from topic to topic. I listened patiently and with an open heart as I’ve done countless times.

She didn’t qualify for admission to the hospital because “she wasn’t a danger to herself or others.” I pondered the silent suffering in a hometown no more foreign to me than a suburb in Europe. The subculture is the real-world  counterpart to Facebook. However, unlike Facebook, its members unwillingly submit their current status for the public to see, judge, occasionally unfriend and cast away.

"Who are you?" she eventually inquired.

I write with some hesitation because I had removed myself from the politics of persecution in Santa Barbara County. I found it increasingly difficult to bifurcate the personal from political. I cherish anonymity. The sting of stigma haunts me like my shadow. The experience this morning compelled me to shamelessly jump from the shadows one last time. I want to write, "I'm just a guy." But that's not what I told her.

“I'm Roger. Would you like a glass of orange juice, John?” I wanted to pour my heart out, grip her hand and with tears confess that I’ve spent years walking miles in shoes somewhat like her own.

In a place called Happy Valley, the openly lesbian and self-proclaimed prophet is a victim of stigma. The theocracy of politicos impose a system of moral governance on this blighted soul. Ironically, she's caught in a far greater delusion. She lives in a microcosm with all the quintessential qualities required to obtain the trite ambition we sacredly hail as the American dream. Discerning delusion from what's not is an ongoing task.

When she left, I suggested we try to find her help but was told that the only place for her was behind bars. Thank goodness there’s only one person with mental illness in this state!

Mental illness and homelessness exist in any concentration of people. Large concentrations of people can’t escape the statistical probability of infirmity. It’s a fact. Mental illness does not discriminate. We do. Everywhere but here people walk miles in her shoes not to understand but because they are miles away with her shoes.

I am turning 31 this year. I spent roughly four years winding my way up through a maze starting hopeless and ending healthy.  All our work and the continued efforts of hundreds of others would be in vain should the words of advocates be silenced. CARES, Treatment Courts and the Veterans Service Programs provide a lifeline no less vital than oxygen.

Do not undo the safe foundation hundreds courageously built. I respectfully ask the Board not to sacrifice fundamental beliefs - what you know is right - for misguided solutions. I stand by my words spoken in the past that might not reconcile with official political positions awkwardly linked to how I found faith and God.

By the same token, I challenge the Board of Supervisors to stand by the promises made in all their yesterdays. On days like today, all that's left are the knees upon which I pray.

- Roger

Roger Thompson is the founder of CAC, (Consumer Advocacy Coalition). He is currently living in Utah where he says he is healthy and doing well.

                
       
 

Basic Survival Necessities

posted June 12, 2011
by L.E. Hulse

By L. E. Hulse
     The birds are always there to start the day with a song as the early morning sun makes it's way down through the trees spreading out softly over your sleeping bag warning you that its probably time to roll up and move on before you get busted.
     Every night of the week, rain or shine, hundreds of homeless people make their way across town past high rents and threatening signs to claim a spot where they can roll out and maybe get a few hours of sleep.
    With all this activity one might pause to wonder why people become homeless.  To answer that would require a great deal of research because there are as many reasons for becoming homeless as there are people who are homeless; reasons that tell stories that can reach back in time.  Some as far back as childhood.
     I guess it all started for me when I gave up trying to hold down a full time job.  At the time it made sense.  What I didn't know about myself was kicking my ass and to continue on as I had in the past seemed foolish.  After a lot of thought I decided to hit the road without a plan and very little money in search of something I didn't fully understand.  You could call it a form of insanity.  But I had lived long enough to know that an awful lot of people don't know themselves as well as they think.  In many ways for better or worse they're just living out their lives the way they were raised.  And that's probably what I would have done had I been given a real choice. But for me that wasn't the case. As a child there was a lot of denial and deception in my life.  I was a victim of child abuse.
     Life on the road comes with a real downside that involves a lot of hard low-paying work that most people don't want or have to do.  It can also mean camping out in all kinds of weather and it could involve dealing with that part of the homeless population that can't handle their drugs and alcohol.  But there is an upside to all of this.  I was forced to discard a lot of conventional wisdom and think outside the box.  I managed to see a big part of the country and meet many different kinds of people along the way.  But the biggest reward was gaining a better understanding of myself and the world around me.
 
                                                     On the Sunset
                                                           by
                                                        L.E. Hulse
Somewhere
Back up the trail
Beside a mountain stream
Lies a weathered cross
That was left to me
Many moons ago
By a father
Confused on his way
Stumbling
And falling
With little to say
About being lost
Or frightened
But pushing on
Deep into the night
Reaching out
Embracing the darkness
And taking great care
To call it light


Drifting and turning
Sadly scattered about
Dancing on the cool water
Stepping down
And fading out.
 
 

Passing With Peace of Mind

posted June 09, 2011
by Jennifer

"Spare Change" did not work because it is giving to an entity. People give to pan handlers to quiet their conscience in the moment that another human being is looking them in the eye and asking for their needs to be met. Giving is the price most people pay to ease their minds.

Jennifer

Bowing Out

posted June 09, 2011
by Nancy E. Kapp

      I have decided not to run for City Council in the 2011 election. The main issue that I wanted to address in my campaign was homelessness and the fact that members of the middle class are going to become homeless in the next several years. It’s hard to envision something you don’t see on a regular basis, and trying to explain the issues of mental illness and drug addictions is impossible if you are not down in the trenches.
     The attacks on the homeless in blogs, where they are compared to pigeons, are a disgrace. I realize now I can and will be just effective without being tied to local politics and government. It's a game I choose not to play.
     But I wish all of the City Council candidates the very best. I will continue to be a homeless advocate while pursuing my writing and art work.
     Many thanks to everyone who supported me.

Nancy Kapp

How To Build A Sampan

posted June 04, 2011
by Dilbert O. Faulkner

    By Dilbert O. Faulkner
    Have you seen the floods and devastation in Missouri and Alabama? The weather has obviously joined the Taliban! Next to the police, hard weather is the worst thing that can happen to a homeless hippie living on the street. Welcome to the party. This problem has existed since the dawn of time as part of a trio of subjects all must come to grips with: food, Water and Shelter and not necessarily in that order. Those who solve these issues will live.
    Adversity has the wonderful effect of stimulating the imagination. It can do wonders for your creativity, as huge numbers of people are at this very moment discovering. So imagine . . how have human beings throughout history coped with such frightful calamities?  
    The Chinese have long experience with calamity. Most important is to remember that this too shall pass. All things must pass.
    Bamboo is God’s gift to the desperate. It can be easily harvested and worked with using simple hand tools. With about 100 sticks of bamboo, you can build a variety of structures that will last indefinitely and give you a place to be when it rains. Your masterpiece can be elaborated, amplified and enhanced over time. Eventually, you may decide it’s the coolest thing you ever owned dollar for dollar.
    You want nice tall cultivated bamboo about as big around at the base as a Kennedy half-dollar, 1 1/2” or 2” or thereabouts. Cut your bamboo as close to the ground as possible and at a 45-degree angle, like the straw in one of those kids’ juice drinks in a bag or box. This will make it easier to build corners, or join two pieces together to make one incredibly long timber, big in the middle and skinny at both ends.
    A string of beads is loose and fluid in your hands unless you synch the string down tight. Then the beads turn into a stick. Similarly, the bamboo is strung together at top and at the bottom to make a curtain, which, when stressed, becomes a fence. (But you will need a drill to do this.)
    A sampan is a Chinese houseboat. There have been sampans in the East since before recorded history. It can be any size you like, from a desktop model to a real sea monster at 50 feet or more. If your bamboo is too big, just use the skinny part. If it’s too small, use more of it. Use your 100 sticks of bamboo to fabricate 50 of the double-ended timbers we talked about.
    Once the timbers are done, lay them out on the ground side by side with the biggest pieces in the middle. [See image at top]
    Run the wire through the bamboo as shown. Tie off. Now, bend the thing into a semi-circle and bring the ends together and tie them. This procedure may require some imaginative manipulation, massaging and coaxing to get the shape right. As the bamboo ages it will find its own equilibrium of stress and counter-stress. Some or all of the sections may require cross bracing.
    The Chinese have long experience with composite laminate technology. A composite takes into account all the qualities a specific article must have and represents each quality with a specific material. In this instance, a sampan hull must be strong.
Here’s How I Do It:
    Cover the finished bamboo frame with a layer of burlap. Pull it tight! Apply a thin coat of paint and cover with sheet plastic. Let dry. Now a layer of chicken wire. Now a layer of burlap. Paint! Now a layer of plastic mesh, now a layer of cotton fabric. Now paint several coats. Let dry between each coat of paint. Finish with anti-fouling marine paint.
        The quality of strength can be represented by wire mesh (hexagon chicken wire) or nylon fishnet or hemp or burlap or all of the above. The quality of water tightness is similarly represented with sheet plastic, waterproof fabric, spray polyurethane, etc . . . Or all of the above. Insulation should be similarly provided for. Make your own personal statement with the materials in your composite laminate hull.
       Fitting out your sampan will take time. Luckily it doesn’t have to be done at once.  I recommend putting safety first. There is a list of items you must have on board to satisfy the Coast Guard. Talk to them about it. Use the leaves and stems from the bamboo to make floaters.
      Propulsion: For ecological and aesthetic reasons, I recommend human power. Instructions for building a Chinese sweep will follow. If you must have a motor, make it as small as economical as possible. A tiny fishing motor should suffice. This isn’t a racing boat.
      So much for the engine. Now for the brakes.
      You need a small boat anchor (or two) and 100 feet of 1/2” rope for each anchor, and also, the tie-up lines.
      Navigation: GPS, radar, sonar. Get the best you can afford.
      Communication: You need a cell phone. Paint your phone number in large numbers on the roof, along with a large American flag. Good luck!
      Lights and Electricity: Several sources, possibly solar panels.
      Cooking: Liquid fuels are not recommended. I’m a propane man myself. Be careful. Cooking at sea is an interesting challenge in itself. BBQ works best in good weather. But you must have a fire extinguisher –or two.
      The Chinese Sweep:
      The sweep and oars on a sampan are as the tail and fins of a fish. The size should be similarly proportional to the size of the boat. Here’s how I want mine:   Take two new common leaf rakes and one of those heavy plastic floor mats from an automobile and make a sandwich. Fasten with screws and bailing wire. Trip the plastic to look like a fishtail. Thicken and lengthen the handle with additional bamboo if necessary. Wrap with hemp and glue. Paint your wraps.
      Always use more than one fastening system when building serious affairs. Always paint organic materials and fabrics. Use the best glue you can buy with screws and nails. Combine hemp with bailing wire and glue. etc  . . .
     To summarize: A sampan can be used on land or water. It can also be hung from a tree or suspended from a ceiling. It can be built coffin size and towed behind a bicycle. It can be camouflaged and hidden for a later use. It can even be covered, sealed and buried to make an instant bomb shelter.
     If you can do most things yourself and can handle living apart from society, a sampan can really set you free. But you better be a sailor. Don’t forget there are pirates and crazies galore out there. A firearm may be in order, but this is a personal and philosophical decision. Be blessed and walk a peaceful path.
     A sampan driver is usually better off as a member of a group, colony, society or club. They can mutually support each other in difficulties or emergencies.
     Oh yes, keep a wary and careful eye on the weather, the state of your boat, the level of your supplies, fresh water and, don’t forget, the political situation on land.
     Good luck!

*Dilbert O. Faulkner is a homeless in Santa Barbara, and looking for a space to build his sampan. A unoccupied garage or shed would be perfect. You can read more about him in the post, Dilbert Faulkner Has a Boat to Build.

In Memory of Our Fallen: Hazel DIckens, God Bless Your Beautiful Soul

posted May 28, 2011
by WhiteAntelope

By WhiteAntelope

Hazel Jane Dickens (June 1, 1935 – April 22, 2011) was an American bluegrass singer, songwriter, double bassist and guitarist. She was the eighth child of an eleven-child mining family in West Virginia. Her music was characterized not only by her high, lonesome singing style, but also by her provocative pro-union, feminist songs. Cultural blogger John Pietaro noted that "Dickens didn’t just sing the anthems of labor, she lived them and her place on many a picket line, staring down gunfire and goon squads, embedded her into the cause." The New York Times extolled her as "a clarion-voiced advocate for coal miners and working people and a pioneer among women in bluegrass music". Listen to her perform Only a Hobo: www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FuXpu8HZl8/



Only A Hobo lyrics:

As I was out walking on a corner one day,
I spied an old hobo, in a doorway he lay.
His face was all grounded in the cold sidewalk floor
And I guess he'd been there for the whole night or more.

Only a hobo, but one more is gone
Leavin' nobody to sing his sad song
Leavin' nobody to carry him home
Only a hobo, but one more is gone
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/b/bob_dylan/only_a_hobo.html ]
A blanket of newspaper covered his head,
As the curb was his pillow, the street was his bed.
One look at his face showed the hard road he'd come
And a fistful of coins showed the money he bummed.

Only a hobo, but one more is gone
Leavin' nobody to sing his sad song
Leavin' nobody to carry him home
Only a hobo, but one more is gone

Does it take much of a man to see his whole life go down,
To look up on the world from a hole in the ground,
To wait for your future like a horse that's gone lame,
To lie in the gutter and die with no name?

Only a hobo, but one more is gone
Leavin' nobody to sing his sad song
Leavin' nobody to carry him home
Only a hobo, but one more is gone


~ White Antelope

NPR: Neptune Public Radio

posted May 22, 2011
by NMcCradie

By Nancy McCradie  

     Some years ago, at the downtown Santa Barbara Farmer's Market, there was man playing a cardboard saxophone to music blasting from a radio he’d set up in a shopping cart. You see, the radio was for the people on planet Earth and the sax was for the people on planet Neptune. I was intrigued by this man and watched him for some time. He had a lot of creative talent.  I had a gut instinct that someday we would be friends.
    Over the years, I’ve accumulated many friends who struggle with mental health issues. The worlds that they have created for themselves are amazing and I always feel a sorrow when they are either mistakenly diagnosed with or have stopped taking the pills that give them a sense of normalcy.  It’s hard to make a correct diagnosis as many mental health disorders seem similar and every person is different. So experimentation can be part of finding the right medication and the right dosage for each person with a chemical imbalance.
    Steve is one of these friends. One place we connect is that we both love music. We may perform it in different ways but we both know it’s the universal language of the soul.
    I remember a time when the Associate Director of Casa Esperanza hired Steve and his Airband to play for a Valentine's Day Dance for  Casa members. Steve was so happy that day because it was a chance for him to shine. The Casa Esperanza members loved the music that came out of the radio. I just know, along with Steve, that the people of Neptune were also grooving to the sounds he made.
    For a time, Steve’s Air Band set up near the Dolphin Fountain on the weekends. The locals and tourists enjoyed the "tongue in cheek" entertainment.  Bob and I would find tools for Steve, like a guitar with no strings or a microphone that did not work anymore. We would be treated in return to back stage passes for the Air Band. I’m not sure what happened after a period of time. The Air Band was told to move along, which made us sad for we would make it one of our stops each weekend.
   For a period of time, I loved to go to a local restaurant to sing Karaoke with my daughter and friends. Steve would hear us singing and would come in to create a flier, or get up on stage to accompany us on his Air Guitar.  If people showed signs of being upset by his presence, I would shout out that everyone listens and performs in their own fashion.  Steve was no different than the rest of us. They seem to accept that and Steve became one of us on stage.  Even the DJ would get up and thank him for his participation.  I loved it because it made my friend happy to be part of the evening.
   A few weeks ago Bob and I were in Santa Barbara and we decided to stay at the Motel 6 on Upper State Street. On the way there, we saw Steve pushing a shopping cart loaded with possessions. Since his van was no longer available to him, he was living out of that shopping cart. Bob wanted to ask him out to dinner. Harry's Plaza Cafe was packed to the gills so we went over to Gelson's and bought plates of food onto their patio. What an enjoyable evening we had with Steve that night. He’s a master at conversing about many subjects; a genius in many ways. You should see his Groucho Marx impression. Sometimes he can get a bit disjointed, which is the nature of his illness, but having patience with him is all it takes to enjoy and appreciate his presence.
   Actually, Steve has a sister who lives in the San Roque area, so he does spend some of his time visiting her or at least getting close to her.  Sometimes he’s a guest at the Motel 6, so he can get cleaned up. Anyway, we had a lot of fun just getting to know each other better.
   We decided to hang together again Earth Day weekend. We met up at the park to listen to the bands and people watch. The first night, when things quieted down, Bob, Steve and I sat on the outskirts of the park talking.  I asked Steve if I could write this story about our time with him and Neptune Public Radio.  He said I could and I just listened while he told me about himself.  I found out that in his younger years, he worked with Dan Rather as a video-consultant and press agent.  He was proud of himself as he told me all sorts of things about the station affiliates.  If this is true I can see where his creative ability comes from.  It was hard for him when his illness began to produce bizarre behavior and he told us that he was locked out from the jobs he was trained to do.
     The security guards for Alameda Park that night walked up to check us out and decided it was okay for us to sit and talk as long as we wanted.  Bob and I were parked across the street and we planned on sleeping in our van that night anyway.  The moon was beautiful as it climbed through the trees, so full of itself which produced a request from Steve who wanted us all to sing.  He asked if I knew any show tunes. I told him my forte was musicals and we sang songs from My Fair Lady, Oklahoma, and other Opera arias I knew.  I taught him the "Pick a Little" song that runs beside "Good Night Ladies" from the Music Man and, although initially he had trouble, he was able to maintain his part with just a small amount of practice. I guess you could say we were "Howling at that Beautiful Moon."
   Bob and I went to bed in the van and Steve just lay down where we were sitting on the grass. When morning came, we walked to a coffee shop on State Street for bagels and Java. I asked Steve if he was able to have caffeine and said yes.  That morning Steve was unable to sit still for any length of time. It was obvious to me that he was coming off his medication.  However the people who owned and operated the coffee shop were okay with him and I was happy to see their patience while witnessing his somewhat manic behavior.  After coffee we walked back to Alameda Park to enjoy our second day of the festival.  Bob and I wanted to see Darryl Hannah, who was coming to speak. Steve began to place signs in front of the stage to advertise Neptune Public Radio (NPR). The media were also trying to get ready for Darryl's appearance and were concerned about Steve’s presence.  No one wanted to call the police and they did not want to see him “go off” either. I believe that it might have been Bob who was able to get through to him. Stress is not one of Steve's strong points. He was pretty mad and went off not wanting anyone near him. Concerned, I wanted to help him clean up his stuff but he growled at me, spouting something about how I worked for the Pope. So I needed to get away from him. Saddened I turned away hoping his fear would pass. I walked down the sidewalk away from him, knowing this was about mental health and not anything personal. One learns when they are street savvy that we have to be flexible with some folks.
    Two days later, Bob and I are back at Motel 6 relaxing in our room. The manager gives us a call and says someone is drawing on our van. Bob gets up to walks out to see what’s going on. He tells Steve that he is only allowed to draw on the van when he gives him two cents.  Steve hands Bob two pennies and returns to his art. I lean over the balcony railing and shout out to Steve that I love him.  He turns to me and responds in a serious tone, "Not half as much as I love you."  We were once again two soul mates, praising our music all the way to the planet Neptune.

Nancy McCradie is a co-founder of Homes on Wheels (HOW) and the Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition. She is a veteran homeless activist here, but is now mostly housed. She is married to homeless activist Bob Hansen.

Target:Homeles-South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee Advocate Reports

posted May 21, 2011
by Geof_Bard

Neptune Public Radio

posted May 20, 2011
by NMcCradie

Some years ago, at the Farmer's Market in downtown Santa Barbara, I noticed a man playing a cardboard saxophone to the music that blasted out of a radio he had set up in a shopping cart.  You see the radio was for the people of Planet Earth.  The sounds of the saxophone was only heard by the people of the Planet Neptune.  I was pulled close to this man and watched him for a time.  He had a lot of creative talent.  I knew in an instant that someday he and I would be friends.

Over many years I have accumulated many friends from the Mental Health Community.  I find their lives extremely fascinating.  The worlds that they have created for themselves are amazing and I always feel a sorrow with and for them when they are either mistakenly diagnosed with the wrong disorder or have gone off their pills that somehow gives them a sense of normalcy when they do find and take the right medication.  It is hard to make a correct diagnosis as many mental health disorders can seem similar and no one body is the same.  So experimentation can be part of finding out the right kinds of medication and the amount of dosage for each individual with such chemical imbalances.

Steve is just one of my friends who as a lot in common with me for we both love all kinds of music.  We may perform it in different ways but we both know that it is an universal language of the soul.

I remember a time when the Associate Director of Casa Esperanza hired Steve and his Airband to play for a Valentine's Day Dance for the Casa's Members.  Steve was so happy that day for he could shine.  The Members of the Casa Esperanza loved the music that came out of the radio.  I just know, along with Steve, that the people of Neptune were also cheering with pleasure from so far away. 

The Air Band set up near the Dolphin Fountain for Santa Barbara weekends.  The locals and tourists both seemingly enjoying the "tongue in cheek" entertainment.  Bob and I would find tools for Steve such as a guitar with no strings or a microphone that did not work anymore.  We would be treated in return to back stage passes for the Air Band.  I am not sure what happened after a time.  The Air Band was told to cease which made us sad for we would make it one of our stops each weekend.

One of my hobbies was to go to a local restaurant to sing Karaoke with my daughter and friends.  Steve would hear us singing.  He would come in to create a flyer or get up on stage to accompany us on his Air Guitar.  If people showed signs of being upset by his presence I would shout out that everyone listens and performs music in their own fashion.  Steve was no different than the rest of us.  After people thought about what I said he was accepted as one of us.  Even the DJ would get up and thank him for his participation.  I loved it because it made my friend happy to be part of the evening.

A few weeks ago Bob and I were in Santa Barbara. and we decided to stay at the Motel 6 on Upper State Street.  As we drove we saw Steve pushing a shopping cart just loaded with possessions.  Since his van was not longer available to him he was living out of that shopping cart.  Bob wanted to ask him out to dinner.  Harry's Plaza Cafe was packed to the gills so we went over to Gielson's and bought some dinner to eat out on their patio.  What an enjoyable evening we had with Steve.  A genius, he is a master at conversing about many subjects.  You should see him doing his Groucho Marx bit.  Sometimes he can get somewhat disjointed which is the nature of his illness but being patient with that side of it we can make an entertaining and learning experience out of it all.  It turns out that Steve has a sister who lives in the San Roque area so he does spend some of his time visiting with her or at least getting close to her.  Sometimes he is a guest at the Motel 6 up there so he can clean himself up once in a while.  Anyway we had a lot of fun just getting to know each other better.

We decideed to all hang together during the festivities of Earth Day.  We met up at the park to enjoy the bands and the people.  The first night when things quieted down Bob, Steve and I sat on the outskirts of the park talking.  I asked Steve if I could write this story about our time with him and Neptune Public Radio.  He said that I could and I just listened while he told me about himself.  I found out that he, in is younger years worked with Dan Rather as a video consultant and press agent.  He was proud of himself as he told me all sorts of things about the station affiliates.  If this is true I can see where his creative ability comes from.  It was hard for him when his illness began to produce bizarre behavior and he told us that he was locked out from the jobs he was trained to do.

The security guards for Alameda Park that night walked up to check us out and decided that we were okay to sit and talk for as long as we wanted.  Bob and I were parked across the street and we planned on sleeping in our van that night anyway.  The moon was beautiful as it climbed through the trees so full of itself which produced a request from Steve who wanted us all to sing.  He asked me if I knew any show tunes.  I told him my forte was musicals and we sang songs from My Fair Lady, Oklahoma, and other Opera arias that I knew.  I taught him the "Pick a Little" song that runs beside "Good Night Ladies" from the Music man and although initially he had trouble he was able to maintain his part with just a small amount of practice.  I guess that you could say that we were "Howling at that Beautiful Moon."

Bob and I went to bed in the van and Steve just lay down where we were sitting on the grass.  When morning came we walked to a coffee shop on State Street to have bagels, cream cheese and the Java that gets one going in the morning.  I asked Steve if he was able to have caffeine and said yes.  That morning Steve was unable to sit still for any length of time so it was obvious that he was coming off of his medication.  However the people who owned and operated the coffee shop were okay with him and I was thrilled to see the patience they had while witnessing his somewhat manic behavior.  After coffee we walked back to Alameda Park to enjoy our second day of the festival.  Bob and I wanted to wait around so to see Darryl Hannah who was coming to speak.  Steve began to place signs in front of the stage to advertise for Neptune Public Radio.  The media was also trying to get ready for Darryl's appearance and they were concerned about Steve being there.  No one wanted to call the police on him and they did not want to see him go off.  I believe that it might have been Bob who was able to get through to him.  Stress is not one of Steve's strong points.  He was pretty mad and went off not wanting anyone near him.  Concerned, I wanted to help him clean up his stuff but he turned to growl at me spouting something about how I worked for the Pope and I needed to get away from him.  Saddened I turned away hoping that his fear wasn't permanent.  I walked down the side walk away from him knowing that this was about mental health and not about me.  One learns when they are street savvy that we have to be versatile with some folks.

Two days later Bob and I are back at Motel 6 relaxing in our room.  The manager gives us a call and tells us that someone is drawing on our van.  Bob gets up to walk to the van.  He tells Steve that he is only allowed to draw on the van when he gives him two cents.  Steve hands Bob two pennies and proceeds with his work of art.  I lean over the balcony railing shout out to Steve that I love him.  He turns to me and seriously responds with, "Not half as much as I love you."  We were once again the two soul mates praising our music all the way to the Planet Neptune.

Why Serve The Poor?

posted May 20, 2011
by Wayne Martin Mellinger

By Wayne Mellinger, Ph.D.

Human beings are vulnerable to all types of misfortune which limit
their ability to act.  Our responsibility to the world does not end
with ourselves.  Each and every one of us has a measure of responsibility
for the “common good”.  We have a duty to help those in need when it
is not too costly to ourselves, a duty which is governed by personal
discretion.

The persistence and very existence of extreme poverty
constitutes an injustice. The poor are often denied fundamental
rights as laid out in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, adopted
 by the United Nations in tk.  Hunger is but one face of poverty; discrimination, poor health, mental anguish, lack of opportunities for personal and
professional development also are faced by the poor.  The increase in income inequality continues to an alarming extent and it seems that with the gradual dismantling of the social safety net, the goal of poverty reduction has been largely
set side.

The quality of life that our destitute neighbors endure should be
the moral obligation of  our community, and thus, in part, ourselves.
When a person is too sick or disabled to work, or a family's house
goes up in flames, neighborly assistance and community support can
ensure that basic human needs are met.  Similarly, the feeding of
those who lack homes is a humanitarian duty and spiritual requirement
for many of us.  Moreover, by providing nutritious food to those on
the streets, many who cannot adequately care for themselves due to
a physical disability, mental illness or addiction, we make
efforts toward self-sufficiency possible. As Deborah Barnes, a
outreach worker with Worth Street Reach said recently, “You can't
talk with people who are hungry.  After their stomachs are full, they
are much more receptive to our assistance.”

My hope here is present a social justice rationale for providing
basic services to the poorest segments of our population, including
our homeless neighbors.  Lately, several local commentators in
Santa Barbara have painted a picture of our city as a Mecca for the
nation's lady; people who supposedly journey across the country
to sponge off the generosity of our nonprofits and city and county support
social services. Supposedly, our lavish offerings are so magnificent that even people on the East Coast hear about them.

A group of city leaders went to Santa Monica in March to learn how
that city manages it “homeless problem.” One of the things they learned
 is that Santa Monica bans feeding people in public parks, thus making
it harder for people to survive on the streets, either by pushing them away
from the city or pulling them indoors, where food is accompanied by outreach
workers eager to track their progress. Employing an
aggressive, in-your-face manner, city personnel keep track of people
on the streets, determine what they need and try to make sure they get
those needs met.

Now some people are talking about banning public “feeds” in Santa Barbara
parks.  Supposedly, a get-tough approach which prohibits these food
offerings would stop “enabling” ( a term often used by Santa Barbara City Councilmember Michael Self) people who are assumed to be “addicted” to
living on the streets.  Ms. Self has also stated: “We are not here to
sustain homelessness.”  But we are here to love our neighbors, as one ancient prophet
proclaimed.

The reality of the Santa Monica model is that they spend many times
the amount we do in Santa Barbara to get people off the
streets--in part because of they have a richer tax base. They can give people shelter beds, employ an innovative practice known as the “Housing First, which immediately puts people into housing and then, once housed,
offers support services to help them stay there. This would
be impossible in Santa Barbara, where there are three times as many people on the streets as there are shelter beds and far less affordable housing than in Santa Monica.  

Several religious organizations active in serving food to people on the streets of Santa Barbara, There’s a Wednesday night pot luck at Pershing Park. There is a Sunday morning feed called, “The Hank Show” put on by a well-loved preacher.  Finally, there’s a Thursday evening feed at Alameda Park sponsored by Westmont students and the Worth Street Reach. Between 50 and 100 people attend each of these events, and  various outreach workers and other service providers are present to make contact with new people and follow up with others.

A social justice approach to serving the poor takes a different
perspective on the question of free, public dinners. The people on the streets are not seen as “the problem” and the meager services offered are not seen as
lifestyle lures.  Rather, the problem is seen as a
complex combination of poverty, lack of jobs, inadequate mental health
services and lack of affordable housing.  From this perspective,
there are social structures, institutional barriers and systems of
oppression are at work which hold people down. To advocate for
social justice is to join with poor people to change these penalizing
systems.

Social justice exists when dignity and respect for all is accompanied
by equal access to public services.  Many of our nation's working
poor, struggling to subsist on the margins, are victims of injustice.,
Many lack medical insurance, don't have access to affordable housing
and end up being hungry too. There are gender and racial aspects to these
issues which greatly increase the problems for women and people of
color.

The vast inequalities found among people in our nation are often the
outcome of systems of oppression and other unjust structural barriers,
as well as greed, ignorance and insecurity.  Charitable acts of kindness include providing poor people with basic life requirements, things that are essential to their immediate survival.  But charitable acts are best when they are accompanied by efforts to change the structures that created the situation.  To work for social justice is to move beyond charity, to struggle with impoverished people, removing structural barriers and other obstacles.

The motivation of social justice workers is often spiritually
grounded, and often accompanied by deep contemplation, prayer and
discernment  Most of the world's religions urge us to “love our
neighbors” and help those in need or suffering.  The Jewish prophet
Amos, for example, was a social justice pioneer who condemned the
greed, oppression and indifference of his society.  Jesus of Nazareth,
inspired by this prophetic tradition, told the poor: “You are the
light of the world!”

With a crashed economy only now slowly beginning to earn
back the millions of jobs lost since 2009, many of us are worried
about our own quality of life and reaching out to others less
fortunate seems harder.  The interconnection of human life demands
that we ensure all people have access to food, clean water,
education and healthcare.  And the most vulnerable and fragile,
including women, the mentally ill, the disabled and the infirm,
deserve to be guaranteed shelter.  Unfortunately, my street outreach
work has  repeatedly introduced me to “throw away” people whose
intrinsic dignity has been discarded by our society.  Many of these
people suffer severe mental health challenges, sleep in doorways and
pick food out of trash cans!

A spirituality of justice includes solidarity with those who are poor
and a willingness to accompany people living at the margins, bearing
witness to their suffering. Many of us who serve the poor and
marginalized take time to truly listen to their stories, allowing
ourselves to be moved and disturbed by the widespread and systematic
disregard for people’s lives. For any faith to do justice, it
must be active out in the world, feeding the hungry, clothing the
naked and healing the bruised world.  The “breaking of the bread” performed by Jesus, for example, shows us exactly how we can offer our lives to others, especially those most in need,  by forming true communion and solidarity with the world.  Authentic spiritual practices embrace the suffering of the world, and upon deep contemplation, respond to that call to heal and care by taking action.

Dr. Mellinger was homeless for several years, but is now housed and working, sometimes as an homeless outreach worker and advocate. He also teaches.

Incompetent City Staff Blockades Urgent Agenda Item Request

posted May 19, 2011
by Geof_Bard

THE BELOW LETTER is public record, having been posted to the website of the County of Santa Barbara Tuesday April 19, 2011. A copy was forwarded to the staff at the City of Santa Barbara, requesting it be placed on the agenda of the South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee's (SCHAC) May meeting. The staff refused to do so despite a second follow-up request. Just about EVERYBODY IN TOWN  knows about this letter - except for the members of the SCHAC! In a naked attempt at coverup, the SCHAC staff now contends that it would be a violation of the Brown Act for your intrepid undersigned, who is on the SCHAC in the capacity of Homeless Advocate, to forward this public document to other members of the SCHAC. I have discussed this with not one, not two, but with three local attorneys and they all seem to concur that I am not the one who needs to be worried. Soooo....before I get too wrapped up in my William F Buckley and my Edmund Burke, let me just remind folks out there that I am a loyal Democrat. But - there is no nice way of saying this - City staff is screwing up the SCHAC, big time.

Below, you will find the copy of the letter which city staff blockaded. I also intend to post a copy on kiosks on state street and at the county building. (If staff won't do it, I won't do it.)

Meanwhile, please let the SCHAC members know that if they STILL don't know about this letter, it should be on their agenda next month, when Chief  Deputy Patterson will be bringing his response. Apparently, city staff wants the SCHAC committee members to be the last to know.

Oh - and please don't let Andy Cauldwell know about this. He has asked me to go on his radio show, and I must admit it is pretty tempting ....

THE CENSORED LETTER:

Subject: A-17 11-0037 SB Jails (and Shelters) Must Not Be Vectors of Infectious Disease
To: jgray@co.santa-barbara.ca.us, jwolf@sbcbos2.org, dfarr@countyofsb.org, sbcob@co.santa-barbara.ca.us, SupervisorCarbajal@sbcbos1.org, slavagnino@countyofsb.org
Cc: "SBDPHDisease Prevention" <dc@sbcphd.org>, "South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee" <EStotts@SantaBarbaraCA.gov>
Date: Tuesday, April 19, 2011, 2:25 AM

 
GREETINGS:

This letter is to express concern and support for immediate action regarding the recently released 2010 Environmental Health inspection report on infectious disease control in the jails. I am hopeful there can be rapid correction of the as-yet unresolved non-compliance of several Santa Barbara detention facilities with Section 5199 of Title 8, which contains very important requirements for control of Aerosol transmissible disease (ATD) . 

If there seems to be a sense of outrage in this letter, it is not directed at Santa Barbara County staffs but rather at the general societal apathy with regard to cough etiquette and other procedures which should be observed not only in jails but in all congregate facilities. These measures protect staff, clientele, visitors and ultimately the whole community.

Despite the failure of voters to pass Measure S, we must assure that our Sheriff's Department has the resources to assure that tuberculosis, pneumonia or pertussis is never the outcome of time in jail for custody deputies, civilian jail staff, visitors or inmates.

I hope and trust that the non-compliance is probably just a more or less normal lag time in updating to new standards or the result of budget constraints. If the latter, please take this letter as evidence that there is public support for nipping in the bud any potential disease outbreak which could end up costing taxpayers much more in the long run. I supported Measure S in part so that state of the art infection control practices could be in place in our jails, including wiring for rapid installation of UV if there is ever a serious outbreak of AID (airborne Infectious disease).

For the benefit of all Santa Barbarans - including correctional officers, people being held in jail, and people who may come into contact with people being released from jail - it is essential to bring our facilities up to state code with all due haste.


What is going on locally with regard to airborne disease vectors? Santa Barbara County has an unusually competent corp of public servants in both county government and in the public service agencies such as Casa Esperanza. During the election season last year I visited San Luis Obispo County and took notice that they lag behind Santa Barbara in terms of indoor air quality management and infectious disease containment at homeless shelters. I provided several written complaints to the non-profit CAPSLO agency and the SLO Public Health Department with regard to what I regarded as their deficient policies for prevention of indoor air contamination. There was some progress, but generally my concerns were NOT addressed in time and thereafter a very nasty little epidemic swept through involving at least one confirmed pneumonia hospitalization and what were undoubtedly other cases.

Unfortunately, the results of the Santa Barbara Health Department summary indicate in only general terms that there is a compliance problem at several jail facilities with regard to indoor air safety. The summary posted on the Board of Supervisors website does not state what the gaps are and as such it is not immediately possible for the public,perhaps evenincluding the DSA  to ascertain the specific deficits, pending release of the full report. From even the most cursory glance at the statute, one can surmise that presumably we need a biological safety officer to design a plan to include provision of airborne infection isolation room or area (AIIR). That is defined as "a room, area, booth, tent, or other enclosure that is maintained at negative pressure to adjacent areas in order to control the spread of ... airborne infectious pathogens."  Due to jail overcrowding, it is pretty obvious that is what the deficit might be and thus solution of the problem brings us right back to the need for revenue enhancements. If we wait, we are gambling with the community's resilience in the face of potential incoming vector situations, and we need to plan at minimum for tenting to be available to create the necessary conditions should an outbreak occur at some point in time. This is not brain surgery, nor need it be all that expensive to have a plan if, not when, such a disaster might occur.

One would hope that the health department can provide us with the assurance that the gaps are not severe, that they will be remedied post haste, and that the watchful eye of the Sheriff Deputies Association will double check this situation for the benefit of all. But history shows us that apathy continually rears its ugly head until it is too late and that is why I continue to bring this issue of up before the Board.

Going forward, I in my capacity of citizen advocate expect to bring proposals forward with the intention of promoting indoor and outdoor air quality with respect not only to Air Born Infectious Disease but also with respect to Second Hand Cigarette smoke. Obviously as a lay person I don't make these up but rather research what works in various jurisdictions. What works now would be for the Public Health Department, the Sheriff Deputy Association and the Sheriff's Department to get on their game and push through full implementation of the statutory requirements. If this require moneys, please find them, authorize and appropriate them today.

Thank you for indulging my brief comment on this complex and potentially life-saving area of concern, indoor air quality at the jail, which ultimately affects us all.

         Sincerely,


         Geof Bard
         Public Health Advocate
         Founder, California Houseless Information Team/
                       Crisis Housing Information Team

Homeless

posted May 17, 2011
by mwstowell


By Michael Stowell

There are few choices for those who find themselves without housing in America. There are Rescue Missions, the Salvation Army facilities and a few Multiple Assistance Centers (MACs), though all are not available in most locales.


The Rescue Missions seem to be the most numerous and I have stayed at a few of them, they are almost identical in program structure, usually funded by “fundamentalist” churches. The Association of Gospel Rescue Missions claims that every year their missions serve nearly 42 million meals and provide more than 15 million nights of lodging. They are an evangelical outreach for the churches that support them, proselytizing is the main goal of their function with food, shelter and clothing as secondary attractions. The religious teachings are ubiquitous throughout, dogma which is centered on the “gospel - the good news of redemption through the propitiatory offering of Jesus Christ for one's sins,” creationism, and the concept of “Armageddon - the war to end all wars,” the ultimate showdown between Christ and the Antichrist.


 
The doctrines taught at Rescue Missions date back to one Clyde Ingerson Scofield, born in 1843. In 1909 Scofield published the first “Scofield Reference Bible” and since then many millions of copies have been and are being sold. According to the Scofield exegesis the Hebrew god has divided history into seven plans or “Dispensations.” During each Dispensation god relates to mankind in a different way. During the last-but-one Dispensation, Christ will defeat the Antichrist at Armageddon, forty-five miles north of Tel Aviv. Just before the battle, the Church (all those who are believers in this theology), both those alive and those dead in their graves, will be wafted to Heaven in the great “Rapture.” The Unbelievers will then suffer horribly for seven years and then Christ will return with the Church, all with glorious new bodies, and the wicked will be judged. Christ will then reign and rule on earth for 1000 years, with the Church, after which the Devil will be cast into a lake of fire. Or something like that, not all agree on all the specifics.


 
I have great difficulty understanding how anyone with a shred of common sense could believe this tale but apparently many people do and those who run the Rescue Missions across this country are adamant about teaching it to everyone they encounter. Generally, it is not necessary to believe this darkly archaic story to receive help--a bunk jammed into a dorm full of other homeless men, a few odds and ends of clothing, a meal thrown together with donated food cooked up by volunteers; but listening to the teaching is often times required before a person can receive any help. The Santa Barbara Rescue Mission does not require people to attend a chapel service before receiving a meal and a bunk.
 


The volunteers at a Rescue Mission, the men and women who are enrolled in “programs” are subject to the dogma as a daily routine and are usually given a small stipend for their work - say $20 a week for 20 hours of work or more. The Santa Barbara Rescue Mission does not pay stipends to volunteers, instead each is charged $225 per month to stay at the mission in a program. They also are required to work around the place, cleaning, cooking, serving food, etcetera, and may be required to “help out” one of the contributing churches by doing some painting, mowing lawns or brush-cutting - free of charge. If a person wants to join the S.B. Rescue Mission program and does not have an income they will be encouraged to apply for Food Stamps and General Relief. The $200 per month in Food Stamps is then taken by the S.B.Mission in lieu of the $225 per month normally charged, until one finds another source of income.



The daily regimen at Rescue Missions is remarkably homogeneous, mission to mission. They roll you out of bed at 5 AM, serve breakfast at 5:30 and send you out into the street at 6 AM. Check in is usually around 6 PM and the chapel service, which is usually required and runs about an hour, is at 7 PM. After attending the service dinner is served and then, if you are staying the night, everyone strips and lines up for group showers - lights out at 9 PM. It seems that many of the men and women who “volunteer” at Rescue Missions remain for extended periods of time (programs like AA or NA can last 2 or 3 years), it has been my observation that, on average, most will stay at a mission for about five years. Some stay much longer. The volunteers are rigidly institutionalized and are not usually forbearing, are usually impatient and intolerant of anyone who deviates even slightly from their rules and norms. I’m inclined to believe that Rescue Missions are much like internment camps and the mind-control aspect is thoroughly disconcerting. They churn out individuals who are intolerant of others who have differing viewpoints; they are sexist and homophobic and racist; they are people who believe conflict can end conflict; they are people who don’t care about the restoration and conservation of the natural realm because, they believe, god will destroy it all anyway, any day now; they are people who believe that all who are not "saved" by their "gospel" are damned to an eternity of fire and brimstone in the great "Lake of Fire."


 
I’ve also stayed at a couple of facilities run by the Salvation Army. They are also homologous, place to place, and teach much the same creed as do the Rescue Missions. The main difference between the two, and historically the source of some discord between them, is that the Salvation Army is less inclined to give assistance to those who do not profess selfsame faith. They spend more of their assets on those who are already “in the fold.” The “Sallys” are usually very nice facilities thanks in large part to the extremely generous contributions they have received from Mr. and Mrs. Ray Kroc, founders of the popular McDonalds hamburger chain.
 
Multiple Assistance Centers (MACs), like Santa Barbara’s Casa Esperanza, are newer on the scene and a departure from the traditional approach of proselytizing then integrating those who have “slipped through the cracks.” MACs are primarily concerned with assimilation through all available governmental and non-profit agencies. They are not inclined toward any specific religious tenets though they don’t refuse help from religious organizations and individuals. MACs are all about getting people into “the system,” the society and civic structure that is called America, which may include some healthcare and through which income may be drawn, either through employment or “entitlement” programs.

Once the individual has income, their housing needs may be addressed. Fulfillment of goals can be difficult despite concerted efforts, if a person is not readily employable they may need more education or training and many times I’ve seen what appears to be success, someone gets a job and then some housing, but if the job ends or does not pay well enough to secure health insurance and some “rainy-day” funds, the cycle of homelessness can begin anew with little or no notice. 
 
Also, education is prohibitively expensive for many people, especially for those who are trying to start over with limited employable skills, and the cost of education in America is rising at an increasing rate with less and less help available for those who do not have families that can lend assistance. As well, higher education in the U.S. isn’t so high anymore; American graduates are receiving poorer educations and are scoring lower than their counterparts in at least ten other countries. I read a statistic a while back that shocked me; nearly one third of all students currently enrolled in high school will drop out before graduating. What will they do? Jobs are being created in this country but they are mostly low-paying, service industry jobs. Meanwhile, higher paying jobs continue to move out of the country. I don’t see the situation getting any better. Homelessness in America is going to rise precipitously along with unemployment and underemployment unless radical changes are made by individuals and our government.
 
Then too, I wonder about the integrity of trying to integrate people into a system and culture so intent on exploitation. From my perspective, the evangelicals’ goals have driven the militaristic, subordinating regime of the American Empire. From the very beginnings of European conquest and colonization of the Americas, the stated goal of those endeavors was to “Christianize” the heathen and the methods used were not unlike those employed during the Crusades of an earlier time. The American indigenous suffered all but total annihilation and then, after subduing all opposition in North America, the U.S. government decided to establish a global reach into South America, the Caribbean and far west into Hawaii and the Philippines and beyond. Again, the stated goal was to “Christianize” the heathen. When President McKinley, the first American president to commit troops as imperialist invaders, was asked why he intended to send American troops into armed conflict in the Philippines in the 1890s, he stated that he intended to bring Christianity to the poor souls there. When he was reminded that most Filipinos were already Roman Catholic he said, “Exactly.” Never mind that the Philippine nationalists were our allies against Spain, the U.S. betrayed them and their leader, Emelio Aguinaldo, and as a result killed tens of thousands, some say hundreds of thousands, of innocent people.
 
On and on it goes throughout U.S. history – the “Cold War” against the “godless” communists – intervention, both overt and covert, in practically every country in the world at one point or another.  A careful examination of U.S. foreign policy history reveals over 400 overt military interventions and over 6000 covert interventions, each one a violation of international law and each an act of war against a sovereign nation.

 Here’s a partial list of interventions, with the purpose of effecting “regime change,” attempted or materially supported by the United States—whether primarily by means of overt force (OF), covert operation (CO), or subverted election (SE): 


• 1893 – Hawaii (Liliuokalani; monarchist): success (OF)
• 
1912 – China (Piyu; monarchist): success (OF)
• 
1918 – Panama (Arias; center-right): success (SE) 

• 1919 – Hungary (Kun; communist): success (CO) 

• 1920 – USSR (Lenin; communist): failure (OF)
  
• 
1924 – Honduras (Carias; nationalist): success (SE)
•  
1934 – United States (Roosevelt; liberal): failure (CO)
•  
1945 – Japan (Higashikuni; rightist): success (OF)
  
• 
1946 – Thailand (Pridi; conservative): success (CO)
  
• 
1946 – Argentina (Peron; military/centrist): failure (SE)
  
• 
1947 – France (communist): success (SE)
  
• 
1947 – Philippines (center-left): success (SE)
•  
1947 – Romania (Gheorghiu-Dej; Stalinist): failure (CO)
•  
1948 – Italy (communist): success (SE)
  
• 
1948 – Colombia (Gaitan; populist/leftist): success (SE)
  
• 
1948 – Peru (Bustamante; left/centrist): success (CO)
•  
1949 – Syria (Kuwatli; neutralist/Pan-Arabist): success (CO)
  
• 
1949 – China (Mao; communist): failure (CO)
•  
1950 – Albania (Hoxha; communist): failure (CO)
•  
1951 – Bolivia (Paz; center/neutralist): success (CO)
  
• 
1951 – DPRK (Kim; stalinist): failure (OF)
  
• 
1951 – Poland (Cyrankiewicz; stalinist): failure (CO) 

• 1951 – Thailand (Phibun; conservative): success (CO)
•  
1952 – Egypt (Farouk; monarchist): success (CO) 
1952 – Cuba (Prio; reform/populist): success (CO)
•  
1952 – Lebanon (left/populist): success: (SE)
  
• 
1953 – British Guyana (left/populist): success (CO)
  
• 
1953 – Iran (Mossadegh; liberal nationalist): success (CO) 

• 1953 – Costa Rica (Figueres; reform liberal): failure (CO)
•  
1953 – Philippines (center-left): success (SE)
  
• 
1954 – Guatemala (Arbenz; liberal nationalist): success (OF)
  
• 
1955 – Costa Rica (Figueres; reform liberal): failure (CO)
  
• 
1955 – India (Nehru; neutralist/socialist): failure (CO)
  
• 
1955 – Argentina (Peron; military/centrist): success (CO)
  
• 
1955 – China (Zhou; communist): failure (CO)
  
• 
1955 – Vietnam (Ho; communist): success (SE) 
1956 – Hungary (Hegedus; communist): success (CO)
  
• 
1957 – Egypt (Nasser; military/nationalist): failure (CO)
•  
1957 – Haiti (Sylvain; left/populist): success (CO) 

• 1957 – Syria (Kuwatli; neutralist/Pan-Arabist): failure (CO) 

• 1958 – Japan (left-center): success (SE)
  
• 
1958 – Chile (leftists): success (SE) 

• 1958 – Iraq (Feisal; monarchist): success (CO) 

• 1958 – Laos (Phouma; nationalist): success (CO)
  
• 
1958 – Sudan (Sovereignty Council; nationalist): success (CO)
  
• 
1958 – Lebanon (leftist): success (SE)
  
• 
1958 – Syria (Kuwatli; neutralist/Pan-Arabist): failure (CO) 

• 1958 – Indonesia (Sukarno; militarist/neutralist): failure (SE)
  
• 
1959 – Laos (Phouma; nationalist): success (CO) 

• 1959 – Nepal (left-centrist): success (SE)
  
• 
1959 – Cambodia (Sihanouk; moderate/neutralist): failure (CO)

• 1959 – Cuba (Castro; socialist/populist): failure (CO-OF)

• 1960 – Ecuador (Ponce; left/populist): success (CO)
•  
1960 – Laos (Phouma; nationalist): success (CO)
  
• 
1960 – Iraq (Qassem; rightist /militarist): failure (CO)
• 
1960 – S. Korea (Syngman; rightist): success (CO)
  
• 
1960 – Turkey (Menderes; liberal): success (CO) 

• 1961 – Haiti (Duvalier; rightist/militarist): success (CO)
  
• 
1961 – Cuba (Castro; communist): failure (CO)
  
• 
1961 – Congo (Lumumba; leftist/pan-Africanist): success (CO)
  
• 
1961 – Dominican Republic (Trujillo; rightwing/military): success (CO) 
1962 – Brazil (Goulart; liberal/neutralist): failure (SE)
•  
1962 – Dominican Republic (left/populist): success (SE)
  
• 
1962 – Indonesia (Sukarno; militarist/neutralist): failure (CO)
•  
1963 – Dominican Republic (Bosch; social democrat): success (CO)
•  
1963 – Honduras (Montes; left/populist): success (CO)
•  
1963 – Iraq (Qassem; militarist/rightist): success (CO)
•  
1963 – S. Vietnam (Diem; rightist): success (CO) 

• 1963 – Cambodia (Sihanouk; moderate/neutralist): failure (CO) 

• 1963 – Guatemala (Ygidoras; rightist/reform): success (CO)
  
• 
1963 – Ecuador (Velasco; reform militarist): success (CO)
•  
1963 – United States (Kennedy; liberal): success (CO)
  
• 
1964 – Guyana (Jagan; populist/reformist): success (CO)
  
• 
1964 – Bolivia (Paz; centrist/neutralist): success (CO)
  
• 
1964 – Brazil (Goulart; liberal/neutralist): success (CO)
  
• 
1964 – Chile (Allende; social democrat/Marxist): success (SE)
•  
1965 – Indonesia (Sukarno; militarist/neutralist): success (CO
• ) 
1966 – Ghana (Nkrumah; leftist/pan-Africanist): success (CO) 

• 1966 – Bolivia (leftist): success (SE) 

• 1966 – France (de Gaulle; centrist): failure (CO) 

• 1967 – Greece (Papandreou; social democrat): success (CO)
•  
1968 – Iraq (Arif; rightist): success (CO) 

• 1969 – Panama (Torrijos; military/reform populist): failure (CO)
  
• 
1969 – Libya (Idris; monarchist): success (CO)
  
• 
1970 – Bolivia (Ovando; reform nationalist): success (CO)
  
• 
1970 – Cambodia (Sihanouk; moderate/neutralist): success (CO)
•  1970 – Chile (Allende; social democrat/Marxist): failure (SE) 

• 1971 – Bolivia (Torres; nationalist/neutralist): success (CO) 

• 1971 – Costa Rica (Figueres; reform liberal): failure (CO)
  
• 
1971 – Liberia (Tubman; rightist): success (CO) 

• 1971 – Turkey (Demirel; center-right): success (CO) 

• 1971 – Uruguay (Frente Amplio; leftist): success (SE)
  
• 
1972 – El Salvador (leftist): success (SE)
  
• 1972 – Australia (Whitlam; liberal/labor): failure (SE) 

• 1973 – Chile (Allende; social democrat/Marxist): success (CO)
•  
1974 – United States (Nixon; centrist): success (CO)
•  
1975 – Australia (Whitlam; liberal/labor): success (CO)
•  
1975 – Congo (Mobutu; military/rightist): failure (CO)
•  
1975 – Bangladesh (Mujib; nationalist): success (CO)
•  
1976 – Jamaica (Manley; social democrat): failure (SE)
•  
1976 – Portugal (military/leftist): success (SE)
  
• 1976 – Nigeria (Mohammed; military/nationalist): success (CO)
•  
1976 – Thailand (rightist): success (CO)
•  
1976 – Uruguay (Bordaberry; center-right): success (CO) 

• 1977 – Pakistan (Bhutto: center/nationalist): success (CO) 

• 1978 – Dominican Republic (Balaguer; center): success (SE) 

• 1979 – S. Korea (Park; rightist): success (CO) 

• 1979 – Nicaragua (Sandinistas; leftist): failure (CO)
  
• 
1980 – Bolivia (Siles; centrist/reform): success (CO) 

• 1980 – Iran (Khomeini; Islamic nationalist): failure (CO) 

• 1980 – Italy (leftist): success (SE)
  
• 
1980 – Liberia (Tolbert; rightist): success (CO)
•  
1980 – Jamaica (Manley; social democrat): success (SE)
•  
1980 – Dominica (Seraphin; leftist): success (SE)
• 
1980 – Turkey (Demirel; center-right): success (CO)
•  
1981 – Seychelles (René; socialist): failure (CO)
•  
1981 – Spain (Suarez; rightist/neutralist): failure (CO)
  
• 
1981 – Panama (Torrijos; military/reform populist); success (CO)
  
• 
1981 – Zambia (Kaunda; reform nationalist): failure (CO)
•  
1982 – Mauritius (center-left): failure (SE)
  
• 
1982 – Spain (Suarez; rightist/neutralist): success (SE)
  
• 
1982 – Iran (Khomeini; Islamic nationalist): failure (CO) 

• 1982 – Chad (Oueddei; Islamic nationalist): success (CO)
  
• 
1983 – Mozambique (Machel; socialist): failure (CO)
•  
1983 – Grenada (Bishop; socialist): success (OF) 

• 1984 – Panama (reform/centrist): success (SE)
•  
1984 – Nicaragua (Sandinistas; leftist): failure (SE)
•  
1984 – Surinam (Bouterse; left/reformist/neutralist): success (CO)
  
• 1984 – India (Gandhi; nationalist): success (CO)
  
• 
1986 – Libya (Qaddafi; Islamic nationalist): failure (OF) 

• 1987 – Fiji (Bavrada; liberal): success (CO)
•  
1989 – Panama (Noriega; military/reform populist): success (OF) 

• 1990 – Haiti (Aristide; liberal reform): failure (SE)
• 
1990 – Nicaragua (Ortega; Christian socialist): success (SE)
  
• 
1991 – Albania (Alia; communist): success (SE) 

• 1991 – Haiti (Aristide; liberal reform): success (CO) 

• 1991 – Iraq (Hussein; military/rightist): failure (OF)
  
• 
1991 – Bulgaria (communist): success (SE)
  
• 
1992 – Afghanistan (Najibullah; communist): success (CO)
•  
1993 – Somalia (Aidid; right/militarist): failure (OF)
  
• 1993 – Cambodia (Han Sen/CPP; leftist): failure (SE) 

• 1993 – Burundi (Ndadaye; conservative): success (CO)
•  
1993 – Azerbaijan (Elchibey; reformist): success (CO) 

• 1994 – El Salvador (leftist): success (SE)
  
• 
1994 – Rwanda (Habyarimana; conservative): success (CO) 

• 1994 – Ukraine (Kravchuk; center-left): success (SE)
  
• 
1995 – Iraq (Hussein; military/rightist): failure (CO)
  
• 
1996 – Bosnia (Karadzic; centrist): success (CO)
  
• 
1996 – Russia (Zyuganov; communist): success (SE) 

• 1996 – Congo (Mobutu; military/rightist): success (CO)
•  
1996 – Mongolia (center-left): success (SE) 

• 1998 – Congo (Kabila; rightist/military): success (CO) 

• 1998 – United States (Clinton; conservative): failure (CO) 

• 1998 – Indonesia (Suharto; military/rightist): success (CO)
  
• 
1999 – Yugoslavia (Milosevic; left/nationalist): success (SE)
•  
2000 – United States (Gore; conservative): success (SE) 

• 2000 – Ecuador (leftist): success: (CO) 

• 2001 – Afghanistan (Omar; rightist/Islamist): success (OF) 

• 2001 – Belarus (Lukashenko; leftist): failure (SE)
  
• 
2001 – Nicaragua (Ortega; Christian socialist): success (SE)
•  
2001 – Nepal (Birendra; nationalist/monarchist): success (CO)
•  
2002 – Venezuela (Chavez; reform-populist): failure (CO)
  
• 
2002 – Bolivia (Morales; leftist/MAS): success (SE) 

• 2002 – Brazil (Lula; center-left): failure (SE)
 

• The following is a partial list of atrocities, massacres, murders, and injuries in recent history for which the largest, most deadly, most deceptive terrorist network the world has ever seen is responsible:


•  3,000,000 Vietnamese murdered over the course of about 30 years of US aggression.
• Well over 300,000 Japanese were massacred when the US raided Tokyo and dropped nuclear bombs on the urban civilian areas of Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

•  600,000 civilians were killed in Cambodia by US bombing between 1969 and 1975.
• 
 Over 500,000 people were killed in Laos when America subjected civilians to "secret bombing" from 1964 to 1973, dropping over two million tons of bombs on the country. Over one fourth of the population also became refugees.

•  100,000 people were murdered in South Korea prior to the Korean War by a brutal repression supported by US forces in 1945. This includes between 30,000 and 40,000 killed during the suppression of a peasant revolt on Cheju Island
• . Up to 4,500,000 Koreans were killed from 1951 to 1953 during America's massive slaughter in the Korean War
•  200,000 were murdered when the Philippines were conquered by American forces. (This took place just over 100 years ago.)
• 
 23,000 people were slaughtered in Taiwan by US-backed, trained, equipped, and funded forces (Chiang's Nationalist army) during the late 1940s.

•  700,000 Indonesians (mostly landless peasants) were murdered in 1965 when the US armed and supported General Suharto.
• 
200,000 were slaughtered in East Timor in 1975 by General Suharto with US support.
• 
 750,000 civilians were driven from their homes in East Timor by Indonesian forces in 1999 and 10,000 were killed with U.S. support.

•  Over 1,700,000 Iraqis have been killed by US bombings and sanctions, mostly women and children.
• 
 Over 1,000,000 lives were lost during the Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s in which the US used direct force and supported Hussein and Iraq
• .
35,000 Kurds were killed, 3,500 villages were destroyed, and between 2,000,000 and 3,000,000 became homeless as a result of aggression by Turkey with US arming and training in the 1990s
• .
Over 1,000,000 people were killed in Afghanistan's civil war from 1979 to 1992, in which the US strongly supported the Moujahedeen, the most violent and sadistic of the forces. (This also set the stage for the CIA-backed Taliban to attain power.)

  
• 45,000 people were killed in South Lebanon since 1982 by Israel, always armed and supported by the US.

  
• Hundreds of thousands have been killed in Palestine and millions (in both Palestine and Lebanon) were made refugees by US-backed Israel.

• • Over 150,000 were killed in Greece when America advised, equipped, and financed violent interventions in the late 1940s and late 1960s.
• 
• Over 75,000 civilians were killed and over one million refugees were created in El Salvador from 1980 to 1994 when the US intensely supported the efforts of a brutal regime and its death squads to eliminate a popular uprising
• .
• 40,000 civilians were killed by the US-backed National Guard in Nicaragua over the course of almost 50 years.

• • 30,000 lives were killed by the US contras in Nicaragua from 1979 to 1989.
• 
• 200,000 Guatemalans were slaughtered from 1960-1990s by a military apparatus trained, armed, funded, and assisted by America.
• 
• Over 35,000 Colombian civilians have been killed during the US-supported Columbian war against left-wing rebels
• .
• More than 4,000 innocent civilians were killed in Panama during the US invasion in 1989.

• • Hundreds of thousands were killed by US direct and indirect interventions in Brazil, Chile, Uruguay, Peru, and Argentina from the mid 60s through the 80s
• 
• 50,000 Haitians were killed when the US military destroyed a peasant uprising in 1915
• .
• Between 4,000 and 5,000 Haitians were killed in the early 1990s by US-established forces
• .
• Thousands were killed in the Dominican Republic during the 1960s when US and Dominican troops crushed a pro-Bosch rebellion.

• • Over 3,000 were killed and countless others injured by US interventions in Cuba.
• Hundreds were killed or injured when the US invaded Grenada in 1983.

• • Over 50,000 Somalians were killed between 1978 and 1990 by US-supported Siad Barre.

• • Up to 10,000 more Somalians were killed by US troops during America's "humanitarian mission" in 1993.

• • In the US-supported Rwandan genocide, an estimated 800,000 people were killed in just 100 days in 1994.
• 
• Over 300,000 were killed and 80,000 were crippled in Angola from a US-supported civil war.
• 
• Tens of thousands were killed and up to 200,000 were tortured in Chad by Hissen Habre with US support during the 1980's.
• 
• 1,500,000 were killed between 1980 and 1988 in southern Africa by the US-armed South Africa.
 


Join the Houseliss email list serv

posted May 15, 2011
by Geof_Bard

CHIT stands for Citizens - Houseless - Information - Team CHIT means Christ-conscious Hope for Intentional Transcendence CHIT is Coalitioning Homeless with the Indigenous of Turtle-island California Houseless Information Team Oppression against the so-called"Homeless" and oppression against the so-called "Illegal Aliens" are of one evil substance, which can only be conquered by the power of love People who lack housing face a wall of discrimination, exploitation, harassment and a grinding oppression comparable to the state of the Jews under Pharaoh. People who lack work authorization papers face that same wall. Yet the Torah, the Gospel and the Holy Qu'ran clearly enjoin kindness to the poor and the "exile" or "the alien in thy midst". Clearly, God is on the side of the downtrodden. Joshua fought the battle of Jericho with drums and trumpets, and the walls came tumbling down. This project is an outgrowth of Abrahamic interfaith praxis as commonly practiced in the USA but is accessible to "non-religious" and will remain task oriented. The great exemplars of "war without violence" - Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Deitrich Bonhoeffer- offer an insurpassable model of satyagaha. Hence, we will emphasize the common core shared by the great faiths in this struggle. Structured such that people who dislike religion will find only that core message of hope and justice and no preaching, sermonizing or hocus pocus. And who knows, maybe the uplifting vision of personal Diety will inspire you, too. But the matter at hand is urgent as more Americans - and people in other countries. California Houseless Information Team CoCreating Hope: Intentiona

CHIT is

California Houseless Information Team

Oppression against the so-called"Homeless" and oppression against other vulnerable populations are of one evil substance, which can only be conquered by the power of love

People who lack housing face a wall of discrimination, exploitation, harassment and a grinding oppression comparable to the state of the Jews under Pharaoh.

People who lack work authorization papers face that same wall.

Yet the Torah, the Gospel and the Holy Qu'ran clearly enjoin kindness to the poor and the "exile" or "the alien in thy midst". Clearly, God is on the side of the downtrodden. Joshua fought the battle of Jericho with drums and trumpets, and the walls came tumbling down.

This project is an outgrowth of Abrahamic interfaith praxis as commonly practiced in the USA but is accessible to "non-religious" and will remain task oriented. The great exemplars of "war without violence" - Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Deitrich Bonhoeffer- offer an insurpassable model of satyagaha. Hence, we will emphasize the common core shared by the great faiths in this struggle.

Structured such that people who dislike religion will find only that core message of hope and justice and no preaching, sermonizing or hocus pocus. And who knows, maybe the uplifting vision of personal Diety will inspire you, too. But the matter at hand is urgent as more Americans - and people in other countries.

California Houseless Information Team is linked at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/C_H_I_T

NPR Evaluation of Common Ground approach to Homelessness Posted - Fri Apr 22, 2011 8:33 pm	C_H_I_T-owner@yahoogr... Send Email
New medically-driven model for prioritizing med/homeless placements Homeless Vulnerability Index From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Jump to: navigation, search "Vulnerability index" redirects here. For other uses, see Posted - Sat Mar 12, 2011 8:31 pm	C_H_I_T-owner@yahoogr... Send Email
Dear Yahoo Tech Support. I set this up under an old account which I forgot the password (homelessunited@...) I also made other people moderators but usually do the work myself. I Posted - Sat Mar 12, 2011 7:52 pm	legaleagleandtheclaws... legaleaglean... Offline
Action Alert: Critical Homeless Funding Increase McKinney Vento Funding for FY 2011! Join us in writing letters to your Congressman, asking them to support a funding level of $2.4 billion for Posted - Wed Feb 9, 2011 2:04 am	the_policy_wonk Send IM
THE FOURTEEN MINDFULNESS TRAININGS OF THE ORDER OF INTERBEING THE FOURTEEN MINDFULNESS TRAININGS OF THE ORDER OF INTERBEING The First Mindfulness Training: Openness Aware of the suffering created by fanaticism and

CHIT stands for Citizens - Houseless - Information - Team CHIT means Christ-conscious Hope for Intentional Transcendence CHIT is Coalitioning Homeless with the Indigenous of Turtle-island California Houseless Information Team Oppression against the so-called"Homeless" and oppression against the so-called "Illegal Aliens" are of one evil substance, which can only be conquered by the power of love People who lack housing face a wall of discrimination, exploitation, harassment and a grinding oppression comparable to the state of the Jews under Pharaoh. People who lack work authorization papers face that same wall. Yet the Torah, the Gospel and the Holy Qu'ran clearly enjoin kindness to the poor and the "exile" or "the alien in thy midst". Clearly, God is on the side of the downtrodden. Joshua fought the battle of Jericho with drums and trumpets, and the walls came tumbling down. This project is an outgrowth of Abrahamic interfaith praxis as commonly practiced in the USA but is accessible to "non-religious" and will remain task oriented. The great exemplars of "war without violence" - Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Deitrich Bonhoeffer- offer an insurpassable model of satyagaha. Hence, we will emphasize the common core shared by the great faiths in this struggle. Structured such that people who dislike religion will find only that core message of hope and justice and no preaching, sermonizing or hocus pocus. And who knows, maybe the uplifting vision of personal Diety will inspire you, too. But the matter at hand is urgent as more Americans - and people in other countries. California Houseless Information Team CoCreating Hope: Intentiona

NPR Evaluation of Common Ground approach to Homelessness Posted - Fri Apr 22, 2011 8:33 pm	C_H_I_T-owner@yahoogr... Send Email
New medically-driven model for prioritizing med/homeless placements Homeless Vulnerability Index From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Jump to: navigation, search "Vulnerability index" redirects here. For other uses, see Posted - Sat Mar 12, 2011 8:31 pm	C_H_I_T-owner@yahoogr... Send Email
Dear Yahoo Tech Support. I set this up under an old account which I forgot the password (homelessunited@...) I also made other people moderators but usually do the work myself. I Posted - Sat Mar 12, 2011 7:52 pm	legaleagleandtheclaws... legaleaglean... Offline
Action Alert: Critical Homeless Funding Increase McKinney Vento Funding for FY 2011! Join us in writing letters to your Congressman, asking them to support a funding level of $2.4 billion for Posted - Wed Feb 9, 2011 2:04 am	the_policy_wonk Send IM
THE FOURTEEN MINDFULNESS TRAININGS OF THE ORDER OF INTERBEING THE FOURTEEN MINDFULNESS TRAININGS OF THE ORDER OF INTERBEING The First Mindfulness Training: Openness Aware of the suffering created by fanaticism and

NPR Evaluation of Common Ground approach to Homelessness Posted - Fri Apr 22, 2011 8:33 pm	C_H_I_T-owner@yahoogr... Send Email
New medically-driven model for prioritizing med/homeless placements Homeless Vulnerability Index From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Jump to: navigation, search "Vulnerability index" redirects here. For other uses, see Posted - Sat Mar 12, 2011 8:31 pm	C_H_I_T-owner@yahoogr... Send Email
Dear Yahoo Tech Support. I set this up under an old account which I forgot the password (homelessunited@...) I also made other people moderators but usually do the work myself. I Posted - Sat Mar 12, 2011 7:52 pm	legaleagleandtheclaws... legaleaglean... Offline
Action Alert: Critical Homeless Funding Increase McKinney Vento Funding for FY 2011! Join us in writing letters to your Congressman, asking them to support a funding level of $2.4 billion for Posted - Wed Feb 9, 2011 2:04 am	the_policy_wonk Send IM
THE FOURTEEN MINDFULNESS TRAININGS OF THE ORDER OF INTERBEING THE FOURTEEN MINDFULNESS TRAININGS OF THE ORDER OF INTERBEING The First Mindfulness Training: Openness Aware of the suffering created by fanaticism and

Running As An Independent

posted May 12, 2011
by Nancy E. Kapp

May 10th, 2011

     The Democratic Party did not endorse me. However, I'm still running for City Council in 2011. I am now running as an Independent. It's actually a blessing in disguise because as an Independent, I have more freedom to talk about the issues facing Santa Barbara. One of my greatest concerns is how the economy is affecting the middle class and how many more people will lose their jobs and places to live. How will middle class folks handle living out of their vehicles?  What can we do as a city to prevent these harsh realities? We need to come together and find solutions for prevention before it’s too late. It does not matter what your party preference is. This is not about divisions and promises, it's about action.
     I want to work with everyone to find progressive solutions. It doesn't matter if you're homeless or a millionaire. The truth is that our federal government is not going to rescue us and we need to save ourselves. There is a lot of work to do but together the storm will not be as hard to weather. It is not about what I will do as a Councilmember, it's about what we're going to do together. I hope you join me on this amazing journey.

Thank you.

Nancy E. Kapp
Candidate for City Council 2011

Photo by Nick St.Oegger

My Memories of Brandon

posted May 11, 2011
by Jeff Shaffer

    So, the phone calls came Saturday and the news was that Brandon had died. The autopsy results have yet to come back to us, but we know that he passed away loved and housed and hopeful. It does not make it any easier for us, and our loss is still extreme – but we are glad that our friend had a new lease on life before he left us, and we fully acknowledge that he taught us more than we gave him.
     I originally met Brandon (“Irish”) at Alameda Park, before we multiplied a new meal sharing to Pershing Park. He was traveling through with a larger group of friends – I remember a good number of friends and a good number of dogs.  I remember we hit it off right away as Brandon is extremely open and easy to talk with. He and I became good friends quickly.
     He may well have been one of the folks who told me about Pershing Park, and that we should do something there.
     When I had my birthday party at Alameda Park once (trying to mix all my worlds), he gave me a birthday card with an angry nun. I don’t remember what it said, but I remember the angry nun.  He told me he was glad I was not an angry nun…
     So we continued our friendship at Pershing Park. His issue at the time was certainly alcohol. His childhood was full of different homes and his adulthood was the streets. He built strong bonds with street friends and housed friends like our little team of Pershing homed vagabonds.  He would detox and relapse.
    I would always see him at the point of his relapse. He called me his angel for awhile, which I certainly dismissed and still do (it may actually have been the other way around)
    I remember one time walking East Beach with my family and I could see Brandon hiding from me behind a tree . . he did not want me to see him as he had just relapsed. But it never changed my feelings or opinions about him because I knew who he is at the point of his soul. He extended grace to me and so I did to him.
    One night at Pershing I never actually made it to the park because he was suicidal. I called 911 and we did a little dance as he tried to leave several times before the police and a mental health worker arrived and I had to chase him around to keep him within distance of me and those trying to help. We laughed about it later but that night was a critical situation.  It turned out to be the turning point of his recovery… because he never went back to life on the street after that.
    His new lease on life began with the team at Holy Chaos, with new friends at a sober living home, work with wonderful free spirits at Fat Uncle Farms and a woman and children he loved and who loved him.  A new spring board of spiritual awareness and questioning came too…
    I would still have lunch with Brandon.  He bought me tacos once but did not tell  me that one of them was cow tongue or something like that…
    It bugged him that I did not answer my cell phone (as it does many of you). It bugs my superego as well.
    Friends are telling me that his last week of life was full of power and new wonderful decisions.  His prayers were strong and being answered. He talked of marriage.  Kids who loved him helped tuck him into bed the last night of his life.
    I don’t think I am ready to say goodbye to Brandon.  I don’t think I really can right now. It is too hard for me to believe; I am in denial. I think maybe it will all come out at his memorial. I am not sure.  Writing this may be my way of saying good-bye.
    And so can everyone understand the value of the Pershing Park meal sharing – of the discovery of human gems on the streets? It is not a bunch of super generous saints giving to the poor. It is a learning curve for us.  Every human has incredible value before God, and many of our street friends are invisible to the world.
    Brandon wanted to be known for who he is, not boxed in by his years on the streets.  His years on the streets gave him insights and love for his fellow travelers, many of whom he worked to get into Fat Uncle Farms and tried to help in various ways.  But he wanted to be known for being Brandon and was stepping more and more into who he was and could be…
    No matter what, he now leaves behind a legacy.  He has taught us much, and many of us have plans on how to keep his memory alive and continue on earth what he was passionate about.
   Brandon was one of the original Pershing Park friends, who has opened the door to continual friendship with all our neighbors.  We will all miss him greatly – and I expect to see him on the other side.
    We were supposed to have lunch today. The last text I received from him was twofold: he asked if he could invite some other people to the lunch and he told me he loved me.  Classic Brandon – increasing the circle and telling me he loved me…
    The two most like God things – increasing the scope of the party and letting everyone know that His love is free.

Jeff Shaffer is founder of the Uffizi Mission Project and the Pershing Park mean sharing program. He is also a co-leader of Common Ground Santa Barbara.

Photo of Gator, at the left, and Brandon was provided by Jeff Shaffer.

Homeless Times call for Homeless Measures: Spring is in the Air

posted May 10, 2011
by kryptomike

Over the past few weeks, I have spent most days checking in on my father.  I say most morning because there are times when I stop by to see him and he is not there.  He is usually in his room, downstairs in the cafeteria, or walking his normal route around town.  Being the man he is, my dad will often change his routine to be sure he cannot be found. 

When we do leave his complex and into the public, I can't help but notice the amount of homeless I see walking around.  Why not?  Santa Barbara is home to some of the perfect weather many have ever seen.   I have met countless people who have come to visit and never leave.

Many homeless I see each day vary from age and stage of homelessness in their lives.  Last week I saw a couple with dogs buying breakfast downtown.  I couldn't help but notice the smiles on their faces.  The sun is shining and they are about to have a much needed meal.  For a split second, I daydreamed and had the smiles of every homeless person who could be enjoying a good meal flash in my head.  It made me smile as well.

Last week I also did something I hadn't done in a long time; give a homeless person money.  I remembered that couple from earlier and thought I could bring a smile to the next person I saw.  Shame on me!  The following day, this same person approached me and didn't remember me from the day before.  It is difficult to help someone who cannot remember the help you tried to provide. 

As defined by Wikipedia (www.wikipedia.org), Spring (the season) is one of the four temperate seasons, the transition period between winter and summer. Spring and "springtime" refer to the season, and broadly to ideas of rebirth, renewal and regrowth. The specific definition of the exact timing of "spring" varies according to local climate, cultures and customs. At the spring equinox, days are close to 12 hours long with day length increasing as the season progresses.

Now is the time to plant our seeds for rebirth and regrowth.  Our days are getting longer which means we have more time to put in for only a short amount of time.  Seeing the smiles on faces provides enough light to shine for an entire day. 

Have you made a homeless person smile today?

Michele A. Zaragoza

Author

Ref: www.wikipedia.org

Contra Francisco

posted May 03, 2011
by waronthecastlePEACEINTHEVILLAGE

Earlier reports that an individual who denounced Councilman Dale Francisco's glowing recommendation of renewed use of state mental hospitals and electroshock therapy for the homeless have been disputed in that the individual who freely admitted to "disrupting" contends that he was "staging a walkout" and was not required to leave the Universal Unitarian Church presentation "Beyond Socks and Blankets". According to information received by Homelessinsb.org, the individual who confronted Dale Francisco during the talk contends that he had returned to retrieve his auto mechanics textbook, only, "silently" and that any "verbiage" issuing from any other person did not constitute any "additional disturbance" of any kind.

Homelessinsb.org is requested to also publish the following text "in rebuttal to Francisco's 'Shocks Not Socks'". All material on this website is the opinion of the writer and homelessinsb.org neither endorses nor refutes same.

**********************

Harmful effects of Shock Therapy

Creative Commons License from wikipedia - use, modify at will

Aside from effects in the brain, the general physical risks of ECT are similar to those of brief general anesthesia; the United States' Surgeon General's report says that there are "no absolute health contraindications" to its use.^[27] Immediately following treatment the most common adverse effects are confusion and memory loss. The state of confusion usually disappears after a few hours. It can be tolerated by pregnant women who are not suffering major complications. It can be used with diabetic or obese patients, and with caution in those whose cancers are in remission or under control. It can be used in some immunocompromised patients. It must be used very cautiously in people with epilepsy or other neurological disorders because by its nature it provokes small tonic-clonic seizures, and so would likely not be given to a person whose epilepsy is not well-controlled.^[31][32] Some patients experience muscle soreness after ECT. This is due to the muscle relaxants given during the procedure and rarely due to muscle activity. The death rate due to ECT is around 4 per 100,000 procedures.^[33]

[edit] Effects on memory

It is the purported effects of ECT on long-term memory that give rise to much of the concern surrounding its use.^[34] The acute effects of ECT can include amnesia, both retrograde (for events occurring before the treatment) and anterograde (for events occurring after the treatment).^[35] However, the vast majority of these effects are short lived. Memory loss and confusion are more pronounced with bilateral electrode placement rather than unilateral, and with outdated sine-wave rather than brief-pulse currents. The vast majority of modern treatment uses brief pulse currents.^[35] Research by Harold Sackeim has shown that excessive current causes more risk for memory loss, and using right-sided electrode placement may reduce verbal memory disturbance.^[36]

Retrograde amnesia is most marked for events occurring in the weeks or months before treatment, with one study showing that although some people lose memories from years prior to treatment, recovery of such memories was "virtually complete" by seven months post-treatment, with the only enduring loss being memories in the weeks and months prior to the treatment.^[37][38] Anterograde memory loss is usually limited to the time of treatment itself or shortly afterwards. In the weeks and months following ECT these memory problems gradually improve, but some people have persistent losses, especially with bilateral ECT.^[1][35] One published review summarizing the results of questionnaires about subjective memory loss found that between 29% and 55% of respondents believed they experienced long-lasting or permanent memory changes.^[39] In 2000, American psychiatrist Sarah Lisanby and colleagues found that bilateral ECT left patients with more persistently impaired memory of public events as compared to RUL ECT.^[34]

Some studies have found that patients are often unaware of cognitive deficits induced by ECT.^[40][41] For example, in June 2008, a Duke University study^[40] was published assessing the neuropsychological effects and attitudes in patients after ECT. Forty-six patients participated in the study, which involved neuropsychological and psychological testing before and after ECT. The study documented substantial cognitive impairment after ECT on a variety of memory tests, including "verbal memory for word lists and prose passages and visual memory of geometric designs." The study further found that a significant number of patients believed that their memory had improved after ECT despite the fact that neuropsychological testing clearly showed the opposite. As stated by the researchers, "Indeed, there was a slight trend towards [patients reporting] improved memory functioning, despite the objective neuropsychological data indicating significantly lower recognition and delayed recall." Based on their findings, the authors issued the following recommendation:

"When ECT is provided to adolescents, the potential impact of such cognitive changes should be discussed with the patients and their parents or guardians in terms of implications for not only the patient’s emotional functioning but cognitive functioning as well, particularly upon his or her academic performance. In summary, we argue that an individual cost-benefit analysis should be made in light of the implications of the potential benefits versus costs of ECT upon improving emotional functioning and the impact that potential memory changes may have on real-world functioning and quality of life."^[40]

Severe memory loss from ECT is described in an autobiographical book, Doctors of Deception: What They Don't Want You to Know about Shock Treatment.^[42]

[edit] Controversy over long-term effects on general cognition

According to prominent ECT researcher Harold Sackeim, "despite over fifty years of clinical use and ongoing controversy", until 2007 there had "never been a large-scale, prospective study of the cognitive effects of ECT."^[43] In this first-ever large-scale study (347 subjects), Sackeim and colleagues found that at least some forms (namely bilateral application and outdated sine-wave currents) of ECT "routine[ly]" lead to "adverse cognitive effects," including global cognitive deficits and memory loss, that persist for up to six months after treatment, suggesting that the induced deficits may be permanent.^[43][44] The authors also warned that their findings did not suggest that right-unilateral ECT did not also lead to chronic cognitive deficits. However, the several limitations of this study include the lack of a depressed control group with which to compare memory decay over 6 months. The measure of autobiographical memory used, the Columbia Autobiographical Short-Form (AMI-SF) is not capable of showing memory improvement, with scores at followup expressed as percentages of baseline.

Harold Sackeim can be seen in a videotaped deposition briefly discussing the findings of this study and why, in his opinion, earlier studies had failed to find evidence of long-term harm from ECT.^[45] Despite over fifty years of clinical use, Sackeim states that prior to 2001, "the field itself never really had an opportunity to have a discussion about patients who have complaints about long-term memory loss." In this video clip, Sackeim also reveals that at a California ECT conference with 200 practitioners present, when polled as to whether they think ECT can lead to chronic cognitive deficits, two-thirds raised their hands. Sackeim says this was "almost a watershed moment for the field", and was the "first time publicly that the field itself said 'no' to the position that it can't happen."^[45][46]

In July 2007, a second study was published concluding that ECT routinely leads to chronic, substantial cognitive deficits, and the findings were not limited to any particular forms of ECT.^[47] The study, led by psychiatrist Glenda MacQueen and colleagues, found that patients treated with ECT for bipolar disorder show marked deficits across multiple cognitive domains. According to the researchers, "Subjects who had received remote ECT had further impairment on a variety of learning and memory tests when compared with patients with no past ECT. This degree of impairment could not be accounted for by illness state at the time of assessment or by differential past illness burden between patient groups." Despite the findings of chronic, global cognitive deficits in post-ECT patients, MacQueen and colleagues suggest that it is "unlikely that such findings, even if confirmed, would significantly change the risk–benefit ratio of this notably effective treatment."^[47]

Six months after the publication of the Sackeim study^[43] documenting routine, long-term memory loss after ECT, prominent ECT researcher Max Fink published a review in the journal Psychosomatics concluding that patient complaints of memory loss after ECT are "rare" and should be "characterized as somatoform disorders, rather than as evidence of brain damage, thus warranting psychological treatment for such disorders."^[48] Based on his findings, Fink suggests that, "Instead of endorsing these reports as the direct consequence of ECT, especially in patients who have recovered from their depressive illness, lost their suicidal drive, and have improved social functioning, is it not more useful to accept the complaint as a somatoform disorder, explore the basis in the individual’s history and experience, and offer appropriate supportive treatment?"^[48]

Most recent reviews of the literature and other articles continue to characterize ECT as safe and effective.^{[49][50][51][52][53][54][55][56]} For example, in June 2009, Portuguese researchers published a review on the safety and efficacy of ECT in an article entitled, Electroconvulsive Therapy: Myths and Evidences.^[49] In their review, the researchers conclude that ECT is an "efficient, safe and even life saving treatment for several psychiatric disorders." In 2008, Yale researchers published a review on the safety and efficacy of ECT in elderly patients.^[56] According to the authors, "ECT is well established as a safe and effective treatment for several psychiatric disorders." And in a June 2009 article published in the Journal of ECT, Iranian researchers observe that, "Despite the wide consensus over the safety and efficacy of electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), it still faces negative publicity and unfavorable attitudes of patients and families."^[55]

Psychiatrist Peter Breggin, chief editor of the journal Ethical Human Psychology and Psychiatry, is a leading critic of ECT who believes the procedure is neither safe nor effective. In a published article reviewing the findings of Harold Sackeim's 2007 study^[43] on the cognitive effects of ECT, Breggin accuses Max Fink and other pro-ECT researchers of having a history of "systematically covering up damage done to millions of [ECT] patients throughout the world."^[44] He disagrees with the position that findings of chronic, global cognitive deficits should have no bearing on the risk-benefit ratio of ECT, and he believes it's important to address the "actual impact of these losses on the lives of individual patients." In a section of his paper entitled Destroying Lives, Dr. Breggin writes, "Even when these injured people can continue to function on a superficial social basis, they nonetheless suffer devastation of their identities due to the obliteration of key aspects of their personal lives. The loss of the ability to retain and learn new material is not only humiliating and depressing but also disabling. Even when relatively subtle, these activities can disrupt routine activities of living."^[44]

A study published in 2004 in the Journal of Mental Health reported that 35 to 42% of patients responding to a questionnaire reported ECT resulted in loss of intelligence.^[57] The study also reported, "There is no overlap between clinical and consumer studies on the question of benefit."

Doctors of Deception: What They Don't Want You to Know About Shock Treatment reports before-and-after IQ testing of persons receiving ECT, including the author, that show 30 to 40 point losses.^[42]

A recent opinion article by a neuropsychologist and a psychiatrist in Dublin suggests that ECT patients who experience cognitive problems following ECT should be offered some form of cognitive rehabilitation. The authors say that the failure to attempt to rehabilitate patients may be partly responsible for the negative public image of ECT. The article speculates on what aspects of such rehabilitation might be useful, without reviewing the literature on its presence or absence.^[58]

[edit] Effects on brain structure

Considerable controversy exists over the effects of ECT on brain tissue although a number of mental health associations, including the American Psychiatric Association, have concluded that there is no evidence that ECT causes structural brain damage.^[19][59][60] A 1999 report by the United States Surgeon General states, "The fears that ECT causes gross structural brain pathology have not been supported by decades of methodologically sound research in both humans and animals".^[6] However, the word "gross" is a synonym for major, leaving the possibility open for real brain damage which the US Surgeon General considers minor. However, not all experts agree that ECT does not cause brain damage, and two studies have been published since 2007 finding that at least some forms of ECT may result in widespread, persisting, generalized cognitive dysfunction, which might support claims that ECT causes brain damage.^[43][47][61]

A leading critic of ECT, psychiatrist Peter Breggin has published books and journalistic reviews of the literature purporting to show that ECT routinely causes brain damage as evidenced by a considerable list of studies in humans and animals.^[62] In particular, Dr. Breggin asserts that animal and human autopsy studies have shown that ECT routinely causes ‘widespread pinpoint hemorrhages and scattered cell death.’^[61] According to Dr. Breggin, the 1990 APA task force report on ECT ignored much of the scientific literature pointing out the negative effects of electroshock therapy. For example, in 1952 Hans Hartelius conducted and published an animal study on cats entitled Cerebral Changes Following Electrically Induced Convulsions in which a double-blind microscopic pathology examination showed that it was possible to distinguish the 8 shocked animals from the 8 non-shocked animals with remarkable accuracy based on statistically significant structural changes to the brain, including vessel wall changes, gliosis, and nerve cell changes. Based on the detection of shadow cells and neuronophagia, Hartelius determined that there was irreversible damage to neurons associated with electroshock.^[61]

Proponents argue that the addition of hyperoxygenation and refinement in technique in the last thirty years has made ECT safe, and a majority of published reviews in recent decades have reflected this position.^[63] In a 2004 study designed to evaluate whether modern ECT techniques lead to identifiable brain damage, twelve monkeys underwent daily electroshock for six weeks under conditions meant to simulate human ECT; the animals were then sacrificed and their brains were compared to monkeys undergoing anesthesia alone. According to the researchers, "None of the ECT-treated monkeys showed pathological findings."^[64]

There are recent animal studies that have documented significant brain damage after an electroshock series. For example, in 2005, Russian researchers published a study entitled, Electroconvulsive Shock Induces Neuron Death in the Mouse Hippocampus: Correlation of Neurodegeneration with Convulsive Activity. In this study, the researchers found that after an electroshock series, there was a significant loss of neurons in parts of the brain and particularly in defined parts of the hippocampus where up to 10% of neurons were killed. The researchers conclude that "the main cause of neuron death is convulsions evoked by electric shocks."^[65] In 2008, Portuguese researchers conducted a rat study aimed at answering the question of whether an electroshock series causes structural changes in vulnerable parts of the brain.^[66] According to the authors, "This study answers positively the question of whether repeated administration of ECS seizures can cause brain lesions. Our data are consistent with findings from other animal models and from human studies in showing that neurons located in the entorhinal cortex and in the hilus of the dentate gyrus are particularly vulnerable to repeated seizures." However, they question the applicability of their own research with respect to Electroconvulsive therapy in humans: "An important caveat of our results is that it is unclear to what extent they are relevant to the use of electroconvulsive therapy in psychiatry, because the protocol employed in this study is different from that used clinically. Evidence from previous studies (Gombos et al., [1999]; Vaidya et al., [1999]) and from our pilot experiments indicates that treating rats either with five to ten widely spaced ECS (at 24- or 48-hr schedules) or with two stimulations only 2 hr apart does not lead to loss of hippocampal neurons".^[66]

Many expert proponents of ECT maintain that the procedure is safe and does not cause brain damage. Dr. Charles Kellner, a prominent ECT researcher and former chief editor of the Journal of ECT states in a recent published interview that, "There are a number of well-designed studies that show ECT does not cause brain damage and numerous reports of patients who have received a large number of treatments over their lifetime and have suffered no significant problems due to ECT."^[67] Dr. Kellner cites specifically to a study purporting to show an absence of cognitive impairment in eight subjects after more than 100 lifetime ECT treatments.^[68] One of the authors of the cited study, Harold Sackeim, published a large-scale study less than a month after this interview concluding that the type of ECT used in the eight patients receiving the 100 lifetime treatments, bilateral sine wave, routinely leads to persistent, global cognitive deficits^[43]

Please link or repaste this properly

posted May 03, 2011
by waronthecastlePEACEINTHEVILLAGE

http://homelessinsb.org/wikis_view.cfm?id=192

That does not appear on the article mainpage, nobody sees it, it looks bad and is an embarassment to the cause. There is no reason for the mainpage to have a truncated version please fix this blog.

About Homelessness: Who is Affected?

posted May 02, 2011
by kryptomike

    Ever stop and wonder how someone becomes homeless or what brought them to that point in their life?  I am sure each story is unique and we may never fully understand.
    My parents grew up here and left for the Bay Area in the late 60's - early 70's, where they had my brother and me. At first, life seemed stable but would soon change forever.  My parents moved back to Santa Barbara in 1976 and were divorced shortly thereafter. By this time, my dad had three wives and five kids, with myself being the youngest. With nowhere to turn, my dad turned to the transient lifestyle here in Santa Barbara. My mom tried to make ends meet with two kids to take care of.  The "ends" never connected to a stable environment.  By the time I graduated high school, I attended 13 different public schools.
    As I grew older, I began to resent my dad for living on the streets although he had shelter to go to.  I wanted to see him strive for more in life and help make a difference in the lives of my brothers and sisters. He came around every now then but wasn't for very long.  After years of physical abuse under my moms watch, I left home at age 12 and entered foster care and became guarded by Santa Barbara County Court. 
    Although I am not quite 37-years old, I have seen the affects of homelessness in Santa Barbara.  I spent a few years homeless with my mom and watched my dad go through the same thing. I have slept in cars, hotels, on people’s floors and with people I didn't even know. 
    I grew older, wiser and vowed never to lead the same lifestyle as my parents. To date, I have been successful. That doesn't mean everything else changes. My mom eventually found stable ground while my dad is getting better as well.  He has stable shelter and I check in on him periodically.  With recent talk about the homeless in Santa Barbara, we have something to talk about when we see each other.  It made me realize who is affected by homelessness. The individual, their families, the people they come in contact with daily and the people who have set boundaries for them in order to keep the general public safe. Money is spent controlling homelessness in Santa Barbara, but it only seems to shuffle the locations where they hang out and sleep. 
    We are all affected by homelessness in Santa Barbara. While some receive help and have a new lease on life, others stay on the same track with little to no change.  Homeless people need to eat food and drink fluids in order to survive.  You have to survive FIRST before you can see what the future can hold.  Who is going to show them?  Their family members, good citizens or public assistance? 
    For our dad, we (his kids) just want a roof over his head and for him to be content with his life.  He is in his mid 70's now and doing ok.  When I check on him  to be sure he is where he needs to be,  we walk around town and see the countless homeless people sleeping, walking, collecting, begging, and most of all - surviving by any means. 
    Have you chatted with a homeless person lately?
 
Author: Michele A. Zaragoza

Correction Re Beyond Socks and Blankets Forum

posted April 30, 2011
by War on the Castle, Peace in the Village


By waronthecastlePEACEINTHEVILLAGE

     Correction: Earlier reports that an individual who denounced Councilman Dale Francisco's glowing recommendation of renewed use of state mental hospitals and electroshock therapy for the homeless have been disputed in that the individual who freely admitted to "disrupting" contends that he was "staging a walkout" and was not required to leave the Universal Unitarian Church presentation "Beyond Socks and Blankets". According to information received by Homelessinsb.org, the individual who confronted Dale Francisco during the talk contends that he had returned to retrieve his auto mechanics textbook, only, "silently" and that any "verbiage" issuing from any other person did not constitute any "additional disturbance" of any kind.
     Homelessinsb.org is requested to also publish the following text "in rebuttal to Francisco's 'Shocks Not Socks.'" That text is forthcoming.All material on this website is the opinion of the writer and homelessinsb.org neither endorses nor refutes same.

Against Francisco: Just Say No To Shock and Awe Against Homeless

posted April 28, 2011
by waronthecastlePEACEINTHEVILLAGE

Correction: Earlier reports that an individual who denounced Councilman Dale Francisco's glowing recommendation of renewed use of state mental hospitals and electroshock therapy for the homeless have been disputed in that the individual who freely admitted to "disrupting" contends that he was "staging a walkout" and was not required to leave the Universal Unitarian Church presentation "Beyond Socks and Blankets". According to information received by Homelessinsb.org, the individual who confronted Dale Francisco during the talk contends that he had returned to retrieve his auto mechanics textbook, only, "silently" and that any "verbiage" issuing from any other person did not constitute any "additional disturbance" of any kind.

Homelessinsb.org is requested to also publish the following text "in rebuttal to Francisco's 'Shocks Not Socks'". All material on this website is the opinion of the writer and homelessinsb.org neither endorses nor refutes same.

**********************

Harmful effects of Shock Therapy

Creative Commons License from wikipedia - use, modify at will

Aside from effects in the brain, the general physical risks of ECT are similar to those of brief general anesthesia; the United States' Surgeon General's report says that there are "no absolute health contraindications" to its use.^[27] Immediately following treatment the most common adverse effects are confusion and memory loss. The state of confusion usually disappears after a few hours. It can be tolerated by pregnant women who are not suffering major complications. It can be used with diabetic or obese patients, and with caution in those whose cancers are in remission or under control. It can be used in some immunocompromised patients. It must be used very cautiously in people with epilepsy or other neurological disorders because by its nature it provokes small tonic-clonic seizures, and so would likely not be given to a person whose epilepsy is not well-controlled.^[31][32] Some patients experience muscle soreness after ECT. This is due to the muscle relaxants given during the procedure and rarely due to muscle activity. The death rate due to ECT is around 4 per 100,000 procedures.^[33]

[edit] Effects on memory

It is the purported effects of ECT on long-term memory that give rise to much of the concern surrounding its use.^[34] The acute effects of ECT can include amnesia, both retrograde (for events occurring before the treatment) and anterograde (for events occurring after the treatment).^[35] However, the vast majority of these effects are short lived. Memory loss and confusion are more pronounced with bilateral electrode placement rather than unilateral, and with outdated sine-wave rather than brief-pulse currents. The vast majority of modern treatment uses brief pulse currents.^[35] Research by Harold Sackeim has shown that excessive current causes more risk for memory loss, and using right-sided electrode placement may reduce verbal memory disturbance.^[36]

Retrograde amnesia is most marked for events occurring in the weeks or months before treatment, with one study showing that although some people lose memories from years prior to treatment, recovery of such memories was "virtually complete" by seven months post-treatment, with the only enduring loss being memories in the weeks and months prior to the treatment.^[37][38] Anterograde memory loss is usually limited to the time of treatment itself or shortly afterwards. In the weeks and months following ECT these memory problems gradually improve, but some people have persistent losses, especially with bilateral ECT.^[1][35] One published review summarizing the results of questionnaires about subjective memory loss found that between 29% and 55% of respondents believed they experienced long-lasting or permanent memory changes.^[39] In 2000, American psychiatrist Sarah Lisanby and colleagues found that bilateral ECT left patients with more persistently impaired memory of public events as compared to RUL ECT.^[34]

Some studies have found that patients are often unaware of cognitive deficits induced by ECT.^[40][41] For example, in June 2008, a Duke University study^[40] was published assessing the neuropsychological effects and attitudes in patients after ECT. Forty-six patients participated in the study, which involved neuropsychological and psychological testing before and after ECT. The study documented substantial cognitive impairment after ECT on a variety of memory tests, including "verbal memory for word lists and prose passages and visual memory of geometric designs." The study further found that a significant number of patients believed that their memory had improved after ECT despite the fact that neuropsychological testing clearly showed the opposite. As stated by the researchers, "Indeed, there was a slight trend towards [patients reporting] improved memory functioning, despite the objective neuropsychological data indicating significantly lower recognition and delayed recall." Based on their findings, the authors issued the following recommendation:

"When ECT is provided to adolescents, the potential impact of such cognitive changes should be discussed with the patients and their parents or guardians in terms of implications for not only the patient’s emotional functioning but cognitive functioning as well, particularly upon his or her academic performance. In summary, we argue that an individual cost-benefit analysis should be made in light of the implications of the potential benefits versus costs of ECT upon improving emotional functioning and the impact that potential memory changes may have on real-world functioning and quality of life."^[40]

Severe memory loss from ECT is described in an autobiographical book, Doctors of Deception: What They Don't Want You to Know about Shock Treatment.^[42]

[edit] Controversy over long-term effects on general cognition

According to prominent ECT researcher Harold Sackeim, "despite over fifty years of clinical use and ongoing controversy", until 2007 there had "never been a large-scale, prospective study of the cognitive effects of ECT."^[43] In this first-ever large-scale study (347 subjects), Sackeim and colleagues found that at least some forms (namely bilateral application and outdated sine-wave currents) of ECT "routine[ly]" lead to "adverse cognitive effects," including global cognitive deficits and memory loss, that persist for up to six months after treatment, suggesting that the induced deficits may be permanent.^[43][44] The authors also warned that their findings did not suggest that right-unilateral ECT did not also lead to chronic cognitive deficits. However, the several limitations of this study include the lack of a depressed control group with which to compare memory decay over 6 months. The measure of autobiographical memory used, the Columbia Autobiographical Short-Form (AMI-SF) is not capable of showing memory improvement, with scores at followup expressed as percentages of baseline.

Harold Sackeim can be seen in a videotaped deposition briefly discussing the findings of this study and why, in his opinion, earlier studies had failed to find evidence of long-term harm from ECT.^[45] Despite over fifty years of clinical use, Sackeim states that prior to 2001, "the field itself never really had an opportunity to have a discussion about patients who have complaints about long-term memory loss." In this video clip, Sackeim also reveals that at a California ECT conference with 200 practitioners present, when polled as to whether they think ECT can lead to chronic cognitive deficits, two-thirds raised their hands. Sackeim says this was "almost a watershed moment for the field", and was the "first time publicly that the field itself said 'no' to the position that it can't happen."^[45][46]

In July 2007, a second study was published concluding that ECT routinely leads to chronic, substantial cognitive deficits, and the findings were not limited to any particular forms of ECT.^[47] The study, led by psychiatrist Glenda MacQueen and colleagues, found that patients treated with ECT for bipolar disorder show marked deficits across multiple cognitive domains. According to the researchers, "Subjects who had received remote ECT had further impairment on a variety of learning and memory tests when compared with patients with no past ECT. This degree of impairment could not be accounted for by illness state at the time of assessment or by differential past illness burden between patient groups." Despite the findings of chronic, global cognitive deficits in post-ECT patients, MacQueen and colleagues suggest that it is "unlikely that such findings, even if confirmed, would significantly change the risk–benefit ratio of this notably effective treatment."^[47]

Six months after the publication of the Sackeim study^[43] documenting routine, long-term memory loss after ECT, prominent ECT researcher Max Fink published a review in the journal Psychosomatics concluding that patient complaints of memory loss after ECT are "rare" and should be "characterized as somatoform disorders, rather than as evidence of brain damage, thus warranting psychological treatment for such disorders."^[48] Based on his findings, Fink suggests that, "Instead of endorsing these reports as the direct consequence of ECT, especially in patients who have recovered from their depressive illness, lost their suicidal drive, and have improved social functioning, is it not more useful to accept the complaint as a somatoform disorder, explore the basis in the individual’s history and experience, and offer appropriate supportive treatment?"^[48]

Most recent reviews of the literature and other articles continue to characterize ECT as safe and effective.^{[49][50][51][52][53][54][55][56]} For example, in June 2009, Portuguese researchers published a review on the safety and efficacy of ECT in an article entitled, Electroconvulsive Therapy: Myths and Evidences.^[49] In their review, the researchers conclude that ECT is an "efficient, safe and even life saving treatment for several psychiatric disorders." In 2008, Yale researchers published a review on the safety and efficacy of ECT in elderly patients.^[56] According to the authors, "ECT is well established as a safe and effective treatment for several psychiatric disorders." And in a June 2009 article published in the Journal of ECT, Iranian researchers observe that, "Despite the wide consensus over the safety and efficacy of electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), it still faces negative publicity and unfavorable attitudes of patients and families."^[55]

Psychiatrist Peter Breggin, chief editor of the journal Ethical Human Psychology and Psychiatry, is a leading critic of ECT who believes the procedure is neither safe nor effective. In a published article reviewing the findings of Harold Sackeim's 2007 study^[43] on the cognitive effects of ECT, Breggin accuses Max Fink and other pro-ECT researchers of having a history of "systematically covering up damage done to millions of [ECT] patients throughout the world."^[44] He disagrees with the position that findings of chronic, global cognitive deficits should have no bearing on the risk-benefit ratio of ECT, and he believes it's important to address the "actual impact of these losses on the lives of individual patients." In a section of his paper entitled Destroying Lives, Dr. Breggin writes, "Even when these injured people can continue to function on a superficial social basis, they nonetheless suffer devastation of their identities due to the obliteration of key aspects of their personal lives. The loss of the ability to retain and learn new material is not only humiliating and depressing but also disabling. Even when relatively subtle, these activities can disrupt routine activities of living."^[44]

A study published in 2004 in the Journal of Mental Health reported that 35 to 42% of patients responding to a questionnaire reported ECT resulted in loss of intelligence.^[57] The study also reported, "There is no overlap between clinical and consumer studies on the question of benefit."

Doctors of Deception: What They Don't Want You to Know About Shock Treatment reports before-and-after IQ testing of persons receiving ECT, including the author, that show 30 to 40 point losses.^[42]

A recent opinion article by a neuropsychologist and a psychiatrist in Dublin suggests that ECT patients who experience cognitive problems following ECT should be offered some form of cognitive rehabilitation. The authors say that the failure to attempt to rehabilitate patients may be partly responsible for the negative public image of ECT. The article speculates on what aspects of such rehabilitation might be useful, without reviewing the literature on its presence or absence.^[58]

[edit] Effects on brain structure

Considerable controversy exists over the effects of ECT on brain tissue although a number of mental health associations, including the American Psychiatric Association, have concluded that there is no evidence that ECT causes structural brain damage.^[19][59][60] A 1999 report by the United States Surgeon General states, "The fears that ECT causes gross structural brain pathology have not been supported by decades of methodologically sound research in both humans and animals".^[6] However, the word "gross" is a synonym for major, leaving the possibility open for real brain damage which the US Surgeon General considers minor. However, not all experts agree that ECT does not cause brain damage, and two studies have been published since 2007 finding that at least some forms of ECT may result in widespread, persisting, generalized cognitive dysfunction, which might support claims that ECT causes brain damage.^[43][47][61]

A leading critic of ECT, psychiatrist Peter Breggin has published books and journalistic reviews of the literature purporting to show that ECT routinely causes brain damage as evidenced by a considerable list of studies in humans and animals.^[62] In particular, Dr. Breggin asserts that animal and human autopsy studies have shown that ECT routinely causes ‘widespread pinpoint hemorrhages and scattered cell death.’^[61] According to Dr. Breggin, the 1990 APA task force report on ECT ignored much of the scientific literature pointing out the negative effects of electroshock therapy. For example, in 1952 Hans Hartelius conducted and published an animal study on cats entitled Cerebral Changes Following Electrically Induced Convulsions in which a double-blind microscopic pathology examination showed that it was possible to distinguish the 8 shocked animals from the 8 non-shocked animals with remarkable accuracy based on statistically significant structural changes to the brain, including vessel wall changes, gliosis, and nerve cell changes. Based on the detection of shadow cells and neuronophagia, Hartelius determined that there was irreversible damage to neurons associated with electroshock.^[61]

Proponents argue that the addition of hyperoxygenation and refinement in technique in the last thirty years has made ECT safe, and a majority of published reviews in recent decades have reflected this position.^[63] In a 2004 study designed to evaluate whether modern ECT techniques lead to identifiable brain damage, twelve monkeys underwent daily electroshock for six weeks under conditions meant to simulate human ECT; the animals were then sacrificed and their brains were compared to monkeys undergoing anesthesia alone. According to the researchers, "None of the ECT-treated monkeys showed pathological findings."^[64]

There are recent animal studies that have documented significant brain damage after an electroshock series. For example, in 2005, Russian researchers published a study entitled, Electroconvulsive Shock Induces Neuron Death in the Mouse Hippocampus: Correlation of Neurodegeneration with Convulsive Activity. In this study, the researchers found that after an electroshock series, there was a significant loss of neurons in parts of the brain and particularly in defined parts of the hippocampus where up to 10% of neurons were killed. The researchers conclude that "the main cause of neuron death is convulsions evoked by electric shocks."^[65] In 2008, Portuguese researchers conducted a rat study aimed at answering the question of whether an electroshock series causes structural changes in vulnerable parts of the brain.^[66] According to the authors, "This study answers positively the question of whether repeated administration of ECS seizures can cause brain lesions. Our data are consistent with findings from other animal models and from human studies in showing that neurons located in the entorhinal cortex and in the hilus of the dentate gyrus are particularly vulnerable to repeated seizures." However, they question the applicability of their own research with respect to Electroconvulsive therapy in humans: "An important caveat of our results is that it is unclear to what extent they are relevant to the use of electroconvulsive therapy in psychiatry, because the protocol employed in this study is different from that used clinically. Evidence from previous studies (Gombos et al., [1999]; Vaidya et al., [1999]) and from our pilot experiments indicates that treating rats either with five to ten widely spaced ECS (at 24- or 48-hr schedules) or with two stimulations only 2 hr apart does not lead to loss of hippocampal neurons".^[66]

A History of The Homeless Footwashing Event

posted April 24, 2011
by Wayne Martin Mellinger

By Wayne Mellinger, Ph.D.

As I walk around downtown Santa Barbara, I see confusion, pain and
injustice on every block.  This leads me to ask myself, why all this
suffering?  It it just poor personal choices -- individuals making bad
judgments?  Or are there societal structures at work –systems of
oppression which favor the few and hold down the many?  In my essay
“The Revolving Door”, which appeared in this blog on April 2, 2011, I
discussed some of the structural barriers that keep some people with
mental health challenges on the streets.

To live with integrity, I hope to adhere to sets of values which I use
in all the walks of my life.  The care and sensitivity I show the
world in my professional life should be the same I show in my personal life.  
The respect I show to the successful business person should be
the same as I show the man in disheveled clothes, eyes glazed over
with drink, stumbling toward me asking for a quarter.

There are times when I fail to act this way. One Saturday morning in
the winter of 2008 while riding  my bike from Stearns Wharf  to the
bird refuge, I noticed all the happy people enjoying a pleasant day in
the sun.  Joggers, parents with strollers, and tourists on rented
bikes made the bike path particularly crowded that day.  
he volleyball courts were filled with college kids and two groups of
Latino men were having a soccer game.

As I walked around the bird refuge afterwards reflecting on my morning
ride, I realized  there were many people  I had failed to
notice.  As a street outreach worker I had previously met many people
who camped out at the dunes between the Cabrillo Bathhouse and the
public restrooms.  I  learned that many of these folks were not
doing  well and  avoided going to  shelters and other
serving-providing agencies.  Overrun by trauma or the stress of living
on the streets, or overcome with emotional anguish and self-medicating
with various substances, some of them carved out a meager existence in
these mounds of sand, semi-hidden from the world.

I wondered whether or not anyone was in the dunes that day, and
decided to look more closely on my way back.  Walking my bike along
that stretch of Chase Palm Park.,  I  counted eleven people who
seemed to be camped  at the beach and clearly visible from the bike
path.  Several of these people I had even met before doing  outreach
work.

Reflecting further on my morning ride, I wondered  how often
 the “housed and doing relatively well”  fail to notice
those  who are suffering and living on the streets?  If I as
a street outreach worker could simply “not see” these folks, I
imagined  many others also don’t see them.  The fast pace of
modern life has created blasé attitudes and selective perceptions in
which we almost unknowingly avoid noticing those who are suffering.
I wondered what could be done so that we might see the suffering all
around us.

The idea of having a foot washing for our neighbors on the streets
came out of that morning bike ride..  I
decided to create an event that would alter the way  “housed”
people perceive those without housing.

The week after I had this idea I shared it with my colleague Lynnelle
Williams, the director of WillBridge of Santa Barbara, a non-profit I
worked with helping “chronically homeless” people with mental health
challenges transition off the streets.  She
enthusiastically supported the idea and was interested in
collaborating with me on the project.  Her organizational skills,
professional experience and institutional resources have proven to be
essential to the success of the Santa Barbara Homeless Foot Washing day.
On Thursday of this week the fourth annual foot washing was held at
the Veteran's Memorial Building, the site of the foot washing since
the very beginning.

At the time of the first foot washing in 2008, I drew upon the
various social worlds that I was involved with as resources for
putting on event, including:

(1)    WillBridge of Santa Barbara—As just noted above, Lynnelle Williamswas
the event co-organizer and her staff from WillBridge was essential
to every aspect of the event.
(2)    The Homeless Activist Luncheon: Sponsored by Chuck Blitz and
hosted by Cath Webb, this bi-monthly get-together of community
activists and service providers provided  a  hospitable setting
for learning about homeless issues locally and meeting the key
players—including the late Roger Heroux (who was then Director of
Bring Our Community Home, the county's ten-year plan to end chronic
homelessness), County social worker Ken Williams--a 30-year veteran of
 street outreach, and Dr. Lynne Jahnke—a local physician also active
in street outreach who provided medical supervision to the event).
These three people and many others from this luncheon attended the
first foot washing and gave valuable input and feedback about how to
run the event. Others from this luncheon who participated in the first
foot washing included Jennifer Faerrez from CARES (our county's mental
health outreach providers), Alice Villareal-Redit from the Housing
Authority, Dana Gamble from Healthcare for the Homeless, Shaw Talley
from the Safe Parking Program, and Gary Linker from New Beginnings
Counseling Center.
(3) Encouraged to attend the event by Gordon Colburn, the head of the
City College's Alcohol and Drug Counseling program and by Mimi DoohanMD, head
of the UCSB's Street Health Outreach team, local students
made up a large part of the volunteers those first years.

The event reconnects the local community in an intimate and humbling
way. The act of washing one another's feet transforms both partiies.
For volunteers, it re-kindles compassion for some of
most weary and  displaced people in our city.  For the people having
their feet, washed it demonstrates that someone really cares.  As the
two parties bond they  are  reminded of the importance of
simple acts of kindness.

Through these simple acts, the stereotypes that both groups have of
each other are broken.. The volunteers report learning about
the  diversity of people on the streets, including many who work,
have families and do not use substances. Those on the streets
report learning that more people  care about their plight.

The first year we had about 100 volunteers who served over 250
neighbors on the streets.  We hoped to help outreach teams and other
service-providers make contact with what has been called
“service-resistant” people--often severely traumatized
individuals who do not go to the shelters. The courtyard of the
Veteran's Memorial Building was had  over a dozen
representatives of agencies offering services to those on the streets.

The first year we received a $3000 grant form The Fund for Santa
Barbara, a progressive community  foundation committed to  supporting
 projects that encourage social change.  These
funds  purchased  250 pairs of shoes  we distributed.

All those involved in planning and organizing the event volunteered
 their time.  While most of the footwear we handed out were
sneakers, we made sure that we had work boots, sandals and the types of
shoes required by  diabetics. In later years our funds came
largely from churches  religious organizations,  local
non-profits, and increasingly from individual donations. .

That first year we began setting up at  at7:30am. The  auditorium was the waiting area where breakfast was served.  An adjacent room housed footwashing  stations  and where the new shoes were
distributed).   Upon exiting the foot washing area, people would be
handed a bag lunch and left through  the  large courtyard where outreach
outreach teams sat at tables with information on services and
 “care packages” such as hygiene kits.

We were surprised  there were already people waiting when we got
there—some two a half hours before the event was slated to begin.  By
9:00 am, the line of people was  down the  block and almost to
Sambo's!  It was a hot morning and the crowds, just standing in the
sun for over an hour, started to become  restless and irritable.
Ken Williams wisely suggested  we hand out bottled water and
 bring people off the streets to wait inside the building.
Officer Bob Casey, who then headed the Restorative Policing Team
 provided a police presence for this
crowd of close to 300.

That first year I rode my bike all over town and signed people up for
the event.  I gave out flier with  pertinent information and
wrote down  names, shoes sizes and type of footwear they
wanted.  I collected over 200 requests from people who promised to
attend the event.  We were surprised when about half those people did
not show up.  We decided to hold their shoes until about 1pm and then
to give them away to others after that time.  In subsequent years we
simply used the shoe size distribution ratios from the first  year as a
guide for our buying decisions.

One challenge  was the cross purposes for which some people
attended the event.  The volunteers were often were interested in
making a human connection with someone on the street and were often
spiritually motivated.   While ample people got their feet washed,
some  wanted to skip ahead and just get a pair of shoes.
 We wanted to ensure that all people who got their feet washed would
have shoes, but in the end, we allowed people to just pick up the
shoes and leave.  Later, as a way to encourage people to get their
feet washed, we attempted to serve those wanting only  shoes
after  those who wanted their feet washed..

The WillBridge staff has been central to the event's success right
from the beginning.  Bonnie and Liz made about 800 cookies, as well as
working day of the event.  Dawn worked the kitchen overseeing the
bag lunches that were handed out.  Crystal Murphy, normally with Salvation
Army's Hospitality House, managed  shoe distribution.
Lynnelle's mom and daughter Kim also worked hard.

The foot washing takes place on Maundy Thursday, the day on which,
according to the Gospel of John, Jesus washed his disciple's feet.  As
with other springtime festivals, there’s an emphasis on the
 powers of rebirth.  We hoped to help some people make
connections with outreach workers so they could begin the process of
getting off the street.  The shoes were symbolic of that fresh start.

As an interfaith event, we sought to have a diverse range of religious
leaders leading prayers every half hour, including Catholic, mainline
Protestant, evangelical, Jewish and Unitarian clergy  In the third
year, Pastor Jon Lemmond from Montecito Covenant Church instructed
volunteers in the art of foot washing, which greatly enhanced the
spiritual nature of the event.  While amicable chit-chat filled the
foot washing room, one could feel the contemplative mood of many
washers and their recipients.  Some people even broke into tears at
the   love that permeated the event.  Surprisingly, many people loved
washing feet and were reluctant to give their wash station over to another
 volunteer.

The local media provided excellent coverage of the event, with a front
page article in the Daily Sound and an online article in the
Independent.  Paul Wellman, a photographer for the Independent,  often spends
several hours shooting different aspects of the the event.

Several years after the first foot washing, I gave a brief
presentation to a community forum sponsored by Clergy and Laity United
for Economic Justice (CLUE) and organized by Maureen Earls.  My talk
was titled “Creating Faith-based Collaborations for Real Change:  The
Homeless Foot Washing as an Ideal Type”.  In it I considered how some
of the ways used to organized the Santa Barbara Homeless Foot Washing could
be used by others interested in planning outreach events. "Ideal type" is
a concept that comes from sociology and describes the essential characteristics
and elements of the given phenomena, but it is not meant to correspond to all of the characteristics of any one particular case. It is not meant to refer
to perfect things, moral ideals nor to statistical averages but rather
to stress certain elements common to most cases of the given
phenomena.

The following elements from the Foot Washing might be worth holding
onto for other faith-based events planned for the homeless and seeking
social justice:

1. Attempt to bring about inter-faith programs of action, which
involve a wide range of spiritual backgrounds.
2. The core of the event should facilitate people moving forward with
their lives and involve  street outreach people, social
workers and other case managers.
3. While change is the central goal, charity isn’t a bad thing either.
Give practical things such as socks, shoes, sleeping bags, etc.
Remember many of these people have virtually nothing, and need
community support. This is always a good draw to get people in the
door.
4. Understand the diversity of types of people on the streets,
including street kids who travel around,, veterans, poor
families, those temporarily unemployed,, young adults exiting foster
care, seniors, those with physical and mental disabilities, those with
alcohol and drug issues. It is best to collaborate with experts in
several areas of specialty.
5. Go out of your ways to reach out to  service-resistant people
who have been on the streets for a long time (chronically homeless).
These folks are the most traumatized and the most in need of your
support. Those who stay in the shelters are not the entire population.
6. Offer spiritual encouragement and possibilities for spiritual
counseling, but do not force religion down anyone’s throat.
7. Involve your parishioners and allow ample opportunity for dialogue.
Create environments where  “us and
them” paradigm can be broken down
8. Be prepared for people with lots of bags, bicycles, wheelchairs, dogs, etc.
9. Listen to these people. Be present. Recognition, acknowledgment and
love are the best  you have to offer.
10.Be prepared for crises of all types. Many of these people are just
holding on and might need special care.


Wayne Martin Mellinger, Ph.D. is a social justice educator, activist
and writer, living in Santa Barbara, CA.  Having been briefly homeless himself
he advocates for our neighbors on the streets, for those with mental health challenges and for all who are denied equal access to basic needs or are treated
without dignity and respect.  He has worked as an Outreach worker /
Case Manager / Counselor for WillBridge of Santa Barbara, New
Beginnings Counseling Center, The Safe Parking Program, Transition
House and Casa Esperanza.  His passion is  helping chronically
homeless and dually diagnosed individuals transition into permanent
housing.. He has  taught sociology, social psychology and
anti-oppression classes at Antioch University Santa Barbara, Ventura
College, the Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, and Berkeley campuses of the
University of California and  the Fielding Graduate University,  He
received his Ph.D. in Sociology from UC-Santa Barbara in 1990. He is
also a certified substance abuse counselor.  He sits on the Board of
Clergy and Laity United for Economic Justice (CLUE) and was appointed
to the South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee by Santa Barbara County
Supervisor Doreen Farr.

A Letter to Daily Sound

posted April 19, 2011
by mwstowell

By Michael Stowell

     Nick C. Tonkin’s 4/16 report on the Milpas Community Association’s “political clout” conjured some thoughts and questions for me. MCA’s organizer, Sharon Byrne, seems intent on grouping the local homeless residents with organized gangsters. I had to ask myself how many of the numerous brawls and knifings, assaults and murders, are attributed to the homeless population among us?  And too, it is widely recognized that some of the homeless use drugs, as does much of the rest of society, but when someone is arrested for possession of large amounts of drugs for sale it’s typically people who are housed and engaged in illegal entrepreneurial endeavors.
    Has Byrne encouraged the Milpas neighborhood to be real neighbors to those struggling with addiction? Does she advocate contributing to the health and well-being of those who are “down and out” or is her message the same old, archaic “kick ‘em while they’re down so they’ll want to get back up?”
     Does making “the Milpas corridor a place where everyone can live, work, go to school, play, and prosper” really mean “everyone"? I wonder how many of the Milpas wage-earners are more than 2 or 3 paychecks away from the street. How many of the Milpas businesses are responsible enough to prioritize the hiring, at a reasonable wage, of those who are jobless and without housing?
     As I write this I’m enjoying a beautiful Sunday morning and wondering if Sharon Byrne has ever read what Christ said, “Whatsoever you do to the least of these, you do to me.”

 

Michael W. Stowell

816 Cacique Street

Santa Barbara, CA

884-8481
     

      
 

My Autobiography

posted April 19, 2011
by Joshua Hall, MS

     The cold of a February evening was biting at his neck and the sleet was belting his hands as he checked the 1949 Studebaker he already knew was roadworthy.     His wife was in the house complaining about money and he needed a break. He rationalized that her complaints were not really related to money at all but that she was due to give birth any day. They had been arguing a lot lately and it had taken its toll on their relationship.
     She appeared at the door saying it was time to go and he resigned himself to the inconvenience of getting her to the car and on the way to the hospital.
    The bustle of the hospital unnerved him and he avoided the check in desk and stood in the corner. She looked back and sighed a lonely rejection. The maternity ward had three births happening at the same time and her's was long and difficult. It took until the early morning for her new son to be born.
     At 3:30am the elderly nurse was finally able to sit down to sip tea and finish the paperwork for the night's births, two girls and a boy. In the fog of fatigue she wrote Joshua James LaVerne Hall, Female...
    This simple mistake has caused me many a night of restless sleep, a good ribbing in the Navy and a identity crisis or two.
    This is as far as I have ever gotten in any autobiographical attempt. As with all my attempt at an autobiography this attempt suffers the fate of its brethren- abandoned for some other and newer interest. This of course is not to be wondered at, for its plan is the old inflexible and difficult one. It is the plan that starts you in the cradle and drives you straight to the grave, with no side excursions permitted on the way. It is my opinion that side excursions are the life of our life-voyage, and should be, also, of its history.
     As I age I also realize the full meaning of embellishment. Life is generally quite ordinary and embellishment in the telling of it makes it extraordinary. Trouble is when remembering a life in later years the real story fades from memory and only the embellishment remains.
    So to write my polished history, nothing much should be believed and I am not nearly important enough or extraordinary enough for words to be wasted. I only wish that the lessons of my life be listened to and that I am able to make many a laugh at the embellishments there in.

Casa's Member Advisory Committee Meeting

posted April 12, 2011
by NMcCradie

By Nancy McCradie
   We have just come from snow country to visit the warmer climates of Southern California. Yes!  Bob and I have escaped another onslaught of the freezing white stuff that most people rush towards so they can  put on a set of slender boards or a single-wide board to go barreling down a hill.  A sludge of that evil stuff that will bury your cars, envelop over half of your house and freeze your toes, fingers and lungs if you so much as take in a breath of fresh air.  
      We had two beautiful days of gorgeous warm weather in the flat lands.  Can it be possible that we are back in a state of moist, cold air wearing jackets and looking at a gray expansive ocean at the Carpinteria Campground? Is it possible we are sitting at a picnic table freezing our buns off once again?  Oh, it’s possible all right.  For that is what I am doing sitting at my computer getting ready to write about a most wonderful experience, one that I truly miss by not being in Santa Barbara full time.
     That experience is attending the Member Advisory Committee Meeting at Casa Esperanza every Thursday.  For a full hour, self-elected members of the  shelter sit in the computer room in a group setting awaiting the arrival of Imelda Loza, the Associate Director of Casa Esperanza, who monitors and chairs the meeting.  Because of the respect she shows to everyone in that room, Loza will receive a lot of respect back from the people who sit waiting for her.  She calls the meeting to order, talks about the rule about respecting each other before we progress. She then has us introduce ourselves and asks people what they are wanting to discuss, to create an agenda.
     Under Loza's direction, shelter residents and day center members are kind of in charge of this meeting.  They set the agenda and lead the discussion on each item.  It is a wonderful feeling, watching people talk about their issues or complaints. Where else in the City of Santa Barbara are the people who find themselves without housing able to do this?  Usually feelings of worthlessness and frustration overwhelm them too much,  either because of society’s bigotry or fear, or because of the  lack of respect that economically advantaged  individuals have for those who are homeless. It is a rare experience to watch members enjoy this meeting so much..  To feel a sense of power and self worth, be it only temporary, is worth it for those who attend and participate. 
     A typical meeting might have an agenda something like this:
1.      Lockers (times of operation)
2.     Bathrooms (Cleanliness issues)
3.     Lunch Line (Cutting, fighting)
4.     Maintenance Issues (suggestions made or just to report)
5.     Personal problems facing the people trying to find housing, jobs, etc.
6.     Political Issues facing the homeless
7.     Ticketing Fears by the police
     Some Changes to Casa policy may even be requested by the Members.  These requests will be taken to the staff during their weekly meetings and to the directors to be scrutinized and given an okay if deemed possible.  I, for one, am  proud oft the people who attend this meeting and what they accomplish. Still, it must be pointed out, the shelter is not a democracy. Decisions are made by staff.
     That being said, I really think this meeting should be open to the public.   Any outsider who wants to join in, or just observe, should be welcomed.  We, or I should say, many of us homeless folks, would love to see more members of the general public come, listen and educate themselves about the issues homeless people struggle with. The homeless should not have to limit their options just because of their economic status. They need to get to know the general public once again.  Mutual education and a united purpose on the part of all types of people sitting around a table can quell fears and dispel misconceptions.  
     I want blog readers to know that this is my opinion and not the opinion of the Member Advisory Group Meeting as a whole. No vote was taken.  Even though Casa Esperanza management agrees with most of what I’ve written here, they’ve nixed the idea because they feel the need to protect the confidentiality of each individual who enters its doors. They say an entirely different forum should be in place to respond to homeless peoples’ desire to educate the community at large.
     Oh yes, everyone who participates in the meeting is allowed to go straight to the front of the lunch cue; the line for the free noonday meal served at everyday at 11 o’clock by the Community Kitchen. That’s another perk of attending.

Nancy McCradie lives part time in the San Bernardino mountains and part time in a camper in Santa Barbara. She co-founded two advocacy organizations here: The Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition and Homes on Wheels (HOW). She is married to Protest Bob Hansen.

My Education

posted April 10, 2011
by Michael W. Stowell

      “The more you know, the less you need.” – Aboriginal Elder

      I was awakened by the steady tap, tap, tapping on the side of the tent. The birds were singing the morning singsong, the sunlight was dappling the walls of the tent, the rich smell of pine mixed with earthy moss wafting through the open tent flaps; tap, tap, tap.


      “Eureka Police!..Good morning, Cap, could I have a word with you?” I recognized Officer Montrose’s voice and answered, “Sure enough, let me pull my jeans on..make yourself at home!”


      He moved over to the garden off the kitchen area and I scrambled into my jeans and stepped out into a lovely morning.

 
     “What can I do for ya?”I asked as I strode to my tomato trellis and pulled off the nylon rainfly, damp with the morning dew.


      “Gotta a picture here for you to take a look at,” he said “have you seen the likes of this guy the last couple of days?”

   
       I stared at a police sketch of a rather nasty-looking man, maybe 40 years or so, chumpy-looking, shot at and missed, shit at and hit. “Well, I ain’t been out of here for a week or so but I can tell ya he’s not been through here.”

 
     “Yah, okay then, he’s got himself into a strong-arm robbery down the street and we can’t place him as a local so he could be anywhere, maybe about. If he stumbles in, give him a seat an’ tell him you’re out for a six-pack then come up and give us a call, okay?”

 
    “That’s a 10-4; want some tomatoes for your lunch?” I handed him a large handful of my vine-ripened cherry tomatoes.


     “Thanks” he said as he surveyed the vegetable garden, the flower beds and the hummingbird feeders. “Ya know, if I was gonna do this, I’d do it just like this. You’ve got the garden spot of Humboldt County in here!”

 
     “Well, it’s been a handful taming it and it’s not so cute in the wintertime but I can’t say I’ve had life any better at any time.”


      “Thanks,” he said, “you take care, now.” And left as quietly as he’d come in.

 
     I’d been six years and three other camps of experience to get to this one. The best any one had ever seen. It was full-time work. The place had been covered in Himalayan blackberry bramble when I first ambled in. It took a couple of weeks with a machete whacking it off at the ground and rolling it up into bales taller than me, then rolling the bales over the edge of an embankment and into the wetlands below.


     I was on about a half acre of city property that was too low to be developed but still about six or seven feet above the water table. It had some great trees; an ancient dogwood, under which my 12X12 canvas tent fit perfectly, several spruce and a couple of white pines, a scattering of rhododendrons throughout. Also had a couple of wild cherry trees that the birds just loved and, of course, more blackberries than you could shake a stick at.


     After clearing the bramble, I started work on the garden. I was determined to have a vegetable garden, as large as possible, just because I’d always wanted one and had never seen one in a homeless camp; it also seemed a good way to add a feeling of home to an otherwise anarchic environ. 


      First, I had to get up all the sod, fortunately I’d found an old but sturdy garden shovel abandoned somewhere along my travels. I had to settle on a 20X30 ft. plot that took a lot of work leveling. I had to carefully consider the placement because I knew I’d need as much sunlight as possible to make the most of the growing season. On the coast of Northern California the mornings are cloudy, even in the summer, and the nights are heavy with dew so sunshine is the main consideration for a garden. Mine was placed to get the most from the mid-morning through early evening sun.


     I had a neighbor, an older retired guy, who had some rabbit hutches up in the trees on the ridge. He lived across the way in the Salvation Army’s retirement complex and loved rabbit meat but couldn’t keep the cages over there. During one of his visits to my camp I asked him if I could get some of the rabbit manure that I knew was accumulating under and around his cages. He told me to take all I wanted. So I cleaned out the whole works, took almost all day, filling up five gallon buckets, two at a time, and lugging them back to the camp. But at the end of it all I had a good ten trips and twenty buckets of the best fertilizer a gardener could ask for.

  
      Next I thought about the crops – what would do best with a short growing season? I definitely wanted corn so I looked for a variety of sweet, white corn with the shortest seasonal requirements; then radishes, green onions, carrots and peppers. I also wanted red potatoes. I got some of the seeds from a local food bank and went canning for the change to buy the rest. As I sat planning all this I realized that the Humboldt slugs would probably eat most of my crop unless I could figure a way to keep them off my plants.


      Across town there was a department store that sold mattresses, among other things, and I knew that one could usually find some nice plastic in their dumpster, large plastic shipping covers that could be used for any number of coverings. I hauled a couple back to camp and cut them into four foot strips about ten feet long then sewed the strips together with some cord I’d found; then after cutting four foot stakes and driving them into the ground, every five feet or so along the parameter of the garden, I tied the plastic up onto the stakes so the garden was completely fenced with clear plastic about three and a half feet high. This I sprayed with salt water so the slugs couldn’t climb it. Not only did it keep out the slugs and snails but the rodents as well.

 
     Cooking can be a real challenge when you’re urban camping. Smoke is a dead giveaway and will eventually draw attention. So I invented a stove that did not smoke and used fuel that was free. Here’s how you do it: Find a couple of different sized coffee cans, a big one and a smaller one, in someone’s dumpster. Cut the end out of the can so it’s a cylinder with no ends. Now go down to the local grocery store and get some of the waxed cardboard boxes that vegetables come in, it’s out back by the dumpsters and they don’t care if you take it because they can’t recycle it anyway. Haul it back to the camp. Now tear or cut the waxed cardboard ten inches wide and roll the strips up tight then stuff them into the coffee can cylinder. Set the loaded cylinder onto a couple of bricks so it gets airflow from underneath and then light the top of the waxed cardboard. I used a windscreen that was simply a wooden square I hammered together, about three feet high, the top of it was just high enough so that when a grill was placed on it the cooking pan was about two or three inches above the fire. The waxed cardboard is free, it will burn when it’s wet, it does not smoke, and if tightly packed into a large coffee can cylinder it will burn for about 40 minutes, long enough to cook a meal. For shorter cooking times I used the smaller of the two cans.


    One day a friend of mine hauled in a large tarp that had blown off a semi trailer, it was about 40X60 feet. I decided to use it over the kitchen but what I needed was a table. I knew just where to get it, I’d spotted an old abandoned cable spool that had been left behind by the telephone company, it had held telephone cable and was about eight feet in diameter. I had a dickens of a time tipping it up so I could roll it and then I had to roll it half way across town, up and down hilly streets, in the middle of the night, as stealthfully as possible, so the cops didn’t give me any trouble – out of sight, out of mind. I had good luck and it only took about three hours to get it back to my camp.


    Once I got the spool into position, I tipped it down in a strategic spot. I’d cut a ten-foot birch tree, straight as an arrow, trimmed it to an eight foot pole and slid the pole down into the center hole in the overturned cable spool. Then I tied off the corners of the truck tarp into four of the trees with the center of the tarp resting on the pole up above the table. So here was the camp kitchen, dining room and living room; a great circular table with a birch pole up from its center and a 40X60 foot tarp hung above to keep the area shaded and dry.


    I had three tent sites in that camp; it was as beautiful as any City park and had a very nice micro-climate during the summer. The entrance was cut in from behind what was then the Social Security office in Eureka, California. I cut the trail in at a sharp diagonal through thick blackberry bramble so it was impossible to see it unless you were right in front of it and looking in exactly the right direction. I got my fresh water from a spigot behind the Social Security office at night, when no one was around. The trail into camp dropped off sharply through a gulch and the area of my camp was about twenty feet lower than the street level, down and out of the wind. I dug a well for the garden water at the edge of the wetlands below the camp.


    I never had any sewage in that camp, there were six public restrooms within two blocks of the entrance and one was open 24/7 for emergencies. I usually started my dumpster rounds either just before sun-up or just before sundown and, since I was familiar with every dumpster within twenty blocks, I always knew where to find whatever I needed. Laundry soap was the hardest thing to find but I had the motel dumpsters timed so I had a good idea of when they would throw out the empty five gallon buckets that had contained the concentrated detergent they used. There was usually at least a cupful of the liquid detergent left in the bucket and the white five gallon buckets had tight lids and were great for storing fresh water, retrieving garden water, handy for storing food and anything I wanted to keep clean and dry and free of bugs and rodents. They’re also good for camp stools, clothes washing, dish washing, whatever; I must have had at least twenty of them around the kitchen.


     Food was usually quite easy to find in those days. I could count on McDonalds for burgers two or three times each day, still warm and clean, in a separate bag from the rest of the garbage, 20 or 30 burgers in a bag. I could also get deli food from the right grocery stores, dented cans of food from others; I even had a pizza place that set out the extra two or three pizzas three or four times a week. I never got sick from eating dumpster food, I was always careful about what I ate. 

     During the two years I was in that camp I learned a lot about what a person really needs to be happy. I lived on about 25 cents a month and that only for a little gasoline to help light the stove, most of the lighters I found had flint but no propane. I had a Gideon’s Bible in the camp, which I read in my spare time, two or three times through, until I finally finished it. I had some trouble understanding it until the right person dropped in to explain it to me.
     

*Michael Stowell is currently homeless in Santa Barbara.

A Reply to Francisco's Data Grab: Statism is Not American Conservatism

posted April 06, 2011
by Bard

Originally posted as a comment in reply to http://www.homelessinsb.org/articles.cfm?id=164

Francisco Mulls...

When the dubious Common Ground initiative was launched, some of its most gleeful boosters included the very same people who mist stridently demagogue against the very existence of bench denizens and "the shopping cart mafia". Civil libertarians, homeless advocates, and unhoused persons themselves loudly objected to the intrusiveness of the "Vulnerability Index" and the way it was being conducted. And objections were continually raised to the aggregation of all this data, a civil liberties nightmare.

A final note: not all conservatives are libertarian conservatives such as Mike Stoker or Rand Paul. There are others who are traditionalists and who generally refer to the transcendent traditions, ie., the great faith traditions. Yet the entire weight of the Old and New Testaments weigh in favor of the homeless. Jesus was homeless. Moses was homeless. Muhammed ali y saalam, was homeless. Jesus (Issa PBUH) said "Feed My Sheep".

Congress Keen on Homeless Vets, Kids, Not Much Action on the Overall Problem

posted April 06, 2011
by Bard

Congressional Initiatives Focus on Veterans and Children.

Little Pending Legislation to Address Lack of Affordable Housing for Very Low Income Non-veteran Adults and Seniors

WASHINGTON, April 6, 2011 Original Research. A search on http://www.govtrack.us/congress/legislation.xpd indicated that there is a paucity of legislation addressing homelessness from a broad perspective. Rather, there is piecemeal legislation generally linking the issue to popular topics such as veterans and children. No doubt, these are worthy issues. Absolutely. But by narrowing the focus to these subpopulations, worthy though they may be, Congress may be neglecting to address the structural problem in the housing markets, particularly in the lower income sector.

Five of the top ten Congressional bills linked to "homeless" focused on veterans.
3 of the top ten Congressional bills linked to "homeless" focused on children.

These bills matched the search for homeless. Showing bills 1 through 10.
    


    H.R. 32: Homeless Children and Youth Act of 2011    Introduced    Jan 5, 2011
        S. 411: Helping Our Homeless Veterans Act of 2011    Introduced    Feb 17, 2011
    H.R. 1133: Helping Our Homeless Veterans Act of 2011    Introduced    Mar 16, 2011
     H.R. 136: To amend the Internal Revenue Code of 1986 to allow taxpayers to designate a portion of their income tax payment to provide assistance to homeless veterans, and for other purposes.    Introduced    Jan 5, 2011
     H.R. 806: End Veteran Homelessness Act of 2011    Introduced    Feb 18, 2011
     H.R. 1253: Educational Success for Children and Youth Without Homes Act of 2011    Introduced    Mar 30, 2011
     S. 571: Educational Success for Children and Youth Without Homes Act of 2011    Introduced    Mar 14, 2011
     H.R. 287: Homes for Heroes Act of 2011    Introduced    Jan 12, 2011
    H.R. 235: Cut Unsustainable and Top-Heavy Spending Act of 2011    Introduced    Jan 7, 2011
     H.Res. 154: Recognizing the week beginning March 21, 2011, as "National Safe Place Week".


Other articles by this writer:


Great blog how about state resources? 
Links suggested to fill the gap between Federal and local agency information.

Big Win for Mayor Schneider on City Policy at Cabrillo Ball Field
Correction of "mainstream" media disinformation which detracted from the atomosphere of settled community resolution of the controversy over this parcel.


Brand new Warming Center article on Wikipedia
Written under UID "Brother Can You Spare a Dime", you can edit the article as it appears on the Wikipedia website.

Did Sanctity of Home and Hearth Lead to Murder?
Account of a local trial in criminal court, Judge Hill presiding, regarding tragic denoument in controversy over a building project. Homeless folks are not the only ones who must contend with the weighty profundities of Fate.


Brothers of the Road: Working Drum Teacher
Part 2 of the FREE SPIRIT Photo Survey, Contrary to the alarmist depiction of homelessness as an unmitigated tale of woe. Liberte Egalite Fraternite!

FREE SPIRIT #1: A Photo Survey of Brothers of the Road: Part One  Initiating a thematic photo survey showing the orientation towards Liberty and Equality of persons embodied by the brothers of the road.


Blissfully Ignorant of ICCPR, Reinventing the Wheel?
A call for assertion of "homeless" rights under US Constitution and International Law, maintaining connection to overall political philosophy.

Why Solutions To Homelessness Fail Most of the Time

posted April 05, 2011
by Joshua Hall, MS

By Joshua Hall, MS.


     Comprehensive Homeless Solutions continue to evade resolution primarily because of perceptions. Any real solution has to remove perceptions and be revealed for what it is. In science observation, hypothesis, repeat experimentation and theory is the pathway to solve difficult problems and reveal things for what they are. What you think, feel or believe clouds truth and makes solutions illusive or outright incorrect. In science perceptions have to be very carefully vetted when it is natural to have perceptions based on prior experience.



    Perception from a Homeless Solution point of view.



    In all the solution experiments for fixing the “Homeless” problem there exist a perception that a shelter, program, or police policy needs to fix the “Homeless Problem” holistically. This thinking is fundamentally flawed. These solutions are known in the business as “continuum of care” and there are many variations. This concept on the surface, has the look and feel of the total solution but fails significantly. In the general pattern of continuum of care, an addict, or mentally ill or homeless person gets stabilized in a treatment scenario of one form or another, progresses to a shelter then to transitional living and finally to stable housing. Where the solution and most likely the public funding ends. To the person on this [sic] “conveyor belt” the steps involved become hurtles or places to fail which is a familiar road because failure is the reason they are in this position to begin with. So solving the “Homeless problem” is frankly an exercise in the Management of Failure. Secondly as each person is put on the conveyor belt no matter what success they are able to accomplish, all the costs for the whole system has to be available to pay for buildings and maintenance, treatment counselors, staffing, liabilities, and other supports for the individual. This becomes extremely costly and time consuming with relatively meager results.



         An Individual's Perception:

     For an individual, being homeless is a daily leap of faith. The energy involved in taking care of basic needs has to be managed in an underground fashion, conforming to societal tolerance. Safety is in anonymity. (Nobody knows I'm here.) Even going to the bathroom upon waking is strategic. If you wake up too early, the bathrooms are not available; too late and your place to sleep is compromised. The alternative is to defecate or urinate publicly under the available cover. (In darkness, in bushes, or in darkened doorways.)

     One of the big concerns is the morning “Wake Up,” or as an alcoholic would say “gettin' well” until public feedings and/or other services are available. Many go about to collect cans, nonferrous metal and other recyclables to redeem for cash that buys cigarettes, coffee, food, alcohol, and drugs, etc. Some beg for their particular brand of wake up and gather with like company to “Wake Up.” 
     Then there is food and it is known that public feedings are always available, and there exists a strategy for that too. (Who is feeding, when is it and where is it? Can I eat at the mission and still make it to the Library or park where the “Food Not Bombs” people have a meal?)

     Then there is the boredom and desperation. Many times this is combated with more imbibing, self-medication, panhandling and sleep.

     For those who get some sort of income, a strategy of a hotel room for a few days and replenishment of renewable supplies becomes a monthly routine. There is always the new sleeping bag, socks, marijuana supply and/or marijuana prescription renewal that has been planned for weeks. This pre-spending of benefits is a vicious cycle that is hard to escape.

     At the end of the day, it is back to secret suffering and a safe place to sleep where “...nobody knows I'm here.”

     This not only becomes routine but it evolves into a comfortable existence because there is a reasonable expectation and understanding of boundaries. (Much like the abused woman who will return to an abuser because she knows the territory and to be self reliant and facing life's issues away from the abuser alone with her own thoughts scares her far more than the abuse.)

      Even for the mentally ill homeless, a form of a daily routine develops. Although irrational to outside observers, this is known territory and he or she understands the boundaries. Holistically motivated solutions or offers from outside that routine are extremely distressing. Most of the time, such a person will cower and skulk away from even the most generous offer. The reasons for their public behavior are completely rational to them. The understanding here is that their sky is orange and to make sense of how to help, you have to be coming from an orange-sky paradigm. Blue-sky thinking simply does not apply and will be rebuked.

    That is not to say that all solutions are vain attempts. The most successful are those that deal with the person as they are, lessen the effort needed to take care of the basics and that can be seamlessly be incorporated into a daily routine. It is the transition into the “system” that fails. The fact is that many homeless have severely low self-esteem and feel they have no control over their lives. Any success that can be attributed or accomplished by the individual builds confidence. Real solutions must be based on what the person wants. Maybe it’s as simple as a meal, a shower and a place to clean up; maybe its just a smile and a sensible conversation shared without judgment. Many, especially women, just need some time to air out their thoughts. It’s surprising that when accepted as they are, people will come to a good enough solution using the resources available. It is all about perception after all.





Joshua Hall, MS, has spent much time In Santa Barbara. He now lives in Colorado with his wife.

Street Voice Silenced

posted April 03, 2011
by rtrower

By Ray Trower
     Over the past two years developing and working on Street Voice I have come to realize a few things. A couple of these things I have surmised over the years only to have them recently confirmed.

1. In order for Street Voice to succeed, or to even continue, it must have team leadership. The team should consist of three or four dependable people who can come together on a monthly or bi-monthly basis to create and edit each issue. I basically knew this from the beginning. I will be the first to admit I am not a team player, never have been. My motto is: “There’s no “I” in team, and I prefer it that way.” If you could see my job skill or psych profiles you would agree. They all say that I excel in jobs requiring little or no supervision. Jobs where I am basically on my own, being responsible for my own set-ups and production runs. Give me a list of things to do, leave me to myself and I will get the job done and be happy about it. (I wonder if my old cabinet manufacturer job is still open?)

2. I am not a people person. I know, most of you are shocked to hear this but it is true. I have waited (wasted) two years for stories to come to me so I could publish them. I am forever grateful to the few that did come my way, I am also grateful to “Homeless in Santa Barbara” blog for providing fodder for the digest. I will never become a journalist this in this manner. A journalist has to go out daily and beat the bushes for a story. For two years I spent time at a day center, 11 months as a resident then as a weekly participant at their advisory meeting. For two years I had over 200 stories pass by me every day. I knew a few of them and I knew they were worth telling too. So you ask yourself, “How many of these stories did I reach out and grab?” My answer would be “None.” I am not a people person, I don’t have it in me to approach and interview or even ask. Instead I sat and waited.

3. Another problem is vendors. I could not inspire any one to become a vendor. I couldn’t even inspire myself. I think of all the weeks when I could have used a few extra dollars, and all I had to do was to take my digest out on the street somewhere and offer it up. All I needed was a sign that read “$1.00 Donation appreciated but not required” with an explanation of who or what the digest was. I wouldn’t have to say a word except “thanks.” I own the printer, I had access to hundreds of copies. I could print three for every one sold. Still it falls back on being a people person. I have no belief in myself when it comes to interpersonal relationships, even personal relationships for that matter.

4. Lastly is finances. I did okay for printing a couple of hundred each issue, which was okay for handing out at the shelter. In order for Street Voice to make it there needs to be a budget, and part of that budget needs to hire a professional printer. Instead of a couple of hundred issues there should have been a couple of thousand.

    I am proud of Street Voice; all that I have done; all that I have learned, I wish I could take it further, but I can’t. Street Voice has outgrown me. It needs a dedicated team. It needs people who are responsible and dependable; who will be there day in and day out. If one person can’t make it there are two or three more to cover for them. I am one person and I can not make it to the next issue.
    There are many factors behind this decision, mainly my health, though I won’t go into detail at this time. Street Voice has been my joy, my passion and my heartache for two years. I have fretted over it, became anxious and agitated only to amaze myself in the end. Each issue was a personal triumph. As long as I stayed behind the scenes I was okay, and I’m still okay for now. It is with regret that I say goodbye, even temporarily, to Street Voice.


*Raymond Trower was homeless for 11 months here, living at Casa Esperanza. He was able to move into housing with help from Homeless Prevention and Rapid Rehousing program. He has edited and published Santa Barbara Community Street Voice for the past year.

**The photo of Ray was taken by Paul Wellman.

THE DISCRIMINATION

posted April 02, 2011
by spirit moon

Even though people around the world, have different belives, I feel :

THERES NO SUCH THING AS HOMELESS PEOPLE !!!!!

Mother earth is my home. Back in the day of American immagrints as well as the pioneer days. People were looking to work, and build to have shelter, and or roof over ones heads. I'd rather the people be refered to some other way. We the ones with no job,and or that don't have rent or morage are not homeless, WE ARE HOME !!!!! Some people around the world belive theres a #1 home, being heaven or the after life. So those of us who belive that, WOW, I'm really feeling rich today, have 2 homes. The big question is ????? CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW ?????

The Revolving Door

posted April 02, 2011
by Wayne Martin Mellinger

posted March 27, 2011
by Wayne Martin Mellinger

    The other evening, I was strolling around  downtown Santa Barbara when a car filled with young people drove alongside an older, somewhat
disheveled, man who was reaching into a garbage can.  They honked their horn, startling him and screamed,  “Hey Hobo!  Get a job!  Stop being a sponge!”  Given the way he was talking to himself, I assumed t he might have some untreated mental health challenges.

     If you think these mean-spirited attitudes are rare in “liberal” Santa
Barbara, you are out of touch with the changes  taking place. In City Hall ,our locale is painted by some councilmembers as a service-providing “magnet” talked about by those without homes all over  the country.  Or consider the  tone of  comments left on  our online news outlets when they run stories  about the homeless.  An article appeared in The Daily Sound on February 24th 2011. It was about  in the “Daily the struggles of “residents” to “take back” Cabrillo Ball Field from the homeless.  Of the 15 comments,  half  used disparaging words to describe our neighbors on the streets, including “bums,” “vagrants” and “undesirables”.  Two writers compared the folks who congregate at the park to “debris” needing to  be swept away with a broom. Several implied that the life-sustaining services of non-profits provide are part of “the problem.”

   The “Hobo" comment  and the online reader responses share some
common treads: Those who live without homes are seen as lazy, as
feeding off the system and as a “problem.”  Social scientists and survey researchers confirm these attitudes among Americans generally.

     Most Americans see homelessness as the outcome of personal choices and or qualities of being.  In our society, people are deemed responsible
for their own economic fate.  This individualistic orientation is seen
in the reasons people give to survey researchers when asked “why are
there poor people in this county?”  They  emphasize personal
traits, such as lack of effort, thrift or talent as factors that  lead to poverty,  minimizing the structural factors such as corporate downsizing, lack of jobs, or inadequate  schools. I’d like to explore some of these “structural” barriers that keep one group of people on the streets. Rather than blaming
these victims of poverty,, I’d like to  highlight t problems
in  our social systems  that prevent some folks from moving
forward productively.  My focus is on those with severe mental
health challenges, including those who are also substance abusers.

     Research on the homeless mentally ill acknowledges both types of
causes: structural and individual.  Examples of structural causes
include , the housing market, the structure of the economy generally and social policies.  Overall, structural barriers are societal—they point to the ways  social systems operate and are outside the control of the person.  If the unemployment rate rises, that is a structural cause of homelessness.  If the amount of
available and affordable housing goes down in an area, that is a structural cause
of homelessness. If access to  affordable rehabilitation services
for drug and alcohol treatment is cut off, , that is a structural barrier
for people with addiction issues  who want to get off the street.  If our County's mental health services or our City's Housing Authority have services  that are difficult to obtain, confusing or inaccessible to those with  mental health
illnesses,  these can be structural barriers.

     In contrast, individualistic causes focus on personal behavior, and
can often result in “blaming the victim”.  Examples of perceived
individual causes include substance abuse and lack of a work ethic.
If people give up hope and stop trying to get off the street, that is
probably perceived as an individual cause of homelessness.

     Clearly, individual and structural factors interact with each other
and are often related.  For example, alcoholism and other drug
challenges are typically perceived as  personal problems.  Many
people who have had substance abuse issues have gone through
treatment, continue to work on their recovery and are currently “clean
and sober.” This shows how personal choices can and do change.  But
if the help needed to get off drugs and alcohol is absent or  unaffordable that is a
barrier.

Tripled Challenged: Homeless, Mentally Ill and Addicted

   Consider these facts.  About 50% of homeless people suffer from mental
health issues. About 25% have serious mental illness, such as bipolar disorder, schizophrenia and chronic depression.   About 50% of individuals with severe mental illness are affected by substance abuse too.  These figures
are often disputed and one of the exciting aspects of the “vulnerability surveys” conducted by the Common Ground volunteers at in early  of March,  is that we will finally have data on who is on the streets and what types of problems they face.

     My title, “The Revolving Door,” comes from the fact that people with
co-occurring disorders (that is mental health issues and substance
abuse issues) constantly recycle though a life on the streets and in
and out of health care and the criminal justice systems without
getting the  treatment programs they need.  Dually diagnosed
people are the most difficult to stably house and treat due to limited
availability of integrated mental health and substance abuse
programs.

    I see the crisis in mental health care all over the streets of Santa Barbara.  A short walk from Stearns Wharf up State Street to the Public Library on
Anapamu  any day of the week will reveal the severity of the problem. In eleven blocks, there are far more than eleven people who seem to be severely
mentally ill and living on the streets.  Likely there are more than a
couple of dozen.

     But why? Our society potentially provides severely mentally ill
people with SSI / SSDI benefits and our Housing Authority is
known for its outstanding supportive housing (Section 8) program. Why, when someone could be getting a monthly check and living in supportive
housing, are so many severely mentally ill people sleeping in doorways
and picking food out of trash cans?  My goal is to explore
why this situation exists and  suggest some solutions.

     It is by advocating for structural changes in institutions
that serve the homeless mentally ill that I hope to encourage us to
move beyond the “socks and blankets” types of charity solutions, which
offer much-needed “band-aid” solutions to immediate needs, but do
nothing to change the situation.

     Here are some “structural” barriers that prevent people with mental
illness from being able to transition off the streets and become more self-sufficient:

1) The amount of affordable housing supported by HUD in our county has
gone down drastically since 1980.  The overall amount has to increase
so that the percentage going to those who are on the streets and those
who are disabled can increase. This country is in a “permanent housing crisis,”  according to Peter Marcuse and Dennis Keating, two respected urban housing experts.

2.) The lack of SUPPORTIVE housing for those with mental health issues
is also important. Our City and our Housing Authority have garnered
much praise for building the El Carrillo apartment complex, which took
people right from shelters and transitional housing programs , placed them into attractive studios and provided  mental health and drug and alcohol treatment support when  needed.  To place people with lots of
challenges in housing without assistance does not work. While more of
this type of housing is in the works (Artisan Courts is soon to be
opened by the City's Housing Authority), even more is needed to deal
with the numbers on our streets who need it.

3) The legal system must change!  My experience in working with dually
diagnosed  homeless populations that we are very quick to send
people back to prison or jail for minor violations of their probation
or parole, and a lot slower at giving them the integrated services
they need.  While our City has an outstanding Restorative Policing
team that seeks to avoid re-incarcerating folks who really need
treatment, it can only deal with a small percentage
of the people who need it. About 20 people are on their list.  Officer Keld
Hove from the Santa Barbara Police Department does outstanding work
here.  Outreach workers have come to regard him as a tireless
advocate for our most challenging cases.  Unfortunately, he is the only person on the police force doing this work, and there is an immediate need for another!

4) Another legal matter concerns the implementation of something like
Laura's Law.  This would mandate some involuntary psychiatric treatment
for  severely mentally ill people. Can a psychotic person really
give "consent" to treatment they do not understand?  In our current
situation, the courts often force mentally ill people to be released to
the streets where they live in doorways and pick food out of trash
cans while getting none of the care they desperately need.
The pendulum has swung too far in the direction of protecting
individuals rights.

4.) We need to increase number of outreach workers who can help
people apply for public benefits and services and decrease  paperwork
and other barriers that make these services difficult to obtain.
 For example, to access services, a severely disabled person needs to fill out
complicated forms, make endless appointments and hop through countless
hoops.  I’ve seen that when a person has a family member  acting
as a part- time advocate, bringing the person to appointments and
assisting with the paperwork, the person  fairs far better than
someone without such assistance.  I have seen people forced to restart
the whole benefits application process over again because they missed two
appointments. Overall, we need to make the process of getting off the
streets more "user-friendly" for folks who’ve had  lots of trauma,
and are full of anxiety.  They might be "service resistant" because
of all these institutional barriers!

5)  We need to work with our community hospitals  to allow uninsured people who are in psychiatric crisis to be admitted.  Often there are empty beds on the psychiatric wing of Cottage while fully psychotic people wander the streets. Currently, Emergency Room treatment is provided, but those  who need to be admitted are quickly discharged.   We need to insist that this level of treatment for
severely mentally ill homeless be a part of the hospital's contract with the county.  We must not take no for an answer!  They CAN afford this!  (Remember the cost of the new hospital that is being built!)

6) The number of treatment beds for people with addictions needs to increase.    Moreover, we know that mental health stabilization and addiction treatment must be integrated for the dually diagnosed.  We need a low-cost residential treatment facility that doesn't deny care to the dually-diagnosed.  As someone who spent a year at the Santa Barbara Rescue Mission, I can attest to the great people working there and life-saving  services provided. But they are not equipped to care for
severely mentally ill people.  When the Salvation Army's Adult
Rehabilitation Center (ARC) program left Carpinteria, our area lost 80
beds for men in crisis seeking to transition off the streets. This was
a devastating  loss to our community.  Our county also lacks a medical detoxification center for the uninsured and indigent.  Our only one, the Cottage Rehabilitation Center, costs tens of thousands of dollars for a 30-day stay.

7)  Santa Barbara County's mental health department, ADMHS, which also oversees all substance abuse treatment, needs  a Forensic ACT Team. This would be a  a street-wise team of mental health professionals, addiction
specialists and psychiatric social workers, combined with caring and
compassionate ordinary citizens (perhaps from the faith communities). This team would be trained not to give up on people, but to  meet them  where they are and tirelessly advocate for those who might be  mean or angry or rude or
frustrated or traumatized.  Doctors Without Walls is an outstanding
volunteer effort leading the way in this type of  street medicine and
the County needs to follow suit.
 
     We need to build the political will to make these changes happen.
It is only when our community decides it is ready to end the problem of
severely mentally ill people existing on our streets that things will change.  Even in times of economic depression, progress is possible.   And ordinary citizens can take the lead. Consider Suzanne Riordan, the founder of
Families Act!. She is a tireless advocate working  to change the
situation for the  dually diagnosed.  Recently, I joined with
her to mount a Community Forum as a part of Survival Santa Barbara, a
social justice project emerging from the Unitarian Society of Santa
Barbara.  Its goal was to raise funds for the  Freedom Warming Centers. And indeed, the project raised over $25,0000 to keep the warming centers open during inclement weather.  This demonstrates what ordinary people and faith communities can do to improve the situation for those suffering on our streets.

Drawing by Wayne Mellinger, PhD.


 

Gay & Mobilehomeless

posted March 30, 2011
by jeff4justice

I was recently in Santa Barbara interviewing people for a documentary I am making about people living in vehicles and also for my vlog at jeff4justice.com – please check it out.

Here’s my story:

In 2007 I was employed fulltime as a recreational director at a private campground resort making near minimum wage with no health coverage.  My job site was in East Nicolaus, CA which is located between the Yuba-Sutter area and the Sacramento airport. 

After a breakup, I was suddenly on my own with my little income. In order to save up for my own place, I decided to live in my vehicle for a while. I did have some friends and family willing to let me couch surf. However, driving a large, gas-guzzling, four-door car and working out in the middle of nowhere made it all the more necessary to live in the vehicle. The cost of fuel was getting higher and higher. I decided to park in the tall grassy areas nearby my job site. 

I kept my hygiene items and cloths in tubs in the back seats and trunk.  As a recreation director, I had my own office and a food storage area. Therefore, I kept my food with the company’s food and I kept my computer and a few things in my office. Instead of asking the boss if I could park at the job site with the RVs, I wanted to keep discrete about my situation fearing homeless-phobia discrimination.  

I slept in my vehicle for about a month, got laid off due to a slowdown at the park. Then I couchsurfed and stayed with friends until leaving the area in 2008 to work in Sacramento and San Francisco on the NO on 8 campaign. While working on the campaign, once again making a low, I continued to couch surf. 

After the campaign, I continued to stay with friends who kindly took me in. No matter how frugal I was, I could never save enough to get my own place. Then some friends let me live in their guest room in the East Bay where I relocated and found work. My vehicle then broke down so I became a pedestrian reliant on local transit. Out of the kindles of their hearts, my friends allowed me to stay for free while I saved up. I survived on unemployment. My unemployment claim continued from when I filed after getting laid off from the recreation director job. The campaign work did not contribute to or enable eligibility for additional or extended unemployment benefits.   

In 2009, after four months of intense job searching, I became employed as a security guard making $14.50 an hour with health coverage. It was my highest paying job to date. I saved and saved and saved and was finally able to rent a room in December 2009. 

I continued living frugally. My bills included rent, cell phone service, food, transit fees and the occasional cheap recreational event. Having been through a flood and a storage shed robbery and also having gone though a fanatical-religious phase during which I threw away all my “sinful” possession, I learned in the past decade to live with as few possessions as possible.  Having health coverage for the first time in years, I tried to make the most of it: fix my shoulder which had agonized me for years; get dental work done to fix my eroding teeth; and get custom orthopedic arch support for my aching feet.  Additionally, I took care of health issues that came and went including a major stomach infection and elbow fractures. Even with health coverage it was still very expensive. 

Meanwhile, I was hoping to save up for a new vehicle. My only previous long-term financial obligation was for a vehicle that my former spouse and I were the co-signers of with her father. I never got a credit card and never signed up for long-term contract services such (like a phone contract). I lived a pay-as-you-go lifestyle.  Regarding my wish for a vehicle, I decided to save up until I could make a down payment of $5,000 or buy an affordable used vehicle under $7,000. With the economic depression in mind, I was cautious about long-term financing realizing one can be laid off or fired anytime. By spring 2010 it became apparent that it would take more than a year to afford this goal. Being extremely frugal, I was lucky if I could save $200 per month. 

I became fed up with the hamster in a wheel, rat in a cage cycle I was living. Not having gone to college (except one public speaking class) at age 30, I did not want to be like my peers who were enslaved in student loan debt while, more often than not, not in the career filed they had aspired for. I accepted the reality that my quality of life was likely to never get any better without either becoming a debt slave while going to college on a gamble or something miraculous happening.  I began to feel disposable. I was depressed and overwhelmed with a feeling of hopeless. 

Meanwhile, in response to suicides caused by anti-gay bullying, gay media responded with the It Gets Better Campaign. I heard over and over, “it gets better.” “Seriously, it gets better.” “I promise, really, really, it gets better.”

I spent the majority of my first decade of adulthood tirelessly devoted to bettering things and advancing equality for gay/LGBTI people while enduring the insults of anti-gays and even more from the fearful, apathetic, exclusionary, and elitist gays.   

Where the hell was my BETTER?  

I finally decided to buy a cheap vehicle for around and live out of it while saving up for the better one I wished for. In the meantime, I became addicted to watching investigative and activist documentaries. One day, a light bulb went off in my head: make a documentary about living in my vehicle. Of course, I’ve never been to film school so I have to learn all I can online and unitize the modest equipment I have as an amateur. 

When sharing the idea of living in a vehicle with loved ones, I was asked:

-how will you shower? 

-where will you go to the bathroom?

-where will you park?

-how will you ensure your safety? 

-what if your vehicle is broken into?

-what if it breaks down?

These questions affirmed my belief that this is a documentary-worthy subject. 

I bought an SUV in August and, on August 30th, 2010, two days before I was to begin living in my vehicle, I fractured my elbows after running and tripping on a wheel stop at a store parking lot.  My plan to live in my SUV was delayed a month and a half while the doctors took me off work refusing to let me return until the elbows healed properly. My out-of-pocket share for this accident would later cost me around $1,000.

While on sick leave form work, I stayed with my parents in Yuba-Sutter. During this time, my SUV brokedown. I needed money to get AAA to tow it to the mechanic and then money for the mechanic. That ordeal cost around $300. I also got sick with an infection that cost $30 to deal with and I had to pay upfront to see the doctors who did the elbow x-rays and evaluations which cost around $200. My parents, one on disability, the other in line to get on disability since 2008, were unable to help me. Waiting for my state disability payments, still living paycheck to paycheck, my income halted and I ran out of money. I asked and eventually begged my friends for donations by email and on Facebook. Thankfully, a handful of friends helped me out.

I somehow got though the month and a half. A few days before returning to work, I got a state disability check over $1,000. 

Next, I returned to work in the East Bay in mid-October and began living in my SUV. My worked allowed us security guards to use the fitness room available to tenant employees so I began to do that and shower. I parked on different streets, parking garages, and plaza parking lots. My rule is: if no signs warn against trespassing and/or tow-away, then I’ll park there. 

After maybe two weeks, my SUV breaks down again in the parking garage at my job site. The estimates to investigate the problem were expensive and the worst case scenarios were all the more expensive. I decided to hold off fixing it until getting my first or second paycheck since after returning to work. Before that could happen, after getting that first check, I was got laid off. 

Once again I was laid off living in my vehicle. I then met some friends who took me in while I saved up my unemployment money to fix my vehicle again. After about two and a half months, it got fixed and I decided to head south to make my documentary about people living in vehicles. 

Having learned of the safe parking program, I headed there to meet and interview the program’s organizers and participants. 

Since arriving at Santa Babra: my vehicle has continued working ok; the price of fuel has become even more horrible; and my unemployment check has been delayed sometimes causing me to run out of money and resort to going to the Casa De Esperanza homeless shelter for food. 

Meanwhile, I’m having a blast attempting to make this documentary about folks living in vehicles and making vlog and skit videos about living in the vehicle for YouTube. I’m also seeking employment. Once I become employed again, I have no interest in returning to a traditional house anytime soon. Why bother? Most folks have housing and vehicle expenses. I just have vehicle expenses. There’s no point in paying for shelter I’ll never possess. Considering my economic reality and educational background (or lack thereof), being a homeowner is nowhere in my future. 

I am happy however. I am happy to be vlogging about living in my vehicle and using humor to tell my story. My vlogs are evolving to being skits. Additionally, I am making living in a vehicle survival tip videos too. I feel like I am finding my voice and empowering people who are going through the same thing to make the most of it. 

I don’t know how much it will get BETTER.  I worry about becoming an unemployment 99er and having to get on food stamps and having no income. I just take it one day at a time. I feel a sense of purpose even more than during my previous 10 years of activism and it motives me to endure it all and persevere. 

Please visit me at http://jeff4justice.com/ and come along for the ride. 

-Jeff Girard 

Blissfully Ignorant of ICCPR, Reinventing the Wheel?

posted March 30, 2011
by Bard

GREETINGS:

 I would like the community to be aware that there is a vast body of California, US and international law, much of would be violated by various proposed "solutions" to the so-called "homeless" situation.

Unfortunately, I feel it is necessary to criticize the so-called "Homeless Bill of Rights" (HBOR)  endorsed by a variety of individuals or institutions. I feel that item is counterproductive, that (a) it sets entirely the wrong tone, the wrong frame of reference and inordinate focus and  (2) it arrogates to one "Jeffersonian"  writer authorization to speak for "homeless" without mandate and thus robs "homeless" of agency.

It is paternalistic and patronizing. It was written without proper means for participation and co-authorship and is thus an act of highway robbery upon the dignity and right of self-determination of persons so designated (labelled). It is therefore an act against the interest of "homeless" persons and the hubris of it should be apologized for by its author.

Rights discussed in the HBOR  are rights which devolve upon "homeless" persons as a whole, by the Creator, or, if one prefers, by natural law, and have been recognized through a long line of historical development which did not begin with the creation of the HBOR.

DISCLAIMER: It pains me that many will perhaps misinterpret this constructive criticism as a "personal attack" on a revered figure, but in my capacity as an advocate it is my duty to brave the forces behind  the various personality cults if they function to hamstring the development of liberatory organized power.

There is no "Mother of the Homeless" movement/community/anything. We are not the worse off by lack thereof. Nor is there a "Father of the Homeless" anything. There are only mortals who have lead, mislead, erred, or done some good.

These  circles of fierce loyalty to different sub-communities and leaders have a legitimate value insofar as they create cohesive units which are capable of fighting back against the virtually totalitarian pressures often confronting "the homeless". It is not my intention to discredit them, but rather to knit them together in an actual coalition. If it is necessary to take some heat as they knit themselves together into a coalition to take me to task, to diss me for this essay, that may be the price that has to be paid. Following the example of Jesus, I am willing to take the heat. This essay needs to be written because people need to get off their butt and stop relying upon leaders - we need a leadership corps, not a self-limiting select few but an entire layer of trained, experienced citizens to openly  resist the totalitarian pressures which impinge upon the human dignity of the scapegoat du jour, "the homeless".

The leadership corps must reject condescending rescuers and organize as did those who formed the Continental Congress and wrote the original Bill of Rights. This group action - whether you compare it to Paul Revere's raiders or to the labor movement or something in between - organized resistance is the only alternative to the police state which is being organized against the homeless this very minute.

There has not been a legitimate public "homeless coalition" in Santa Barbara for a long time, if there ever was one. A first step to recovery from the haphazard and dissolute conduct of the "homeless coalition" in SB, or rather the splintered and disorganized advocacy on the part of the homeless, is to recognize that it can never be a one man show, and that it can never be based upon a "Bill of Rights" written by a single "Jeffersonian" individual. Rather, it must be a part and parcel of the universal human rights story which began around 1776 with the American Revolution, continued with the Storming of the Bastille in 1789, the abolition of slaver in 1864 and grant of woman's sufferage and abolition of Jim Crow.

The struggle for liberty did not flow from the pen of a single "outreach worker" in Santa Barbara County and I believe it is vital that people in this town recognize this continuity of the "homeless" struggle with these American traditions, link to these traditions, rather than rely on cultivating a handful of condescending leaders, politicians and social workers. The HBOR is inherently condescending and on that grounds alone, it should be relegated to the dustbin of history.

There is no need  to reinvent the wheel and it should be emphasized that unhoused persons or so called "homeless" persons, who are not necessarily defined or definable on the basis of their lack of real property (housing property), are both in general United States citizens and also persons covered under the the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) which provides recourse and remedies also with the United Nations.

The rights listed in the HBOR by well intended liberals  are all rights fully included in the ICCPR, the US Constitution  and California State law. Rather than take it upon themselves to replace these institutions with their own replacement,the author and promoters of the HBOR would be more helpful to assist all persons they wish to assist with understanding and asserting their  rights at law. If they nevertehless insist on crafting a "Homeless Bill of Rights", I demand that they convene a convention to do so and empower so called "homeless" person the right to create their own vision without imposition of a frame by individuals, no matter how well intended.

Sincerely,

White Antelope
California Houseless Information Team

Attachment: Edited relevant content from the

International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights

 General Assembly resolution 2200A (XXI)
16 December 1966



Preamble

The States Parties to the present Covenant,

Considering that, in accordance with the principles proclaimed in the Charter of the United Nations, recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,

Recognizing that these rights derive from the inherent dignity of the human person,

Recognizing that, in accordance with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the ideal of free human beings enjoying civil and political freedom and freedom from fear and want can only be achieved if conditions are created whereby everyone may enjoy his civil and political rights, as well as his economic, social and cultural rights,

Considering the obligation of States under the Charter of the United Nations to promote universal respect for, and observance of, human rights and freedoms,

Realizing that the individual, having duties to other individuals and to the community to which he belongs, is under a responsibility to strive for the promotion and observance of the rights recognized in the present Covenant,

Agree upon the following articles:

Article 2

1. Each State Party to the present Covenant undertakes to respect and to ensure to all individuals within its territory and subject to its jurisdiction the rights recognized in the present Covenant, without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status.

...
. Each State Party to the present Covenant undertakes:

3.(a) To ensure that any person whose rights or freedoms as herein recognized are violated shall have an effective remedy,

Article 4 [re disaser planning]

1 . In time of public emergency which threatens the life of the nation and the existence of which is officially proclaimed, the States Parties to the present Covenant may take measures derogating from their obligations under the present Covenant to the extent strictly required by the exigencies of the situation, provided that such measures are not inconsistent with their other obligations under international law and do not involve discrimination solely on the ground of race, colour, sex, language, religion or social origin.

Article 6 [ re so called "HL Bill of Rights]

1. Every human being has the inherent right to life. This right shall be protected by law. No one shall be arbitrarily deprived of his life.

Article 7 [re "Shocks not Socks"]

No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment. In particular, no one shall be subjected without his free consent to medical or scientific experimentation.

Article 9

1. Everyone has the right to liberty and security of person. No one shall be subjected to arbitrary arrest ...

Article 10

1. All persons deprived of their liberty shall be treated with humanity and with respect for the inherent dignity of the human person.

Article 11
No one shall be imprisoned merely on the ground of inability to fulfil a contractual obligation.

Article 12

1. Everyone lawfully within the territory of a State shall, within that territory, have the right to liberty of movement and freedom to choose his residence.

Article 14

1. All persons shall be equal before the courts and tribunals.

Article 16

Everyone shall have the right to recognition everywhere as a person before the law.

Article 17

1. No one shall be subjected to arbitrary or unlawful interference with his privacy, family, home or correspondence, nor to unlawful attacks on his honour and reputation.

2. Everyone has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.

Article 21

The right of peaceful assembly shall be recognized. No restrictions may be placed on the exercise of this right other than those imposed in conformity with the law and which are necessary in a democratic society in the interests of national security or public safety, public order (ordre public), the protection of public health or morals or the protection of the rights and freedoms of others.
Article 22

1. Everyone shall have the right to freedom of association with others, including the right to form and join trade unions

Article 24

1. Every child shall have, without any discrimination as to race, colour, sex, language, religion, national or social origin, property or birth, the right to such measures of protection as are required by his status as a minor, on the part of his family, society and the State.

Article 25

Every citizen shall have the right and the opportunity, without any of the distinctions mentioned in article 2 and without unreasonable restrictions:

(a) To take part in the conduct of public affairs,

Article 26

All persons are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to the equal protection of the law. In this respect, the law shall prohibit any discrimination and guarantee to all persons equal and effective protection against discrimination on any ground such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status. 

Where To, American Dream?

posted March 24, 2011
by Nancy E. Kapp

     Fading like a beautiful California sunset, so is the American dream. The American family is beginning to unravel not only as dysfunctional but broken by financial burdens. So heavy to carry for any man, woman or child regardless of strength or determination.
    It was for many so unforeseen and an impossibility. But now, many more of us know that the lies and promises were said in vain.
    I guess for so long poor people just accepted it as a way of life and learned to survive. When we turned our heads much to our amazement stood people unfamiliar to us. The pioneers of homelessness know how to survive in the streets. However, the middle-class doesn’t know the first thing about being homeless. And I am not happy but heartbroken to see anyone have to come to that level. It’s devastating.
    Perhaps it’s meant to be a universal experience. You have to feel it to understand the complexities and emotions that present themselves to your psyche on a daily basis. Prevention is foresight. I think it starts with facing the truth head on. Many of us knew the Bush regime would take us exactly where we are today.
    Yes, there is always hope but why do we keep putting band-aids on wounds that need stitches? How far down to the darkness do we need to go to realize we are in hell? How many more families have to become homeless before we say enough?

*Nancy Kapp was homeless in Santa Barbara for four years with her daughter. She now co-manages New Beginnings' Safe Parking Program and writes poetry.

Is it really a House of Hope?

posted March 19, 2011
by toughlove=death

CASA ESPERANZA - Not even a Close translation to house of Hope In February I was dismissed from casa for moving some ones paper with out permission for 3 days which turned into 2 weeks because they decided to add that I have not had a job and Have been there too long and they wanted to make an example out of me. So I got a job while I was in the dismissed state, The employer tested my skills with an Image he wanted edited, did that made some money. The employer gave me cash then we went to his office and discussed what it was that I would be doing. At the point he gave me a letter that I could use to show the Casa management that I had a job, and they let me back in on a job development bed. So today I talked to some one that was privileged to have some information about my situation and they told me that it was being spread around casa that I made my job up, and was faking documents so I can stay there, this made sense to me this morning after last night when I talked to some one else and they asked if that the document that I had was a real document. So what I gather from this experience is that Casa is convinced that I am falsifying documents to get a bed there. Furthermore they flat out refused to call my employer to get verifications.

Just Wondering

posted March 17, 2011
by Michael W. Stowell

    Sometimes I fail to appreciate the familiar wonders in life: a cloudless sky, the sound of a rising tide, pelicans fishing, a friend’s smile, the twinkle in a happy child’s eyes. I don’t always notice my own aging either, until an ache or pain calls me to account. Some years ago I took a cross-country trip back to my childhood vicinage, after an absence of nearly twenty years, and was shocked at how old my friends and relatives had become. Their appearance testified to my own mortality.

    Last year I spent a sojourn in Oregon for six months, enjoying the friendly people, the beautiful rivers and forests, and along the way searching for work. When the weather turned cold and icy,I was forced to return to this warmer clime, my arthritic hip had rendered me all but immobile. Upon arriving in Santa Barbara, I was perplexed by a peculiar change in attitude. As I shouldered my backpack across town, from the bus station to the shelter, I encountered some disagreeable stares. I was flummoxed. This was not the Santa Barbara of a half year earlier; or was it?

    That was in mid-January. Since then, I’ve considered the local inclination toward our homeless population, the socioeconomic refugees in our midst, to determine if there has been a change, and if so, why? I spent a sunny afternoon bench sitting on State Street, watching for backpackers, cart-pushers, recyclers and panhandlers, and  observing the reactions of the people they encountered. Most folks just avert their eyes and pretend not to notice, but some reacted with disdain, a few others with condolence. I don’t recall anyone offering a friendly smile. It reminded me of how priceless a smile can be, especially if you haven’t seen one in a while.

    Surely everyone’s noticed the cost of healthcare these days and the cost of insurance for healthcare coverage. Many may not realize that a broken hip, a series of cancer treatments, an automobile accident or a severe illness can be the beginning of a down fall to the depths of homelessness, on the streets or in a shelter. Sometimes it doesn’t take that much. It could be a simple mechanical failure in your car. If you can’t afford to get it fixed and don’t have the credit to borrow for repairs, because you’ve always believed in saving for large purchases, you may find yourself unable to reach your workplace and out of a job.
    What if you were an older person who lost your pension because Wall Street gambled with your money? Or a young couple with a young family and a mortgage default, foreclosure and bankruptcy? You may be someone who has worked hard and long hours only to be laid off because of a recessive economy. Unemployment Insurance benefits aren’t near your regular income and after depleting your savings out you go. – Hello homeless shelter. (We don’t call the “poor houses” anymore.)

   What if you are someone who has suffered with mental illness as long as you can remember? You can’t seem to fit in anywhere, people misunderstand you, you either get too much medication or not enough, you don’t make good personal boundaries and people you trust rip you off – what  do you do? Seems like you’re either sleeping in a ditch, in a shelter or in a jail. What if you are so disgusted with life that you don’t care if you have an addiction – your only care is in feeding it?

    I’ve met many homeless people in my travels; I’ve been homeless a total of eight years and have worked for organizations that serve the homeless for an additional five. I can honestly testify that the reasons and causes are many and varied and most people don't expect it to happen to them. I must also say that the experience has given me an entirely new perspective, from the outside looking in, enabling me to look beyond the wonted scope of opinion and gain a more comprehensive point of view.

   The local newspapers have been hosting ongoing discussions about several issues concerning the homeless. How many are there? Why are they dying in the streets? How can we keep them out of that park? How can we discourage them from panhandling? Much of the discussion has a nasty edge; it seems many people are becoming more frustrated and less hopeful about solving what’s not just a local problem. I can certainly understand why. 

    The President of the United States, the Santa Barbara City Council and the director of a local shelter have all stated their intention to end homelessness within ten years. That’s a noble goal but a ridiculous statement. None of them have significant control over the unemployment rate, the creation of new jobs, the development of more low-income housing or the maintenance and expansion of social services. Obama, if he does have the admirable aspirations he has claimed, is hamstrung by a polarized Congress, two very expensive wars, a precarious economy and a huge national debt. The Santa Barbara City council is constrained by political opposition and budgetary considerations. Altogether these realities frustrate any plans to treat, educate, employ and house a growing number of homeless people.

   I like to spend a couple hours each day scanning the news and analysis and it’s obvious that we in Santa Barbara are not alone in our frustration. Many people around the world are feeling increasingly frustrated nowadays. Recently the globalization of frustration and unrest has coalesced in at least fifteen Middle Eastern countries and some people there are even taking action to change the status quo and gain more control over their lives.

    As I write this the citizens of Yemen, Algeria, Oman, Bahrain, Tunisia, Egypt, Iran, Lebanon, Morocco, Jordan, Syria, Qatar, Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia are voicing discontent, organizing and demonstrating, sometimes fighting and dying, to end many long years of aggravation. Even if those regimes can withstand the internal unrest, they will never be the same. The status quo can no longer be maintained anywhere in the Middle East. Furthermore, the frustrated protesters calling for free and accountable governments have endured decades of bitter experience with unrepresentative governments that are often willing to accept, or at the very least are unable to resist, subordination to political and economic diktats as commanded by corporate paymasters at the helm of global power.

    In America we have a government that is severely in debt,  unresponsive and deadlocked in paralyzing polarity. At a time when the future of our economy and the health of our democracy is uncertain and imperiled, our government seems perpetually frozen and unable to make corrections to stabilize our course. Or so it seems; let's take another look at that: America began as a democracy for white men who had significant amounts of property; they were the only people who could vote and hold government offices. That has evolved into a democracy for  transnational corporate entities that control our national elections through unbridled campaign contributions and ownership of the popular mass media. We the people have choices, but those choices are given to us for our pacification and the illusion of empowerment.

    For instance, the Goldman Sachs Group is a global investment bank that spent $4,610,000 lobbying the White House and Congress last year; lobbying to protect and enhance the corporate deregulation that allowed huge remunerations for Wall Street insiders, financial devastation for pensioners and shareholders, more than one million foreclosed households, the worst American recession since the Great Depression and the destabilization of global markets. Goldman Sachs, and its employees, also donated $994,795 during 2007 and 2008 to Obama's presidential campaign, his largest donation package. Former Goldman Sachs lobbyist Mark Patterson became chief of staff to Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner, despite Obama's campaign promise that he would limit the influence of lobbyists in his administration. CEO Lloyd Blankfein has visited the White House at least 10 times thus far in Obama's administration.

   Have you seen any new regulations proposed by Obama, regulations to prevent another collapse? Have you seen anything at all from Obama's administration that would benefit homeless people or aid  local governments in their efforts to alleviate what is becoming not just an annoyance but a reprehensible mess?



 
    



Michael W. Stowell is currently homeless in Santa Barbara.
 

Brothers of the Road: Working Drum Teacher

posted March 12, 2011
by Geof_Bard

This cat was working hard as a drum instructor when I encountered him on State Street. We discussed a recent letter to the editor in local corporate media in which one of the town's burghers lamented the clearly obnoxious behavior of one of downtown's more inebriated denizens. Our drum maestro heartily concurred with bourgeois sentiment in condemning the unrestrained behavior which occasioned said letter; unfortunately, he probably is, in the eyes of that discretely charming class of Santa Barbara, painted with the same broad brush as the offender.


PHOTO CREDIT: (c) 2011 White Antelope of the Whale Path
First publication rights to Isabelle Walker homelessinsb.org
For reuse please contact C_H_I_T-owner@yahoogroups.com
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/C_H_I_T
California Houseless Information Team

FREE SPIRIT #1: A Photo Survey of Brothers of the Road: Part One

posted March 11, 2011
by Geof_Bard

FREE SPIRIT #1: A Photo Survey of Brothers of the Road: Part One

Photo "Houseless Blues" depicts Grumpy in the aftermath of Thirty Days in the Hole, well, County Jail for nothing worse than taking a nip of spirits to ward off the cold chill of winter. Lacking house, condo or mobile home, where else to imbibe but in public; but, according to a senior staff attorney at the Santa Barbara County Public Defender's office, they can sentence up to SIX MONTHS for nothing more offensive than "public intoxication". This is, of course, an outrage, and, though a clear case of human rights abuse on the order of discriminatory punishment of the houseless, is not likely to attract much sympathy from the comfortable bourgeoisie who drink in cushy lounges and then drive home to houses lavishly furnished and amply stocked with the finest imported liquor...

PHOTO: White Antelope of the Whale Path All Rights Reserved. Reuse Permission Requests and Conditions at C_H_I_T-owner@yahoogroups.com

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The Land of The Present

posted March 09, 2011
by Courtney Caswell-Peyton

By Courtney Caswell-Peyton


   A heavy winter snow fell unceasingly that blinded all that was otherwise visible outside and a fiercely howling wind blew past Hank and Stephanie’s house as both gazed out the window. “I want Suzie to have a Christmas just like when I was a kid,” Stephanie said wistfully as she looked into the stark, white distance.       "Well, then, that calls for a Christmas that’s chock full of celebration and merriment if you ask me.  What do you suppose we should do for her?”  Hank inquired curiously with a tinge of optimism in his tone.  “Once around the neighborhood to see all the lights, then tea and pastries at Manja’s, followed by a whirling twirl around the local skating rink to see the Christmas tree and talk to Santa.”

   Stephanie looked optimistically at her husband, confident that these very small luxuries would be accounted for in the year’s Christmas budget.  But Hank’s face was anything but reassuring as he calculated the cost of a mere appetizer at Manja’s added to a night at the rink. The couple frankly had quite a bit of trouble making the ends of their basic needs meet this year and they found themselves a resounding two months behind on their mortgage payment and facing the very real possibility of Christmas on the street.
    Hank sighed, very much wanting to please his wife and daughter though he did not see at this point how the Christmas of their dreams was even a remote possibility. He spoke carefully in his attempt to impart the very sad news.  “I know how important your family’s Christmas traditions are to you, dear. And ideally, I would want nothing less for you both.  But, realistically, we’ll either have to scrimp and save or cut a few corners to keep your traditions alive.”
    Stephanie looked ruefully at her husband, knowing that he was expressing nothing but the honest truth and looked momentarily downcast at him as she responded.
     “I know, dear.  I know.  But it’s Christmas.”  She hung her head sadly for an instant and then raised her gaze to what she hoped would be the characteristic twinkling of his laughing eyes.  “Well, the Land of the Present these days is an uncertain one, even for those who believe in the magic of the holiday spirit.  But we should make every effort to make magic happen for Suzie.”  And though his words carried no discernible comfort to speak of, she was nonetheless enchanted by his unfailingly twinkling crystal blue eyes that meant no matter what chaos befell them in their very real reality, the mystery of their unmistakable bond and their uncanny love for their daughter would make everything turn out fine.

      The next morning, Stephanie awoke with a start with find no Hank and no note. She had no tangible reason to believe that anything had gone awry between them, nor was she particularly concerned about his whereabouts until several hours lapsed, then and became a full day with still no sign of him.  
    “Surely Hank was not the type of man to abandon his family so close to Christmas,” Stephanie thought to herself as she set about going on with her nighttime chores as usual  “That would be unthinkable and Suzie would be so disappointed.”  And yet, hour upon hour passed and there was not so much as a footprint on the walkway to indicate his return.
 She waited and waited and waited some more.  Hours upon hours turned into day after day and week after week.  Hank still had not had the courtesy to call to explain his extended absence by the time Christmas Eve day had arrived.  
    Suzie bolted out of bed exuberantly, very much looking forward to the Christmas of her dreams that she had been planning for weeks.  But Christmas Eve day turned into Christmas Eve night with STILL no Hank. Finally, Stephanie decided that with or without her now rudely absent husband, the Christmas adventure was on-–like it or not.  There were knots in her stomach when Suzie barged into the kitchen hoping to hug Daddy.  Her face twisted with anguish when he was not there.
  
     “Where’s Daddy?”  she pressed sadly.  

    “Honestly, sweetie, I don’t really know.”
     Stephanie looked down compassionately at her hopeful daughter as she proposed a compromise solution.  “But I say we have our great Christmas adventure even without Daddy.  What’d ’ya say?”  Suzie looked unconvinced but Stephanie was determined as she cloaked her daughter’s coat around her and dragged her out the door.
 
     The neighborhoods were lit up brilliantly with everyone’s Christmas renditions and Stephanie was certain Suzie was dazzled despite the absence of her beloved father. But after they had gone around the last loop of the neighborhood, and were on their way to Manja’, Stephanie looked over to see Suzie’s once elated expression replaced by gloom.  And, just as they were about to be seated by the hostess, it looked as though Suzie had lost her appetite.  
    “What’s the matter, dear?”  Stephanie inquired.
    .“We’ve been all over the neighborhood and there’s still no Daddy,” Suzie mused with a frown.  
    “I know, dear.  But we still haven’t seen Santa, Frosty or the reindeer, either.”  
    “That’s true,” sulked Suzie as she stabbed at her pie without eating a bite.    Stephanie gobbled down the large dessert in front of her and then rose swiftly, instructing Suzie to follow closely behind. She wanted to leave Manja’s as quickly as possible before her daughter’s mood would put a damper on everything.
    “OK, Frosty, Santa and his reindeer it is.  But if we don’t find him then, I’m really going to give up thinking that he is ever coming home.”  
    Stephanie gave her daughter a few dismissive pats as she rushed them out the door and toward the next stop on their frugal festivities.

      The blustery wind blew over their faces and chapped their lips as they circled once around the rink and then stepped onto the ice to get closer to the Christmas tree.  The closer they got, the more Santas, reindeers and Frostys that they passed. Suzie tugged on each one’s hand and innocently requested that they remove their suit, just in case they were her Daddy. Most understood, some were confused and some were outwardly embarrassed by the little girl’s boldness. Stephanie passed each character, apologizing for her daughter’s odd requests.  They walked slowly and carefully around the entire perimeter of the rink and Suzie began to feel bleary-eyed and sleepy.  Stephanie noticed that at one point it felt as if she was dragging Suzie rather than walking alongside her, so she picked her up to carry her around the last half leg.

     After just a few minutes, Suzie opened her eyes to a world that was real and yet imaginary in its fogginess.  She saw the majesty of firs and pines covered with glittery gold and silver tinsel alongside the rink.  She saw moving clouds that she was certain were in the formation of Santa’s sleigh moving across the sky to bring her and her family loads and loads of presents.  And then she let out a cry as she heard a loud din of voices behind her. She sat up carefully and almost bolted from Stephanie’s arms as she pointed.  
    “Mommy. Mommy, that’s Daddy’s voice!  I hear Daddy!  I hear Daddy!”  He’s right there,” she said with exuberance as she pointed several yards in front of her toward a man that seemed even to Stephanie to be the spitting image of her long lost husband.

      With a second wind certain now, Suzie sprang from her mother’s arms and ran as fast as she could in the direction of a person that Stephanie was certain was probably a complete and utter stranger yet still held out some measure of hope that it might be him. 

     When they each finally got close to the once grayish and blurry figure, it turned out to be just Jack, donning a beaming smile on the outside and harboring his own wishes for Suzie’s Merry Christmas on the inside.  Upon closer examination, Suzie noticed that Jack was holding a few metal cookie cutters in his hand.
     “There’s nothing like a good Christmas cookie at Christmas.  What’d’ ya say we go get warm and make some cookies?”

    Both Stephanie and Suzie agreed as they headed away from the rink and back towards home. Once there, it was obvious that the still groggy Suzie was not alert enough not to be hallucinating.  As Jack and Stephanie pressed dough into soon-to-be-decorated cookies, Suzie pressed her nose to the glass and saw something that no one else did in the glare of the light.  She began jumping up and down jubilantly, still certain that her long lost Daddy lurked somewhere in the night’s shadows.
    Stephanie tried everything to divert her daughter’s attention away from the window and yet was stunned to see what looked like two figures jumping up and down in the darkness.  She did a double take—scrutinizing the spotlight on the snow carefully to be sure of what she saw.  And when she was certain that even her own eyes could not dispute Hank’s reappearance, she bolted scantily clad into the unpredictable temperatures that governed the all-encompassing blanket of winter white.
      “Hank, is that you?  Is that really you?”  Stephanie cried excitedly. And a tall, lanky snow-sputtering figure grinned wildly as he de-submerged himself from the frozen snow below.
    Stephanie looked down and noticed that for Hank to come to surface and greet her and her daughter properly, he would still have to dislodge himself from being waist deep in snow. He held his hand out, hoping for help to be pulled out and was met only with reticence as he kicked and bobbed from below to free himself.  
    “I was crafting my gift to you,” he ventured slowly.  “I never want you or Suzie to forget that you are both my Christmas angels,” he said.



*Courtney Caswell-Peyton's story won second prize in the blog's winter writing contest.

**The photo of Courtney was taken by Nick St.Oegger.

Homeless in Wintertime

posted March 07, 2011
by Jessica Castaneda

        I never had to be homeless growing up. I had loving and caring grandparents who took care of my brother and me when my mother passed away when I was seven. Since my grandma passed away, I have been trying to make ends meet. I lived in a trailer in Carpinteria, working full time as a caregiver and paying $995 a month for rent. Then I got behind on my rent and couldn’t afford to pay that much anymore. I moved to Santa Maria to a friend’s house. She needed help babysitting her children while she worked. I stayed there three months. It was so cold and windy and rainy, too. I came back to Santa Barbara and stayed at The Rescue Mission, which I did not like. Who would like it? But at least I had a warm bed. What I didn’t like was staying outside in the cold wind in the afternoon in order to sign in. Some women would be lying on the grass across the street, wrapped up in blankets. What I really didn’t like was being woken up at 5:15 every morning. Bed made, getting yourself dressed for the day, breakfast served if you wanted it. Who likes to drink black coffee? We were assigned chores in the morning. You have to be out in the streets--still dark--with nowhere to go that early in the morning, 6:15 am. Some homeless people, including me, would go to McDonalds to get out of the cold and use the bathroom. We had to ask for a token; this was before they had remolded McDonald’s. I had a gardener friend that would ask me in Spanish if I was hungry. He would give me some money and I would order coffee, sometimes an Egg McMuffin. I was so thankful towards this nice gentleman.
    I would say that only one time in my life did I have to find a place to sleep outdoors and it was not nice. I slept under a bridge. I could not get to sleep. I kept hearing things move in the bushes. It was cold. I only had one blanket. I would never do that again. I woke up at 6:00 am, brushed myself off and hoped no one saw me.
    I am so grateful now that I have an income coming in every month. I can no longer work due to chronic back pain. I received my back payments due to my disability. I now live in a two-bedroom apartment with my son and grandson who bring such joy into my life.
    Alberta lives with us. He calls me mom and it makes me feel like I am his mother. I’ve rented my room out so I can have some money to myself each month. I now have my driver’s license back and was able to purchase a 2000 Toyota Corolla 5-speed, because my son does not know how to drive a stick shift.
    I moved into the apartment with nothing at all. It took sometime until my apartment was complete, but I did it by the grace of God. I now have a place I can call home. I have a pet hamster called Sam too, and he is spoiled. He eats apples and carrots. I change his bedding once a week. I take him out of his cage at night and let him run all over my bed or I’ll put him on me. I have had a long journey. I have overcome my addiction to drugs. I have too much to lose now, including that fact that it took me two years to get where I am. This is my story.
    
   

    **Jessica Casteneda' s story won second place in the blog's winter writing contest
 

Did Sanctity of Home and Hearth Lead to Murder?

posted March 03, 2011
by Geoffrey Bard

By Geoffery Bard, Legal Affairs Correspondent

Santa Barbara Courthouse, February 28, 2011

       The green hills of this town's ocean side Mesa seem far removed from the gritty realities of Santa Barbara's mean streets. There, the poorest of the poor scrape out a living beside railroad tracks, and sad tales are never in short supply. Every once in a long while there is a fight over property, prestige, or position; a weapon is produced, and, in an all-too frequent moment of barbarity, a human life is irretrievably lost. But in the idyllic setting of the housed classes perched before magnificent ocean views, the struggle for a home can be no less tragic than in the encampments of the underclass.
      One dark night less than two years ago, that struggle collapsed like a house of cards.
      Daniel Lyons and Barbara Scharton had contracted for and arranged the building of their dream home overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The General Contractor was Dan's own brother Corey Lyons, and the project was racked by cost overruns and Byzantine litigation. At 3:30 AM on May 4, 2009, that dream became a nightmare as gunshots rang out, shattering a window, and with it, the lives of the couple and their extended family. Now Corey Lyons sits in the docket facing charges of first-degree murder. Others must now cope with both the loss of life and the existential angst of public testimony about the inner agonies of a private contract gone bad.
    However problematic homelessness may often be – and its problems can be lethal – the unhoused might take solace if living simply could simply mean living a state of grace. What vagabond – even a shivering, barefoot schizophrenic - would trade even the most down and out free life for the Sisyphean agonies now confronting those caught in the web of misfortune playing out in Judge Hill's courtroom?
    If the DA's theory of the case is correct, fratricide, the oldest human crime, has reached its merciless hand into one of America's most desirable places to live - known as America's Riviera. One can't help but recall the wisdom of Solomon; the race is not to the swift, and the rewards of life do not necessarily accompany financial success.
    The victims were both successful attorneys, with experience in personal injury law, criminal prosecution work and in construction liability. Among the many dark ironies of the case, the alleged motive for the crime was their successful pursuit of civil litigation against Daniel's own brother Corey. The accused had been a contractor with a multi-family specialty, and, according to opening remarks of his attorney, he had only reluctantly undertaken the task of a custom residential build. A vortex of misunderstanding escalated into a pitched heat of antagonism ultimately leading to the circumstances now being weighed by a jury of twelve.
     In opening statements, Chief Deputy District Attorney J. Gordon Achinschloss outlined a sequence of events which would put Arthur Conan Doyle to shame. A single pool of blood beside a white truck; a fresh blood stain on the seat; a hidden stash of firearms. A putatively malfunctioning motorcycle that started the first try; a secretly recorded “Whispered Tape”; police stakeouts and ubiquitous gunshot residue “like a trail of bread crumbs”. The full story would read like a Sherlock Holmes novella, one which, if you accept the prosecutor's version, leads to one ineluctable conclusion.
     But in his opening statement, Defense Attorney Robert Sanger counters with a long tale of property deeds, the remodel of a ranch into a Cape Cod with balcony, and a building project the defendant never wanted in the first place. Dragged into a project outside his area of expertise, the defendant was then confronted with a wall of aggressive litigation conducted by the two married attorneys. As presented by the defense, their client was subjected to such a sustained course of victimization by “these two lawyers,” that he made no effort to conceal his anger. And yet, in a final victimization, he may now take a fall because the Santa Barbara Police Department jumped to the conclusion that Corey Lyons was the perpetrator and neglected to do a full crime scene investigation.
     The jury will decide what is now the second trial. The first resulted in mistrial after a witness made prejudicial remarks. The District Attorney's Office is putting its full force behind winning the case; District Attorney Joyce Dudley closely observed the Aushinschloss opening, and the prosecution is going for premeditated murder with the special circumstances of double murder and lying in wait.
    Both prosecution and defense seem to agree that the defendant's life was in ruin, that he would have been wiped out by the legal settlement he was slated to sign just hours before the tragic dénouement
    Both sides agree the man was confronted by loss of house and home and the prospect of his children becoming homeless. Could it be that at the core of human existence, the basic need for a place to call home, the security of place, is so deeply rooted that even the will to live and let live is itself over shadowed by the existential need for the sanctity of one's castle, hearth and household?

Reclaimed Water Is Scary

posted March 03, 2011
by Jim

    My name is Jim. I have had a few issues with our public parks and recreation areas being watered with treated wastewater (a.k.a. reclaimed water).
    I recently asked what exactly is in reclaimed water and found out some pretty nasty things.
    First, I would like to say that parents with children shouldn’t close their eyes to what’s on the grass in the public parks. You see, I caught a Staph infection from sitting on the grass in a public park. Numerous others have caught Staph infections from the grass here, and not just homeless people either.
    Just to let you know, some strains of Staph are treatable, but some are not. The worst is MRSA (Methicillin-resistant staphylococcus aureus). MRSA is not curable. You will have it for life.
    So I have to ask another question. This is for those parents with children. How would you feel if you or your children caught Staph just from playing or sitting on the grass in a public park? Would you be upset or would you do what thousands of others do---act like it’s nothing to pay attention to? For those not familiar with Staph infections, please go to Wikipedia and look up reclaimed water. You will be shocked. I definitely was.


Jim is currently houseless in SB.

Specter of Homelessness Crosses Class Lines with Tragic Result

posted February 28, 2011
by Geof_Bard

 DA: Prospect “Children Will Be Homeless” Motivated Fratricide

by Geoffery Bard, Legal Affairs Correspondent

Santa Barbara Courthouse, February 28, 2011

The green hills of this town's ocean side Mesa seem far removed from the gritty realities of Santa Barbara's mean streets. There, the poorest of the poor scrape out a living beside railroad tracks, and sad tales are never in short supply. Every once in a long while there is a fight over property, prestige, or position; a weapon is produced, and, in an all-too frequent moment of barbarity, a human life is irretrievably lost. But in the idyllic setting of the housed classes perched before magnificent ocean views, the struggle for a home can be no less tragic than in the encampments of the underclass.

One dark night less than two years ago, that struggle collapsed like a house of cards.

Dan Lyons and Barbara Scharton had contracted for and arranged the building of their dream home overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The General Contractor was Dan's own brother Corey Lyons, and the project was racked by cost overruns and byzantine litigation.. At 3:30 AM on May 4, 2009 that dream turned into a nightmare when gunshots rang out, shattering a window, and. with it, the lives of the couple and their extended family. Now Corey Lyons sits in the docket facing charges of first degree murder. Others must now cope with both the loss of life and the existential angst of public testimony about the inner agonies of a private contract gone bad .

However problematic homelessness may often be – and it's problems can be lethal – the unhoused might take solace if living simply often can be simply living a state of grace. What vagabond – even a shivering, barefoot schizophrenic - would trade even the most down and out free life of a vagabond for the Sisyphysian agonies now confronting those caught in the web of misfortune unraveling in Judge Hill's courtroom?

If the DA's theory of the case is correct, fratricide, the oldest human crime, has reached its merciless hand into one of America's most desirable places to live - known as America's Riviera. One can't help but recall the wisdom of Solomon; the race is not to the swift, and the rewards of life do not necessarily accompany financial success.

The victims were both successful attorneys, with experience in personal injury law, criminal prosecution work and in construction liability. Among the many dark ironies of the case, the alleged motive for the crime was their successful pursuit of civil litigation against Dan's own brother Corey. The accused had been a contractor with a multi-family specialty, and, according to opening remarks by his attorney, he had only reluctantly undertaken the task of a custom residential build. A vortex of misunderstanding escalated into a pitched heat of antagonism leading to the circumstances now being weighed by a jury of twelve.

In opening statements. Chief Deputy District Atttorney J. Gordon Achinschloss outlined a sequence of events which would put Arthur Conan Doyle to shame. A single pool of blood beside a white truck; a fresh blood stain on the seat. A hidden stash of firearms. A putatively malfunctioning motorcycle that started the first try; a secretly recorded “Whispered Tape”; police stakeouts and ubiquitous gunshot residue “like a trail of bread crumbs”.. The full story would read like a Sherlock Holmes novella, one which, if you accept the prosecutor's version, leads to one ineluctable conclusion.

But in his opening statement Defense Attorney Robert Sanger counters with a long tale of property deeds, the remodel of a ranch into a Cape Cod with balcony, and a building project the defendant never wanted in the first place. Dragged into a project outside his area of expertise, the defendant was then confronted with a wall of aggressive litigation conducted by the two married attorneys. As presented by the defense, their client was subjected to such a sustained course of victimization by “these two lawyers” that he made no effort to conceal his anger. And yet, in a final victimization, he may now take a fall because the Santa Barbara Police Department jumped to the conclusion that Dan Lyons was the perpetrator and neglected to do a full crime scene investigation/

The jury will decide in what is now the second trial. The first resulted in mistrial after a witness made prejudicial remarks . The District Attorney's Office is putting its full force behind winning the case; District Attorney Joyce Dudley closely observed the Aushinschloss opening, and the prosecution is going for premeditated murder with the special circumstances of double murder and lying in wait. .

Both prosecution and defense seem to agree that the defendant's life was in ruin, that he would have been wiped out by the legal settlement he was slated to sign just hours before the tragic dénouement

Both sides agree the man was confronted by loss of house and home and the prospect of his children becoming homeless. Could it be that at the core of human existence, the basic need for a place to call home, the security of place, is so deeply rooted that even the will to live and let live is itself over shadowed by the existential need for the sanctity of one's castle, hearth and household?

(c) Geof Bard First publication rights licensed to Homelessness insb.org  All Rights Reserved

[[category:California]] [[category:Crime and law]]

I Volunteer To Give Back And To Learn

posted February 28, 2011
by Allison Nuovo

     At UCSB I was a Biology major among the sea of students working to get into medical school. My pursuit of a career in medicine began in high school, where I volunteered consistently for a local hospital. I continued my volunteer work at St. Johns Hospital in Oxnard, occasionally witnessing the medical problems and family dynamics of the acutely ill. While these experiences afforded a valuable glimpse at the inner workings of hospital life, they did not give me a sense of how a career as a physician could impact my community. 
     Nationwide, underserved populations are not getting the care they need.  Santa Barbara may seem an idyllic place with its mild climate, picturesque mountains and beautiful ocean, but it is not immune to this problem. Homelessness is a grim reality in our city. A recent study done by the Santa Barbara Public Health Department revealed that 45 individuals died homeless in 2010, this year we have already lost 7. The average age of death was 52. Compared to the national average life expectancy of 78, these statistics are shocking. Many died from a condition known as tri-morbidity, which defines a high-risk combination of living on the street, having a physical or mental illness, and struggling with alcohol abuse.
    Since 2005, Doctors Without Walls (DWW) has worked tirelessly to address these issues. DWW is a local, non-profit organization that offers free medical care for the most vulnerable, underserved people in Santa Barbara. Steeped in the spirit of volunteerism, this grass-roots organization has grown from humble beginnings into a fully-fledged operation that includes several satellite programs.
    I became involved with DWW through the Women’s Free Homeless Clinic, one of their outreach programs. I learned about it from professor Diane Eardley at UCSB. The goal of this clinic is to cultivate a safe, positive environment for women while offering competent care. As a volunteer, in addition to doing laundry and offering donations, I socialize with the women, striving to create a friendly and comfortable atmosphere. Wanting to do more for this cause, I am now on the communications team for DWW and make street rounds with the student group known as Street Health Outreach.
    While DWW has established programs that run consistently, this organization is constantly looking for ways to improve the quality of care by connecting with like-minded groups. In the coming weeks, DWW is partnering with the Common Ground initiative, part of the national 100,000 homes campaign, to complete a Homeless Vulnerability Index for our county. From February 27th through March 4th, volunteers will be canvassing the area to account for every homeless person. The goal of the project is to discover those who are most vulnerable, like high- risk people who meet criteria for tri-morbidity, and ultimately provide housing for those individuals. For more information about Common Ground, visit www.commongroundsb.org.
     Doctors Without Walls offers the opportunity for every community member to get involved and give back. Current volunteers range from college students to physicians to retirees. No matter what your background, there is a place for you here. For more information about the organization, how to volunteer, and how to donate, please visit our website at www.santabarbarastreetmedicine.org.

Brand new Warming Center article on Wikipedia

posted February 23, 2011
by Bard

Wikipedia is developing a Homeless/Houseless/Habitat project please help out! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:WikiProject_Council/Proposals/Homelessness

Warming center

A warming center is a short term emergency shelter that operates when temperatures or a combination of precipitation, wind chill, wind and temperature become dangerously inclement. Their paramount purpose is the prevention of mortality and morbidity related to exposure to the elements. This may include acute trauma from falling objects such as trees, or cold weather injury to extremities due to frostbite. A more prevalent emergency which warming centers seek to prevent is hypothermia, the risk for which is aggravated by factors such as age, alcohol consumption, and homelessness.

[edit] Purpose

Thus Warming Centers are frequently directed to the circumstances of persons who are "unsheltered" due to a personal state of homelessness and whom, for one reason or another, do not utilize existing homeless shelters. In other circumstance, Centers serve stranded motorists ^[1] or, during cold-weather power outages, homeowners and tenants.

In some cases, when cold snaps threaten wildlife, they are created and operated to protect endangered wild animals. Cold blooded animals such as turtles are particularly vulnerable as are their hatchlings. ^[2] Emergency shelters vary in policy on pet, companion, or domesticated animals.^[3] During large scale disasters, there are frequently separate locations including a safe place for horses.^{[citation needed]}

[edit] Location of warming centers

[edit] Existing shelters

While they are in some cases directly affiliated with existing homeless shelter operations, warming centers are more frequently housed in different locations.^{[citation needed]} Due to zoning, special use permit, and fire code restrictions, homeless shelters and day centers serving homeless populations are often legally constrained from exceeding authorized capacity. Not infrequently, existing shelters are engaged with ongoing negotiations with neighbors who in some cases take a NIMBY ("Not In My Backyard") attitude toward existing operations. Any increase in capacity can become politicized, despite the exigencies of spikes in cold temperature days, particularly when cold or rainy weather is routine.^{[citation needed]}

Thus, they need to secure alternative sites unless restrictions are waived due to extreme or otherwise unusual weather. Such waivers may be either on a one-time basis, or pursuant to memorandum of understanding (MOU's) with relevant agencies; however, existing shelter sites are typically at the highest level of use compatible with neighborhood character and the political balance of power.^{[citation needed]} Few warming center sites appear to be utilizing the same building as routine homeless shelter operations, and the preponderance of them do situate in alternative sites.^{[citation needed]}

[edit] Alternative sites

When not using existing shelters under MOU's or other legal instruments relaxing ordinary legal restrictions, venues of operation frequently involve coalitions of non-profit entities which own or operate suitable real estate. These include churches and community organizations but also may involve special purpose institutional real estate such as national guard armories.^[4]

[edit] Determination to activate warming centers

Warming centers are generally^[5] opened for only a few days at a time based on the conditions of the area, although some ^[6] are open for specific portion of the year when weather conditions are adverse. ^[7][8]

The City of Chicago opens its shelters from December 1 to March 1 each year, as well as any other times the temperature drops below freezing.^[9]

The City of Portland, Oregon, uses a more complex formula to determine when to open shelters; factors include wet or dry conditions, the night's predicted low, the three-day trend of lows, sustained wind speed, and whether snow is on the ground or predicted to fall.^[10]

Activation is generally a centralized decision based upon what is termed either an algorithm, or, in other jurisdictions, an Activation Trigger.^[11] Lane County, Oregon utilizes an elaborate system of tiered readiness levels in collaboration with the American Red Cross.^[12] They refer to these levels as their "alert status", ranging from fair weather OUTLOOK status to STANDBY,WATCH and finally ACTIVATE.^[12]

[edit] Operations

[edit] Outreach to vulnerable persons

Once a center has been sited, staffed and the volunteer phone tree has been activated, it is required to connect with the populations it intends to reach and persuade them to come in. A significant population is resistant to interaction with perceived "authorities" and others may not have sufficient contact with the system of care to be adequately aware of their options. A recent trend promoted by organizations such as Common Ground is to piggy back vulnerability indexes and site data onto HUD-mandated enumeration studies. One of the benefits hoped for with regard to those projects is that there will be better opportunities to promote the warming center option to vulnerable populations.

Centers often coordinate with outside programs. For communication of the availability of open centers, many coordinate with the Federally mandated 2-1-1 or the 3-1-1 phone information system.^[13] Street newspapers are generally published weekly or less frequently, which makes them useful only for general information such as contact numbers and locations.

For transportation to centers, some offer free transportation,^[14] in some cases for persons being released from jail into conditions of inclement weather. ^[15] In blizzard conditions, snowmobile enthusiasts have been mobilized.^[16]

[edit] Warming centers in service

Once opened and populated, they typically offer only the most bare-bones of service: a cot and perhaps a bowl of hot soup. They are generally operated with one or more experienced professional staff person, due to the difficulties which untrained volunteers might encounter in dealing with the clientele. Often, users of warming centers are persons who are not participating in routine homeless shelter services due to disciplinary exclusions or non-compliance with behavioral policies. In order to distinguish mere oddness from behavioral disorders which might disrupt the ability of other persons to obtain service, professional staff is the preferred alternative to all -volunteer personnel.^{[17] [18]} Others utilizing Warming Centers are persons who are not in the shelter system for an array of reasons not necessarily associated with pathology. They may personally be in transit but not prepared financially or otherwise to contend with unanticipated weather conditions. Others may be locals who are eligible for but decline to stay in shelters due to objections to policies and procedures.^[19]

[edit] Historic and current role in society

Warming centers frequently are opened as a response to the tragic occurrence of hospitalizations dues to hypothermia when unsheltered persons are discovered in extreme exposure-related trauma or mortality.

They seem to go back as far as 1945, when used in Berlin at the conclusion of World War II. Clothing and blankets were allowed for under the air lift plans and an extensive plan was developed for public "warming centers."^[20]

In more recent times, U.S. warming centers are proliferating as a means to serve the unsheltered homeless during temperature and rainfall spikes. Such cohorts may not have access to year-round homeless shelters due to supply and demand imbalance, or may may simply be uninterested in nightly access during mild weather, but some observers note that others may be unable to comply with conditions for use. According to Detroit socialist writer Naomi Spencer, they serve also as "a last resort for homeless people to find respite from the cold, especially those with drug addictions, mental illness, or criminal backgrounds, who may not meet requirements imposed by some homeless shelters or religious charity operations."^[21] Others, including straight edge, DIY, or anarchist-identified persons who may choose to live "off-the-grid", without facing exclusion from quotidian shelters due to sobriety issues.^[22]

Others simply find shelters too regimented, too much like jail: newspaperman Mike Hendricks quotes a former resident of an unauthorized homeless encampment named Crow, who said that "some guys would sooner do what they want and not be told what to do."^[23]

Tom Brown's Field Guide to City and Suburban Survival contains chapters on shelters and heating. ^[24] He also outlines means of creating a personal warming center by using ATM access cards.^[24] His recommendations have been circulated by Chicago's urban community activist Chrisdian Wittenburg including instructions on building a makeshift stove and a plethora of collaborative cultural projects.^{[citation needed]}

[edit] Controversy

Perception of the importance and priority of warming centers varies. At one extreme, their under-utilization or minimal level of service is characterized as unfriendly. During the blizzard of February, 2011, the City of Ottawa, Illinois did not have established warming centers, and an ad hoc facility was established. Users were required to bring their own food and blankets, drawing fire for the "have-nots...can all freeze to death...here in the friendly city."^[25] In Detroit, failure to disburse Community Development Block Grants resulted in a situation where people slept in plastic chairs or "in cold hallways".^[26]

At the other end of the continuum, critics have expressed scepticism that the churches and other facilities utilized for warming centers are appropriate and capable of handling the clientele. ^[27] Another contention is that assisting the homeless "enables" them to continue a lifestyle which is problematic.

But advocates of warming centers have similarly noted that they tend to maintain the status quo by not addressing structural factors, but their emphasis is that too little rather than too much is done to help the needy. Sue Murphy is the administrative director of Interfaith Action of Evanston, Illinois, which has a daytime center for a time slot during which overnight shelters are closed to clients. She states that warmth and snacks "is not nearly enough...what we need is a place where they can go the whole winter. Her concerns are seconded by Sue Loellebach of Connections for the Homeless, who laments the paucity of warm refuge during daylight hours, but rejects that and even extended-stay shelters as inadequate and that they perpetuate the status quo.^[28

Big Win for Mayor Schneider on City Policy at Cabrillo Ball Field

posted February 23, 2011
by Bard

      The Feb 23 Parks & Rec meeting about Cabrillo Ball Field seemed like it was going to be another typical slug fest in which political agendas would be brought into play with the thinly vield intention to discredit the Mayor's embattled progressive plurality. To my amazement, some of the people who have been known for hyperbolic denunciations of homeless people just stuck to the agenda and talked about ideas for the park: a farmer's market, basketball courts, football, handball. Others talked about drainage and culverts. But very few trotted out the by-now familiar litany of complaints about "hobo's and railroad tramps".

    Almost every speaker had positive suggestions about alternative use of the park, or congratulatory thanks for the successful resolution of the Cabrillo Field controversy. A letter from the youth league expressed gratitude at the abatement of unpleasant interactions between youth sports leagues and other park users (i.e., unsheltered homeless).  A manager from the nearby hotel said "the fence has worked wonders". And a police official cited impressive statistics indicating that police calls fell from a rate of 60-75 per month to a rate of @ 35 per month.

     There was some residual concern about the possibility of the problems just shifting to other locations, too many RV's along the beach, and, of all things, flooding. But the good news was that private money may be available for basketball, which was by far the most popular item in the list of possibilities.

    In the blog-o-sphere, it has been suggested that many of the alleged problems with the location stem from under-utilization. If so, then stimulation of user visits through the addition of new amenities should even further reduce problems.

    When one of the commissioners (Rapp) launched into the usual lingo of trashing the "homeless transient types", another, (Scott Burns) pointed out that a lot of the homeless don't cause any problems at all and that the problems are caused only a small portion and that's unfortunate.

     For me, the big surprise was that someone who writes for a newspaper-like corporation and routinely editorializes against "bums" and once called for taser-weilding vigilantes dressed up as "superheros" didn't use the opportunity to trash-talk the homeless. Instead, he talked about, of all things - sports!

   And the love-fest even included someone from the Milpas Community Association, once associated with wanton acts of mean-spirited attacks on "homeless-and-gangs" as though that was one undifferentiated phenomena.  Whoever said that the past is the best predictor of the future should have been in Santa Barbara tonight. Defying, it seems, the Newtonian law of inertia, that speaker also stuck to the topic of sports. There was none of the usual rhetorical bashing of homeless people.

    After this Parks and Rec meeting, it now seems that the ominous political phrase "all things are possible" no longer has to take on the frightening dimension of totalitarian creep. Maybe this town will pendulum back into a stable, sane and productive approach to the issues of housing under-development, houselessness and the deterioration pf the community atmosphere. The way things are going, with all the peace and love coming back, we might experience a sort of Prague Spring. Tourists might even start coming back to experience the love!

My Experience With Homelessness

posted February 22, 2011
by Scott Coons

   Who am I? I am my mom’s son, the oldest of three boys, a father who brought four girls and one boy into the world and a grandfather of eight, soon to be nine, grandkids.
    I can only share my experience of being homeless. I’m not looking for sympathy or a handout. My goal is to share some of my experiences, hoping that it may give you a different perspective on the homeless.
    Everyone has a different story and here is mine: It started almost two years ago. I was living in Buffalo, New York, where I had been trying to manage symptoms of my bipolar diagnosis. For 20 years before that, Ihad been taking medication with some success. You see, I have had this condition since I was 13 and at different times in my youth, I used other substances, including alcohol and drugs, to help control its effects. But they didn’t work. At around age 30, it all mellowed out for me. I settled into a regiment of medication. I had steady work as a licensed vocational nurse, I had friends and I belonged to a church.. But two years ago, I decided to go off my medication. It began when I started smoking pot again. I thought the use of pot, or medical marijuana, could manage my condition entirely and I made a decision to use it on a daily basis. I also decided to come to California, where it’s legal.  
    These decisions affected me in two ways. I was only getting Social Security for my condition, and not making much money. So the cost for me to stay on pot was around $300 a month. Unfortunately, it’s not free and I couldn’t find a place to grow it, which would have kept the cost down.
    The pursuit to work these factors out led to the loss of relationships, isolation, homelessness and eating at shelters everyday. There was also a lack of drive from all of this. I slept at the beach under a bridge and finally rented out a garage to sleep in.
    A process of demoralization took hold and affected every aspect of my life.
    It wasn’t until I gave up marijuana in December 2010, stopping smoking entirely, that things turned around. But the personal cost had been high. I left a relationship in Florida which was good for me. We are still friends today but she had to move on without me. I also let my relationships with my family and children go to hell. Today, I feel better and can work on rebuilding these important connections.
    After giving up pot, I began getting my paperwork together. My social calendar was blank before. Now, I have joined a church. I take a yoga class and a photography class. I have a Section Eight Voucher and am looking for a place to live. Basically, life has started again. I’ve gone from nonexistence to having a full plate.

    
 

Stacy Donelson

posted February 18, 2011
by Trenches

    Stacy Mary Donelson, 35, died peacefully in her sleep on Sunday, February 13th, 2011. She was born on September 8th, 1975 in Lompoc, California, where she was also raised. She attended Lompoc High School, Juab High School in Nephi, UT, and also studied at Santa Barbara City College. She worked various jobs including construction, bartending, and most notably as an advocate for the homeless in Santa Barbara. She loved cats and spent many hours volunteering at animal shelters.
 
    Stacy loved music and going to shows to hear bands. Stacy had a generous heart and a great capacity for love. She cared deeply for her family and had countless friends. She was an amazing person whom we all loved dearly and she will be greatly missed.

     Stacy is survived by her father Brian (Linda) Donelson of Lompoc, her mother Allison (Mike) Mann, her grandmother Shirley Weiss,  her sister Erica (John) Ochoa of Santa Maria, brother Brian (Brittany) Donelson of Lompoc and six nephews, Paul, Joseph, Isaac, Angelo, Nathan, and David. Her is also survived by her beloved cat Scratchy.

    A Celebration of her life, and of all life, will be held this Saturday, February 19th from 1:00-4:00 pm at Schuyler's River Bottom Ranch, [End of East Barton @ Daisy]. Please bring your own beverage and a dish to share if you would like.

    In lieu of flowers donations may be made in Stacy's name to Santa Barbara County Animal Services.

I Said to Mankind

posted February 13, 2011
by Nancy E. Kapp

I said to mankind

do you know me?
speaking to spheres
light miles from here
time is different
in another hemisphere

I said to mankind—
shadows of manifestations
we can be all things
if we listen, to the waves-crashing
life is good—

and death
takes the very breath from your mouth
the western gull flies south
changing nature’s secret hiding place
the unknown

the movement of your fingers
a kiss upon your amber lips
rocks-hang from mountain cliffs
on his back--the dolphin flips

I said to mankind
who are you?

           
By Nancy Kapp

Nancy Kapp was homeless in Santa Barbara for several years. She now co-runs New Beginnings' Safe Parking Program.
 

 

A Community Working Together

posted February 03, 2011
by zencristo

By Nick Ferrara
    What is being gained through City Council discussions regarding the homeless and homeless issues? In my opinion, much is gained. A homeless summit was called for. Let’s not brush this suggestion under the rug. Today at the City Council Meeting much was learned and clarification gained through community input; democracy in action. Regarding our homeless issues, for the past several years answers to questions regarding the homeless and homeless issues were inevitably deferred by the media to Casa Esperanza and its directors. Alternative voices were few. Many good ideas and possibilities may have been lost.

     A good example of informational error, would be the Housing Authority of the City of Santa Barbara’s (HACSB) request for RDA funds to purchase an former motel at 2904 State St.  HACSB wants to lease the property to WillBridge and a handful of post- homeless individuals attempting to get back on their feet. Many members of the audience at the city council meeting were unable to distinguish between people living on the street—misbehaving—and people making a concerted effort to turn their lives around--like those living at WillBridge. It was only through the process of sharing that clarity was finally gained.

     To arrive at community wide agreement on all the issues involving homelessness here, to find common ground on how to approach, as a community, things like panhandling, loitering, public inebriation, homeless health and safety, and more, meetings within the community are called for.  They should bring all the stake holders together: parents, law enforcement, business owners, the homeless themselves, and their advocates; all concerned citizens should attend. The goal would be coming to an agreement on the process necessary to bring positive changes within the community on these matters.

      Casa Esperanza has done all it can to bring about positive change—and then some. Unfortunately it hasn’t solved everything. Within the community of homeless advocates and service providers, much good has and continues to be done. But until the whole community gets involved, concrete and perhaps even painful direction, won’t be gained and accomplishments will elude us.

      "Due to inaccurate and/or misleading information, sometimes from the media, and sometimes from others, I'm calling for a Homeless Summit here in Santa Barbara. It's time. After securing accurate numbers from the Common Ground (100K) count at the end of the month, we need to come together as a community, in unity, all concerned citizens and stakeholders, to find a way to approach this issue and determine policies, and find ways to accomplish the goals we set as a community regarding the homeless and homeless issues. It's not about politics. It's not about us vs. them. It is about security and saving lives, and making it possible for all people, regardless of their barriers, to reach their full potential. From the Summit forward, committees and sub-committees can be formed to address all homeless issues with input from all concerned. Let's end the confusion and finger pointing and all work together for the common good.

Putting A Face On The Homeless

posted February 02, 2011
by Deborah Barnes

By Deborah Barnes
  
(For the sake of protection, I have changed the identical names of these ladies)
 
   Kami came out of the bushes in a Calle Laureles alley one morning as I went to my shop after dropping my daughter at school. Disheveled and dirty, her tall lanky body and pretty face was not yet awake. Her light brown shoulder-length hair was full of leaves and Lord knows what else. I knew I would see her later. She has always covered much ground in a day and would eventually head up State Street to my shop. I would offer her coffee, tea or cocoa, one of which she might accept depending on her mood. She would smell all my flowers, touch a few things being ever-so-gentle. I always welcomed her and tried to get a bit more information out of her. Over the many years, I have offered to buy her breakfast, lunch, or some fruit, but she always declined saying sweetly, “No thank you Sweetheart, I’m fine”
 
    Over the years in her homeless state in the San Roque area, Kami’s health declined. She always wore a lavender sweater; rain, shine or extremely hot, that sweater was her trademark. I would see her from 5-Points to downtown but her hub for over 15 years was San Roque, near Long’s Drugs and The Ham Store.
 
    Several years into the phase of her visiting my shop, she started walking with trouble. Then she started dragging her leg. My friends and I spoke of her often, wondering why she was ignored. I called everywhere I could looking for help, but no one responded. They all knew the sweet woman, but no one helped her get off the street. She never caused them any trouble, so they left her alone. I wondered where her family was. Was she left on her own or kicked out of an institute during the Reagan governor years when they shut so many institutes due to budget cuts?
 
      I closed my shop, traveled abroad for a few years and, upon my return, met Kami at Trader Joe’s on De La Vina. The sweater had now faded to pink. But she was clean and wearing new shoes and jeans. Her brown hair, still shoulder-length, sparkled with golden hints. She never responded with recognition but I spoke to her as she made her cash purchase. She said she was fine and gave me a slight smile and off she went. I inquired at a few places about where she stayed, but no one could tell me. Much later, I learned she lived at WillBridge off Milpas and still makes her daily jaunts over to San Roque, after her chores and school. She is inside and I praised God for her obvious care. She no longer drags her leg. She is clean, has cash in her pocket and seemed more stable and in control--a participating, contributing part of society!
 
   More recently, I was with a friend delivering food for shut-ins. We stopped at a church next to a mall. When my friend got out of the car to drop something at the church, I stood nearby. That’s when I noticed a woman in seriously bad shape sitting on the ground. She had a brain aneurism and could not walk straight or feed herself well. And she drooled. I was astonished that she was on the street. Two male street friends helped her each and every day. Her glasses were smashed and askew. When I inquired gently, her friends said she fell face down in her unstable condition, smashed her glasses and really harmed herself. She previously walked very far everyday. Her favorite place was San Roque, but now only in the dark because she is afraid in the daylight. Afraid of people, her friends told me. She is a tall young woman, dark, short hair and a pretty face. But leaves and dirt cling to her body and she’s in clothing that was once black but had turned grey from sleeping on the ground. I heard from my friend that she lived in a ditch near 154 and also sometimes in a park area of San Roque. I imagined being homeless and how hard it would be, but then having an aneurism too; having surgery but being released to the streets again. My heart ached. This is America, not where I had traveled to 3rd world countries.
 
   As I handed her a food bag I asked her her name. Unbelievably, she said “Kami.” My heart jumped.

   How and why is this woman alone? Where is her family? Why are these men caring for her? I know we have no shelter specifically for women. But she is so lovely and in so much need. I called everyone I knew when I got home. Though service providers knew her, because of recent budget cuts by our governor, it was impossible to get everyone inside. She never causes problems for them, so they leave her alone, they said. Is this de ja vu?
    
  God, is that all there is? If not a troublemaker, then just leave them alone?

   Kami and Kami. This time, it will not just be coffee and small talk or a bag of food once in a while. I am called to fight to get her off the streets, to get her help. Her homeless friends said gently, “Please Lady, do something for her.”
 
  Indeed I will. This time there is someone to call. An agency that has already made a remarkable difference for our mentally ill neighbors in Santa Barbara. I will call WillBridge and find out all the steps needed to get her cared for. Kami of San Roque is safe and healthy. Now let us do something for Kami of La Cumbre.

   But we are all called to “be a voice for the voiceless”. We are meant to care for “the least among us.” It’s time to support those who are stepping out to do so.         

DEBORAH BARNES
WORTH
street reach
serving & inspiring urban nomads
 

Law Approaches Justice But Can Never Reach It

posted January 30, 2011
by Jmwood1976

By Jim Wood
     
    Law is an artificial social construct designed to approximate Justice, but inherently unable to reach it, due to Justice being objective, while the lawmakers are subjective. Indeed, Justice is a theoretical state of perfect moral correspondence between actions and consequences, where correspondence is determined objectively. Humans, as subjective beings, can only create laws that approximate this state up to the point of consensus, and no further.
       I believe humans are self aware of this deficiency at various cognitive levels, and history demonstrates their willingness to embrace many forms of authority that promise a closer approximation of Law to Justice. Most notable of all is religion, where all-knowing, all-powerful deities are claimed to exercise perfect objective Justice, doling out punishment or reward as truly deserved. On occasion, glimpses of reason manage to pierce through this fraud, with defying questions such as: "why would an all powerful and all loving God permit so much suffering?" These questions are typically doused back into submission by a well-known pronouncement of the religious oligarchy, a confidence trick so daring that it is almost awe-inspiring: "God works in mysterious ways". Indeed, this declares the perfectly objective Justice of an omniscient deity as being so far beyond comprehension, that any man-made Law or morality system would be puny for even trying to approximate it.
     Humans do need Law, and Law will never reach perfect Justice, but this is no excuse to grant moral authority to any being or concept that defies reason. Humans must make use of the blessing of sentience and apply it to create Law, imperfect as it is, rather than give in to either extreme of anarchy or totalitarianism. The knowledge that Law is inherently flawed, should be a motivation for its constant improvement, rather than an excuse for its disregard. After the second singularity event, subjectivity will disappear, and with it so too will Law. Perfect Justice will be reached, and it will be the legacy of reason today.
    Truth and happiness are not mutually exclusive, but are sometimes consequent. Happiness is a sentient being's acknowledgment of progress or achievement. Humor causes laughter in us, because our minds have been expanded in new and unexpected ways. Milestones in life such as weddings, graduation ceremonies, or births, cause happiness, because of the inherent progress they represent. Imagine, however, the feeling of marrying a person who secretly hates you, or graduating from an institution that unbeknownst to you, is uncertified and fake, or being lied to over the phone, overseas, that your child has been born, when in reality he has died. For as long as you don't discover the truth, you will certainly be just as happy. But eventually, a divorce will happen, a job offer will be rescinded based upon your lack of real qualifications, and you'll never experience the joy of parenthood with a child who isn't there.
    Truth and lies can both cause happiness. But happiness based on truth always outlasts happiness based on fantasy, and furthermore, truth allows sentient beings to build upon and reach towards further, higher truths, which will in turn deliver more happiness.
    Religion is particularly insidious in that its falsehoods cannot be proven explicitly by means of a divorce, a loss of a job opportunity, or a dead body, like the examples of lies above can. Instead, religion limits its fantasy claims to the unseen, such as the soul, the fortuitous, such as the effects of prayer, or the alien, such as the afterlife. These lies were carefully engineered to have a common attribute: being un-testable. But the fact that no sentient being can live to be explicitly disappointed by these fantasies, doesn't make them less harmful, just more cruel. On the other hand, the deleterious effects of faith on a sentient mind are very much tangible and life-long.
    It meets the definition of cruelty to see an old, devoutly religious person, die in peace, thinking he's about to enter heaven. It meets the definition of cruelty to console a grieving widow, by making him believe his spouse is in a better place. It meets the definition of cruelty to mollify an individual's natural drive to resist suffering, by making him believe his present pain and sacrifice will be rewarded in the afterlife. All produce temporary happiness, but happiness that is based on lies is cruelty, especially so when given to a child who evolutionarily is designed to trust his parents at face value.

Jim Wood is currently homeless in Santa Barbara.

    
 

The New and The Old Homeless, Those Other Shoes

posted January 25, 2011
by Nancy E. Kapp

   Twenty years ago I was homeless with  my four-year-old daughter for several years. The truth is that homelessness has been a problem in this country for decades. Most people just walked on by as if we didn’t exist. We were glared at, stared at, the topic of a judgmental conversation and tourists love taking your picture.
   I admit I did panhandle once to see what it was like. I actually got $10 on my first try. I never did it again because that isn’t a memory I wanted my daughter to have in her mind. We walked miles just to get a meal and knocked on many a church door for help. Those were the old days of being homeless. We were the pioneers back then and believe me once it’s in your blood it never leaves.
   We are a success story because out lives have been blessed beyond belief. Not so much financially but in great abundance spiritually. I don’t mean that in a religious sense. The abundance I speak of is of compassion, unconditional love, experience and perception. Once you’re there, you can just see the look on someone’s face and know. They are stuck and need any random act of kindness. Sometimes it’s only a smile and a hello.
   Poverty like cancer has now spread among the middle class. The people that once turned away from me are now in jeopardy of becoming homeless themselves. This is not progress but heartbreaking. All the work and seeds that were sown throughout generations have been raided like a grave site. Greed has taken over any rational and logical viewpoint. I guess we all have to feel it—I mean really feel it by walking in those shoes. I am so sorry it had to come to this point in time, but it is out fate.
   The middle-class will be sleeping in their cars soon. Some already do. Most aid is bypassing the real needs of the people. They are bailing out corporations and banks who charge us between $25 and $35 when a $5 check bounces. This is a rip-off and we all know it. Once the truth is at least acknowledged, we can find solutions to these vicious problems that affect us all. Once you have walked in those shoes—you will find many others wearing the same ones.
 
By Nancy Ellen Kapp

February, 2009

Nancy Kapp was homeless in Santa Barbara some time ago, along with her daughter. She now helps run New Beginnings Counseling Center's Safe Parking Program. She also writes. You can read her poem "Twisted" in this section of the blog.




 

Transients

posted January 19, 2011
by NMcCradie

Gosh! We are having such great weather. Here in Snow Country we are watching the snow slowly melt against the onslaught of beautiful sun and its creation of blue skies, tall pines and spring-like air. The drip of the snow coming off the roof makes a kind of music. Well, enough description of the area in which I will be living for the next two months. I want to writing that friend posted about the homeless on my Facebook Wall.

Some years ago, this friend was homeless, living in a van. Still unable to find a conventional dwelling after a time, she decided to save up for a Motor Home. She was hounded by police who constantly reminded her that she was breaking the law for living on the streets and being unable to find a real home for herself and her two Samoyed show dogs. She has seen her friends on the streets be beaten, run over by trains and die. It’s no wonder she wants to speak out about the lies, bully tactics and demoralizing that some of the local media, and others, have released over the years.

Here is some of what she wrote…

“The term used by some to describe people without housing is that old chestnut ‘transients’ which is as derogatory and de-humanizing as any other term used to describe unwanted human beings. This is an old media trick, designed to distance homeless people from their humanity. Homeless people are routinely described more as a thing or a condition (transient) than as human beings, which of course makes it easier for us to warehouse them out of sight; even assault and kill them. This has been proven for decades.

"It is much harder to treat someone like garbage if you realize that someone happens to be a human being. But once the distance has been achieved, we think nothing of depriving these people of their civil rights, their right to freedom of assembly, association, travel and residence. It becomes okay to sweep them off the streets, out of sight, out of mind, and into special programs, shelters, and services, where the good and decent residents and merchants won’t have to look at them.

“Because deep down, you see, it disturbs us all to see someone in rags, sitting in the rain, filthy, holding up a cardboard sign. It reminds us that there IS a possibility that this COULD happen to any one of us, and we sure as hell don’t want to confront that. So please, sweep the streets. Give ‘those bums’ some ‘Greyhound Therapy’ and get them out of our fair city where the rest of us have to work and pay mortgages.

“The fear and the resentment runs deep, fueled by the media and special interests. Merchants enraged by the soaring rents and other endless obstacles to doing business have to focus that rage somewhere. Where better than on the homeless men and women in a ballpark or elsewhere? They’re an easy target, as easy to push around and dominate as a helpless puppy, and no one near as cute, so have at it. What are THEY going to do about it? When you’re holding a bazooka and it is aimed at the poor schmuck with a stick, it’s easy pickin’s. Go on, let him have it, you will feel better, and if things work out you can also pay some other schmuck a six figure salary to be the warden who keeps this guy and his friends safely tucked away in a program somewhere.

“Many years ago, when the National Guard Armory was being used as a temporary winter shelter, one of the soldiers there was overheard saying, ‘We don’t want those filthy people using our showers!’

“Now we have the toilets at the Milpas ballpark being walled off in order to keep the homeless from using them. So of course, they will all be forced to crap and whiz in the bushes---which will reek and cause health issues, which of course gives the rage-filled merchants and residents MORE ammunition to aim at said homeless folks. ‘Oh my God, Tiffany! They POOP in the BUSHES! That’s DISGUSTING!’ Well, when they are not allowed to use a toilet….

“I give thanks every day of my life that I don’t live there anymore. The problem is NOT the homeless residents of that city, it is the demanding, angry individuals who have been carefully indoctrinated into believing that the homeless are the cause of all their problems…as has been done in other historic times. Find a target, blame that target for all that ails, and the people will elect you. Sound familiar? Seen this movie before?

“I never fail to be amazed at all the fools in Santa Barbara and how easily they are led down the garden path by special interests and those who profit from homelessness and misery. All those faux intellectuals down there and they STILL haven’t figured it out…

“Yes…I recommend you DO watch the news and DO read the newspapers, even the News-Mess if you can find a free one somewhere. These things will educate you and give you a flavor of what is going on culturally. Read the ugly commentary spewed by people on the Independent Forums.

No longer homeless, my friend lives in the Valley where she shows her beautiful dogs and writes. –Nancy McCradie

Nancy McCradie is a veteran homeless activist and advocate in Santa Barbara. She founded, with her husband Bog Hansen, Homes on Wheels, and co-found the Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition. The couple lives in housing currently, but continue to lend a hand to those who do not.

Habitual Bench Sitters Are Harmless

posted January 16, 2011
by zencristo

 By Nick Ferrara     
    If you haven’t heard the latest and most ridiculous debate yet regarding the presence of homeless people in downtown Santa Barbara, now you have. The City is considering a plan to realign the benches along State Street to make them less appealing to homeless  panhandlers. Redevelopment funds are already being spent to study this issue, with between $50,000 to $80,000 ready to be spent on the  project.

     One finding of the Ten-Year-Plan to End Chronic Homelessness in Santa Barbara County was that homeless people have a constitutional right to panhandle, as long as they don’t do so verbally. They’re allowed to use signs to solicit change. Though this is not being enforced to this writer’s knowledge--at least 50 percent of panhandlers still verbally request money--local businesses are claiming panhandling, and the occupying of benches by those who look homeless but may not be, is affecting their profits in a negative way. So now the City is considering a plan to realign the benches perpendicular to the sidewalk in the hopes that habitual, non-conforming bench sitters will find the angle not to their liking and look for a different roost.

     First, let’s look at who uses the benches. On any given day between 9:00 am and 5:00 pm within the three-blocks between Carrillo and Ortega Streets, you will see several habitual bench sitters. The majority of habitual sitters do not panhandle. Some suffer from co-occurring disorders, some from schizophrenia. There are those who drink but the drinkers are not habitual sitters. They’re there for maybe thirty minutes to an hour, after which they’re cited and asked to move on by the authorities. An honest and accurate number of panhandlers, and again I’m referring to habitual panhandlers, is closer to five. If you walk down State Street on a regular basis, you know who I’m talking about. No names please.
     Then we have the young travelers. They hitchhike and bus around the country. They may visit the City for up to a month, but then they  generally move on.  
     Let’s now look at why benches were originally placed at various locations on State Street. They were placed there so folks could sit down and rest or wait for someone who is still shopping. Seniors, and those with cardiovascular conditions, must have benches to rest on. Perhaps we could designate some of them “disability benches”?  But now someone has suggested that by realigning them, the habitual sitters will be less likely to sit for extended periods.  Let’s not forget though, these are habitual sitters. They may even be addicted to prolonged sitting. If this is the case, then treatment may be necessary.  So you can see how this is starting to get ridiculous, but so is the study, and the cost.
     The fact is, nobody is really being harmed by the habitual bench sitters. If one were to take a little time and sit down and talk with these folks, they would probably discover that they’re really no different than you or me, just down on their luck. 

     So please, let’s not waste another dollar studying ways to realign benches. Redevelopment Agencies are big news today, as are the Redevelopment dollars being spent. Realigning benches is simply a misuse of these funds. If there’s a problem with the people who sit on  benches, let’s find out what it is and help them solve it. Because this road is only going to lead us to equally mind-boggling studies and plans in the future, like realigning the sidewalk if bench sitters persist in making themselves comfortable.

Photo by Lucky

My Friend's Concern

posted January 15, 2011
by NMcCradie

Gosh!  We are having such great weather.  Here in Snow Country we are watching the snow slowly melt against the onslaught of the beautiful sun and it’s creation of blue skies, tall pines and warm spring like air.  Enough description of the area in which I will be living in for the next two months.  I am shook by the frantic phone call I received from one of my friends the other night.  She could not believe her ears when the KEYT News Team went on the air to blame the demise of Whitefoot Meat Market and other so-called problems on Milpas Street as being done by the homeless “transients” of Santa Barbara.  I just feel that I need to post on this blog what she posted on my Face Book Wall.  I think it needs to be shared everywhere because it is time to fight back the lies, the bully tactics and demoralizing rants against the people who find themselves without a roof over their heads.  Here is what she wrote…

“I saw the KEYT news report about the Whitefoot Meat Market being demolished and I was the person who called Nancy to tell her what I saw and heard.  It was a one-sided report, and CJ Ward, Paula Lopez, and John Palmenteri all focused right on Santa Barbara’s homeless residents as being to blame for that shopping center being demolished.  The term used over and over again to describe these homeless people was that old chestnut ‘transients’ which is as derogatory and de-humanizing as any other term used to describe unwanted human beings.  This is an old media trick, designed to distance homeless people from their humanity.  Homeless people are routinely described more as a thing or a condition (transient) than as human beings, which of course makes it easier for us to warehouse them out of sight, and even assault and kill them.  This has been proven for decades.
It is much harder to treat someone like garbage if you realize that someone happens to be a human being.  But once the distance has been achieved, we think nothing of depriving these people of their civil rights, their right to freedom of assembly, association, travel and residence.  It becomes okay to sweep them off the streets, out of sight, out of mind, and into special programs, shelters, and services, where the good and decent residents and merchants won’t have to look at them.
Because deep down, you see, it disturbs us all to see someone in rags, sitting in the rain, filthy, holding up a cardboard sign.  It reminds us that there IS a possibility that this COULD happen to any one of us, and we sure as hell don’t want to confront that.  So please, sweep the streets.  Give ‘those bums’ some ‘Greyhound Therapy’ and get them out of our fair city where the rest of us have to work and pay mortgages.
The fear and the resentment runs deep, fueled by the media and special interests.  Merchants enraged by the soaring rents and other endless obstacles to doing business have to focus that rage somewhere.  Where better than on the homeless men and women in a ball park or elsewhere?  They are an easy target, as easy to push around and dominate as a helpless puppy, and no one near as cute, so have at it.  What are THEY going to do about it?  When you are holding a bazooka and it is aimed at the poor shmuck with a stick, it’s easy pickin’s.  Go on, let him have it, you will feel better, and if things work out you can also pay some other shmuck a six figure salary to be the warden who keeps this guy and his friends safely tucked away in a program somewhere.
Many years ago when the National Guard Armory was being used as a temporary winter shelter, one of the soldiers there was quoted saying ‘We don’t want those filthy people using our showers!’
That deathless comment ranks up with Sheila Lodge’s famous bon mot: ‘Some of us look more like others than the rest of us do…’after the Harlem Globetrotters debacle.
Now we have the toilets at the Milpas ballpark being walled off in order to keep the homeless from using them.  So of course, they will all be forced to crap and whiz in the bushes.  Which will reek and cause health issues.  Which of course gives the rage filled Merchants and residents MORE ammunition to aim at said homeless folks.  ‘Oh my God, Tiffany!  They POOP in the BUSHES!  That’s DISGUSTING!’
Well, when they are not allowed to use a toilet….
Santa Barbara is a toilet.  I give thanks every day of my life that I don’t live there anymore.  The problem is NOT the homeless residents of that city, it is the greedy, demanding, angry individuals who have been carefully indoctrinated into believing that the homeless are the cause of all their problems…as has been done in other historic times.  Find a target, blame that target for all that ails, and the people will elect you.  Sound familiar?  Seen this movie before?
I never fail to be amazed at all the fools in Santa Barbara and how easily they are led down the garden path by special interests and those who profit from homelessness and misery.  All those faux intellectuals down there and they STILL haven’t figured it out…
Yes…I recommend you DO watch the news and DO read the newspapers, even the News-Mess if you can find a free one somewhere.  These things will educate you and give you a flavor of what is going on culturally.  Read the ugly commentary spewed by people on the Independent Forums.
It is all most edifying, and if you aren’t terrified, you are not paying attention.”
 
My friend was homeless for a number of years because of gentrification and the tear down of affordable residences that would take pets.  Now no longer homeless she writes about the things that bother her such as the injustices mankind does to themselves.  I hope that my posting of this, my friend’s words is not too real for people to swallow.  I hope that it makes the reader think about what is actually happening out there to all of us, the human race.  We are one Country and we should not be bickering amongst ourselves.  Until next posting….

Twisted

posted January 13, 2011
by Nancy E. Kapp

Suicide --
glides by my windowpane
telling me it’s taken another angel
how strong, how long do we-
carry this unjust and heavy burden
the government lies and hides
the truth
and really
our democracy
is much like slavery
which we already fought for
now again-
we must defend our human rights-
twisted-

technology soars and poverty
reaches record scores
if the spirit is trapped
and there is no peace of mind
who cares about water on mars
when we preach religion-
and deny a homeless person food
no wonder people have gone insane
this is called human pain-
twisted

the warrior must case the sword
and speak of rational thoughts
so we keep flying, waiting
for the spirit of social evolution
to enter the bloodstream
of every human being
untwist-
the rope-
take a deep breath-
all we have is hope.

Nancy Kapp and her daughter were homeless for four years in Santa Barbara. Today, Nancy supervises New Beginnings' Safe Parking Program.

Thinking Outside The Box

posted January 11, 2011
by Jimmy

By Jimmy

I have new ideas
of a higher consciousness
I want to world to embrace.
This ascent for all of us.
But these adversaries,
who think they know it all,
laugh at this knowledge,
as if they make the call.
When an individual’s mind
can no longer expand
the fire of imagination is quelled.
No longer is their manifestation fanned.
The ego will lead you
to a height that’s not true.
We dream to be free,
free from me, me, me.
But with patience
also comes virtue.
As its adversaries die off,
we’ll dream a new future.

Jimmy is currently homeless in Santa Barbra.

 

It Was Campers Against The Cops

posted January 06, 2011
by NMcCradie

   My grandfather helped build the Biltmore Hotel’s Coral Casino. He also worked on the Clark’s Estate and built many of the charming craftsman homes you see on the Westside of Santa Barbara..
    My father was a music teacher at La Cumbre Junior High.  Now, at   87, he is President of the Santa Barbara Musician’s Union.
    I was raised both in Santa Barbara and Goleta. A graduate of San Marcos High School in 1963, I went on to study music and psychology at Santa Barbara City College.
    My introduction to the streets came at the end of a stormy marriage to an abusive alcoholic. The marriage fell apart when I saw how it was affecting my young son and me.. A girlfriend offered us the use of her living room floor. But my husband was continually coming by to harass us.  To escape,, we moved into our green-window van, put a mattress in the back, gave the dog the front seat to protect us and lived in Carrow’s parking lot for several weeks.
    It didn’t really work because my husband came by there too, causing classic verbal abuse scenes.. So I swallowed my pride and moved into my parents house for nearly a year, trying to save up the first, last and deposit that landlords routinely expect.  I couldn’t seem to save at all during the course of that year.  Emergencies kept happening, and the money would be gone again.
    A family conference led to the purchase of a pick-up and camper. I would pay my parents back at 100 dollars a month.  We didn’t have all the comforts of a fixed dwelling, but my son and I were extremely comfortable. I have fond memories of this time because I was learning to become independent. My son and I were so grateful that for a time, the tension was gone out of our lives. Little did I know that the right to stay in Santa Barbara was about to become a terrific challenge for us.
    Things were quiet for a while. I met up with other RV owners. We formed a little community in a parking lot down by the railroad tracks.. Life was good.
    Then police came in like gangbusters and the peace was over I found out that it was against the law to sleep in our campers. The cops started waking everyone up at night. They knew I had to go to work at 2:00 in the morning so they I should would  go to the all night restaurant and drink coffee until it was time to go to work. They said if I didn’t they would take my son away and I would be arrested and put in jail. They made me wake my  boy up and drag to the restaurant to sleep in a booth for many nights. I was  getting about 2 and ½ hours of sleep at night and after a few nights like this I began to suffer.. My body was shaking all over all of the time.
    One night I stopped into the 7-11 on the Mesa to deliver a few bundles of Los Angeles Times. The police were there drinking coffee-- the same guys who kept waking us up at night. They asked,  –“Ain’t you getting tired yet McCradie? Ain’t you getting tired?”  I wasn’t  going to let them see me cave.. So I just said, “No! But if you were gentlemen, you might help me carry in my newspapers into the store.”  The cops would even drive past my warehouse , while I was stuffing papers, preparing  for my route. They would shine their lights in my face and wave at me.
    Another night, after I’d gone to work, leaving my son in the care of my two  friends who parked next to our  camper, the police came  and pulled the seven year old  out so he was  standing out in the night, screaming with fright and shivering from the cod. My babysitters tried to stop the cops from keeping the boy outside and prevented them from taking him away. One of them  yelled at the cops to back off, scaring the officer into reaching for his gun. The other man stepped in front to shield the friend and my son with his body. They were willing to give their lives on the spot rather than let the cops take my son. One of them held  my son and said  he was the responsible party and that he was not going to let anything happen to the boy while his mother was at work. He set my son into the camper and both men stepped in front of the door guarding it. Other people diverted the police for a while with their identification and registrations.
     I had been told at one of my newspaper stops that the cops had my son. I raced home as fast as I could  but when I got there the police had already left. No tickets were given and no arrests were  made. I was told  we had been given two hours to leave the area. God! I was tired. I had gone without sleep for so long. I got in my car to finish my route and saw a squad car rolling up State Street and just snapped. I got out of my little truck, ran out in front of the squad car and dropped to my knees. I begged them to quit harassing us. I begged them to just give me a ticket so I could at least tell my story in court. They knew I was exhausted. They just backed up the car, drove around me and cruised on up the street.
    So we got together to make  plans. One of my friends said   there was a patch of ground for rent on Gray Avenue. We contacted the landlord and told him we needed to stash some vehicles on the property. He told us that until he decided to develop the area we could pay him 100 dollars a month for the ground. We knew that the police would be looking for us and so we needed to get ready.. I made a copy of the lease agreement, typed  a letter to the city attorney and then we went to the store. We bought  rope and  no trespassing signs. We  went back to the property to build a fence with the rope and hung the signs along the property line. Then  we went to bed.
    Around 11 o’clock the cops showed up. Why did they six squad cars for the job?  Oh, that’s right. There’s nothing for the police to do in this town so they have to try and make the homeless criminals. Their lights shown  into our windows. One of the guys walked out to the rope fence to stop the police from coming our property. It was pretty funny to see all those cops milling around trying to figure out what to do. I suggest that maybe they should call their beat commander, which they did. The beat commander drove up, got out of his car and took a look at the situation.. Under the street lamp, a man who decided to help out, although he was not on the property, sat in his truck. Calling himself “the guardian,” his truck sported a massive American flag waving in the breeze. We were standing at the rope fence awaiting the beat commander’s orders He looks at our campers, looks at us, the rope, the “No Trespassing” signs, takes one more look at the American flag and throws up his hands.. “I love it. I love it,” he shouted. “This is great. Nothing fun ever happens in this boring old town.” And he walked up to me and took a copy of the lease agreement and the letter to the city and told the rest of the cops they leave. He then got in his car and left still laughing.  
    We were evicted in the end, but since we’d paid the first and last month’s rent, we had 60 days of undisturbed sleep at night. Our little group then decided it was time for the homeless  to organize.

Nancy McCradie help found the Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition and Homes On Wheels. She is currently housed.

Where is My 12-Step Program?

posted January 03, 2011
by rtrower

Just out of curiosity, I Googled anonymous 12-Step programs the other day and found everything from Alcoholics Anonymous to Workaholics Anonymous, to Narcotics and Nymphos Anonymous. I know there's a need for these groups, and that each one is important to the people who need it. I have friends involved with at least two of the four mentioned, but I’ll let you guess which two.

Intervention numbers also came up in the search. Domestic Violence, Rape Crisis and Suicide are the first that come to mind. Again, there’s a need for these services and it’s not my intent to take anything away from any group. But I would like to ask a question: Where is my 12-Step program? Where can I find a hotline for my problem?

What’s my problem? I’m considered a chronically homeless person. I’ve been homeless or battling homelessness most of my adult life. I am almost 50 years old and the war rages on, even in my currently housed state. I never knew anything about, or even that there was a condition known as chronically homeless. I chalked my situation up to wanderlust, the need to constantly move, to search for greener grass. At times I even found it but it never stayed green for long. I went as far as telling myself I was following a pattern set by my father. (Is homelessness hereditary?) I thought of myself as a nomad, traveling city to city, working different jobs, and if there were no jobs, I traveled on until I found one. I never went without a job long unless I wanted to. It also didn’t help that I have a mental condition, maybe several, who knows anymore. Since my interest in homeless advocacy I have noticed or recognized certain behavioral patterns which led up to my being homeless. Some of these behavioral patterns are continuing to this day.But who do I call when these patterns and urges arise?

Looking over the last several years, and my so-called behavioral patterns, I ask myself, “Would it have made a difference if I had someone I could have talked to?” Someone to share my feelings with when the urge to move came on? Also some of these urges could be considered panic attacks with a sudden need to escape at any cost-- and escape I did. On these trips I would drive until I was either broke or out of fuel. I would then head towards the nearest labor hall. The jobs were often menial and minimum wage, but it was honest work. Some of these jobs would last for months, or at least until the urge to move pressed in on me.

But I can't help bot wonder, would it have made a difference to have someone to talk it over with? My family didn’t understand. They would say things like, “You’re just like your father” or “How long you in town for this time?” My friends laughed it off if I tried to say anything, which left me feeling more isolated.

I now know there are people I can call during normal business hours and if I'm lucky I may actually get an appointment scheduled, or be added six-week waiting list. I also know that I can utilize the services at the local day center, though I do feel as if I am taking away from someone who needs their attention more acutely, not to mention that the day center staff is overworked as it is. Again, those services are available during normal business hours. Who do I call during abnormal hours?

There needs to be a support group for the chronically homeless or formally homeless. I am in need of a Homeless Anonymous (HA) support group. I am in need of a sponsor I feel at ease with and who I will be able to call when the need arises. If there is such a group, I am unaware of it and I apologize for my ignorance, But also, please send me your number. Are you on Facebook, MySpace, or Twitter?

I have been in Santa Barbara for two years. Eleven months were spent at the local shelter where they guided me on a path to end my homelessness. They counseled me, helped me obtain SSDI/SSI, made sure I kept my doctor’s appointments, and helped me apply for housing. With their help, and thanks to the HPRP program, I’ve now been housed a little over a year. They also provide aftercare, which I highly appreciate. Even so, with all they have taught me, shown me, helped me to accomplish, at times it just isn’t enough.

Night after night, I sit in my room sensing the old patterns, the old life-style, emerge. Even with my illness or disability, the urges surface. Everyday becomes a struggle to stay alive or off the streets. This never seems to happen during normal business hours. It generally happens at the night. Lately, increasingly, I awaken with sheets drenched in sweat. Disoriented, unsure of why or where, the urge to escape or run fills me with dread. At times there is an overwhelming sense of guilt because of being housed and knowing that people I know, my friends, are still at the shelter or worse, still on the street, and there is nothing I can do about it. I'm prone to panic attacks and high anxiety. I quietly suffer with Bi-Polar Disorder. Over the past thirty-six years I have fought both suicidal tendencies and feelings of worthlessness.

But I know in my heart I am worthy, I am wanted, and most of all, I am loved. This was my greatest experience while at the shelter. Yet I am haunted by the memories of what once was. The pain, the emptiness, the loneliness of isolating one's self. It will be a long road to recovery and I'm sure someday I'll make it, if only because of the gifts I have received at the shelter. Still I must ask, “Where is my 12-Step Program?”

“Hello, my name is Ray. I am a chronically homeless person...”


Raymond Trower lives at The Victoria. He contributes frequently to this blog.
Photo by Paul Wellman

Nothing To Lose

posted December 31, 2010
by Jimmy

   








    I’m homeless and nowhere.
    No one said that life was fair.
    Can’t afford to cut my hair.
    Don’t ask me if I care.
    I’m hungry and alone.
    Trees and bushes are my home.
    All I want is to be stoned --
    And step into the Twilight Zone.
    They say that I’m a mess.
    I think I’m okay more or less.
    I try to do my very best.
    Will this depression ever take a rest?
    I collect bottles, plastic and cans.
    It’s embarrassing, ‘oh man!’
    I take long walks on the sand.
    That’s how I got this golden tan.
    On the inside I want to cry.
    When I want privacy I hide.
    When they want to know I lie.
    I’d be better off if I die.
    I change my clothes maybe once a week.
    People look at me like I’m a freak.
    The true happiness that I seek
    Is only in my dreams,
        Is only in my dreams.

*Jimmy is currently homeless in Santa Barbara. Please read his other piece on this blog, "Of Heaven and Earth."

Eighth Step

posted December 24, 2010
by jpflannery

By John Patrick Flannery
 
  "My name is Patrick, I'm a....., I'm a....., Drug addict."
    What I want to say, and, what I can say, are two different things.
    I became one, totally by accident.
     I know what you're thinking. You're thinking,'No one goes out and tries to be a drug addict.' No, they don't.
    I'm one because I live in Los Angeles. I only go out at night.
    Oh yeah. I am a vampire. No, really, I am. Los Angeles is my 'hood', as it were. Has been for a long, long
time. But it's changed lately. Used to be kids out at night, 'on dates,' but now, everybody is out . . . .  of their mind on drugs.
     You bite one, feed a little. You're up three, or four days, easy. It's just not the same as it used to be. The blood, was a lot purer. People were more trusting. Life was good.
     Now in LA, the blood is just plain toxic, and the people.
 Oh, the people. They hate each other. They don't care about each other, but they fight about everything. It's stupid. There is nothing there worth fighting for.
    Except your life.
     It's my town. I got to take the bad with the good. I gotta’ deal with this drug problem. It's starting to affect, my teeth. My Teeth. My beautiful sharp teeth. A vampire with no teeth is going to be one hungry vampire.
     It's also not going to be me.
     It's not like I can just pop in and see the dentist. They look in your mouth. That cannot happen. One way or another, it wouldn't be good for me--or the dentist.
     Actually, come to think of it, it would be way better for me than the dentist. He would be dead. I'd just turn into a bat and fly away if it even remotely looked like trouble.
    That part of the legend is true. There's a lot of it that isn't. We do sleep in the day, but legend has it we sleep in dirt from our castle, in Transylvania.
     Come on. Dirt? I really like those Tempurpedic mattresses. And cotton sheets with a high thread count, of course. Dirt. That’s funny.
     Oh yeah, the meeting.
     I share what I can. I am a drug addict, I want to quit. I've been clean for X amount of months or years.
     Make up any number to go in there. Everybody else does. "It's been a struggle", I tell them.
 "I followed the steps, they've changed my life". Blah, blah, blah. I don't even know why I go.
     No, yeah, I do. It's lonely being a 'creature of the night. I've got to work on my social skills. NA is a good start.
    Los Angeles at night is a zoo. Most of the people I run into I want to kill. Not to feed. I find them really annoying. I mean, if this is what the Human race is turning into, so much for survival of the fittest.
     Plan A says I am going to live forever.
    That used to thrill me. Now, it just bums me out.
 I won't die. No matter how hungry I get. A stake through the heart would do it. Fast. These fucking cigarettes won't. I'm up to about three packs a night. Cutting down for my health, why? They don't do anything to me, I'm not human.
     My breath? It's not human, either. I mean, it's bad.
 The people who smell it are usually dying so they don't complain too much. But. It bothers me. I mean, What if I meet a girl? Yeah, right. Like that'll ever happen.
    I got to quit smoking.
     So, it's on the list, of things I need to quit. Perhaps not at the top of that list. But on it.
     I conclude my 'share'. Sit back down to half-hearted applause, and, equally half-hearted 'atta boys'. This is LA, nobody cares.
     I look around the room at the other ...... I want to say losers. It just doesn't feel like the right word. I mean, no matter how much I don't want to be here. I am.
     I try not to think about it. Am I a loser?
     The second word that springs to mind is 'inmates'.
     This is an NA meeting in LA at night. The one thing that everybody at this meeting who can't turn into a bat has in common is Jail.
     The saying is, you can take the man out of prison, but you can't take prison out of the man.
     Truer words have never been spoken.
     I have never been to prison but I can tell, it wouldn't be that different from this. You can look in their eyes, see the distrust of everything. The constant posturing, that never stops. They would be shocked. To say the least if they knew what I was, what I have done and what I will do.
     But, they are safe. I wouldn't let my dog bite them.
 I'm trying to keep my sobriety. Biting, pretty much anyone at this meeting would be risky to say the least.
     So. They are safe.
     For now.
     I've even got a sponsor. I don't tell him the truth.
 If I did, I would have to kill him. So he's still alive, we talk, never seem to connect. We are in the same spot.
 We got here, by completely different routes. The advice he gives me is great for someone who does drugs
voluntarily. I don't. My problem is food. An eating problem. As it were.
     Everybody up at night in LA is high on something. I drink their blood I get high too. Seems like I have a pretty low tolerance. Just guessing.
     Not a lot of research on that subject.
     I don't tell my sponsor anything. I want to.
 I would love to have someone I could share this with.
 Discuss, for real, what I'm going to do. It's not like I can stop feeding. I just have to start eating better.
     So the one meeting I've had with my sponsor, we have delved into the NA book.
     I am working the steps. Which are great, till the eighth one. 'Make a list of all people you had harmed, and become willing to make amends to all of them'.
     This is a joke. Right? I've been alive? let's see . . .  a long fucking time. I've killed? Let's see. A lot of people.
     It's my destiny to kill a bunch more.
     How are you supposed to make amends, to that?
     So between that and the teeth. I've been stressing out, a lot. On the best of days I don't sleep real well. Now, between the stress and the unwanted Meth, I just don't sleep.
    The meeting is winding down. I look around, wondering, what I'm going to do. It's become obvious that this is not it. I've got to go.
     I'm hungry.
     I think I'll grab a bite on the way home.

 John Patrick Flannery lives at the Hotel De Riviera. He is a frequent contributor to this blog.
                 

Great Blog How's About State Resources?

posted December 20, 2010
by Bard

It would be great if this blog would add links to California State resources. This is especially the case with Jerry Brown coming back into play. There are various useful sites such as the Dept of Housing and Community Development. Below is an excerpt from one of many resources at that site. There is useful information at  http://www.hcd.ca.gov/hpd/homeless0508.pdf

For instance, you may find information on The Governor’s Homeless Initiative, an interagency effort aimed at reducing homeless. It includes funding programs described here, the creation of a State interagency coordinating council, and the purchase by CalHFA of $10 million in existing loans for supportive housing projects, freeing up funds for new loans.

About Heaven And Earth

posted December 20, 2010
by Jimmy

    “I never want to be homeless! I’ll rob a bank first, and even if I get caught, so what? At least I won’t be homeless and dirty and smelly and begging for change. Or collecting glass bottles, or aluminum, or plastic, just to have a little something.”(Very little.)
    This is what I used to say before I actually became homeless. But homelessness just didn’t drop out of the sky and fall on me. Unbeknownst to me, it came day by day by day, little by little by little. Till one day, I found myself on my own. And when I found myself on my own with nothing at all left, I cried, for like seven months. Nobody cared about me or loved me. No one but God.
    Then I turned to heavy-duty drugs and alcohol. I figured, “If I’m gong to be homeless, I might as well be f__ked up.” The worst thing a homeless person can do to themselves is become an addict or alcoholic. You have to scrap and recycle any little thing just to make a buck just to throw it away on drugs or alcohol, just to keep the depression away. But you can’t. You can’t block the constant thought of the fact that you’re homeless.
    Homelessness + you = invisibility; less than human; un-American, sadness, no good bum, loser, liar, weirdo and all the other labels . . . Well, you learn to live with it over and over and over and over again. Until you don’t care. And you tell yourself, “If no one cares about me, why should I care about myself?’ Then it starts all over again.
    Eventually, when I hit bottom-bottom, there was nowhere to go, except within (the seventh direction). And as I worked on the direction within (I still am) I started looking up: Up to God. And God pulled me up and out of the muck and mire.
    After a while I started living an alternate reality. It was the only thing that kept me from totally going over the edge. My life had to be worth living for something. Not just survival mode.
    So I surrendered to a power higher than myself. I was done (so far). I started talking to God, or Jesus, and God guided me to spirituality, Kundalini Science, Epiphanies, Zen, AA, books and books and books.
    All these things and more were stepping-stones to becoming a person of knowledge and wisdom. These things were what my prayer wishes to God were. And God answered them.
    A lot of these books talked about being detached, I reached it. Learn to breathe. (I have time for that.) Sacrifice your selfish attachments. (I had none.)
    So basically, what happened was the world broke me down and God built me up (and still is). I had to make my life worth living.
    When I was at my lowest, I truly reached out to God. And God led me to a fork in the road of life. (One prayer wish granted.) I wanted money. But money would have been a means to an end. There has to be something better. So I asked for knowledge and wisdom, something that’s eternal, forever. When this life ends, mine won’t. Death takes everything from us, except consciousness. Because in asking for the eternal, I’m able to take it with me to infinity.
    I learned infinity is my home. Mine and yours. It’s where we were created from a single spark of the sun. Live with integrity and become your authentic self to make it back home.
    I used to think the Universe was against me. But I was wrong. When we learn we have a personal legend, or destiny, the Universe unfolds in order for us to achieve or attain it.
    It says in the Holy Bible that if you put God first all your desires shall come to you. (Something like that.) I went for that. What I got so far is some peace of mind and freedom from the judgment of other people. My appetite for wealth is gone, free from consuming with the world. With great adversity, through perseverance, comes great joy.

    

Jimmy is currently homeless in Santa Barbara. 

Where Am I From? Everywhere and Nowhere, Part 2

posted December 19, 2010
by rtrower

 By Raymond Trower,
      Part Two     
    During this time I was beginning to develop my love for writing. I would dabble in poetry and  help some of the guys with there little love notes to  girls. But it wasn’t long before the girls knew who was writing what. I was also into extra curricular activities. I became president of our science club, allowed to go off campus on field trips. I joined the drama department, taking part in our Christmas program as the narrator. I was dressed as a wise man and should have exited after the play began, but froze up instead and stood there off to the side behind my podium and watched the whole play.
    As my popularity soared, with teachers as well as students, so did my confidence. I was pretty much allowed to do what I wanted at the school and would often visit other classrooms, or volunteer for projects, instead of staying in my scheduled classes. I was too smart for my own good and the teachers had a hard time challenging me without over challenging the other students. These days I wonder what has become of that boy genius. My three favorite teachers, in no particular order, were Mr. and Mrs. Moore, math and English respectively, and Mr. Wyatt, my science teacher.
     I was also assigned privileged chores, chores  you had to meet certain requirements for. It may be hard   to believe, but I was once a snuff-dipping cowboy with matching hat. Whitaker was self-supporting and had its own cattle ranch/dairy, hog farm and meat processing facility. I spent a lot of days tending 300 dairy cows, which includes shoveling certain “byproducts”. I can literally say that I have been knee deep in dung. The job entailed washing out the milking barn, then going out to the hog pens to do the same. Summer months we hauled hay and stacked silage. If we got bored we chased peacocks. In the evenings, my chore was to help deliver dinner to the dormitories, girls dorms included.
    Some of our weekend activities included bike rides, from the main campus to the dairy and back, pond fishing, social mixes where I would spend most of my time sitting and watching, though I did try dancing once and only once. On Saturdays two dorms, one male and one female, would be allowed to socialize at an on campus hamburger stand.
     I had many friends at Whitaker but the one who comes to mind, the one I think of most was a little kid named John. John was six when I met him. I was sitting outside in the common area one day and he just showed up. Normally I would have shooed him away, but there was something about him so I let him stay. I’m not sure, but I think that on that first day together we just sat there, lost in our own thoughts.
    John was a skinny  kid, the kind you think will blow away unless he holds onto something or puts with rocks in his pockets. He also had a catheter, with a bag strapped to his leg that often leaked. The other kids  teased him about it, but it seems that after we began hanging out  the other kids  left him alone more. I’m not sure if that is true or not, but it’s how I  remember it.
     Don’t tell anyone but I had a nickname at Whitaker too, and you had to be special to earn a nickname there (okay, I’m still special). As a teen, I developed a fixation with trucks, semi’s. I wanted to be a truck driver when I got older. (Not becoming one was one of the best things in my life.) Because of my love for trucks, always drawing pictures of them (did I mention I was artistic too) and because of my size, I was pegged with name of Diesel. After the Christmas show, when I had to wear a crown as a wise man, I was given the name of King Diesel.
    Days at Whitaker weren’t always sunny and happy.. I  developed a dark side too, what was then known as a bad attitude. It was the reason I spent so much time in detention.  The detention center was  right in the middle of the campus and, like any grapevine, it wasn’t long before everyone knew who went in and why. Our punishment was standing in front of a red brick wall for four hours a day with a scrub brush. We scrubbed back and forth, no looking around, eyes forward at all times and no talking. , Break the rules and get a day added. They were the shiniest bricks I ever saw. .
    I had my first major panic attack in detention, only then it wasn’t known as a panic attack. Detention had a common area, like a dorm room with four little rooms off to the side. It seemed like every time I went to detention, I ended up in isolation.. These isolation rooms were about 6’x6’, with one small window you couldn’t see out of, a small light overhead, and a stainless steel commode. I don’t remember a bed but I do remember  we were only given thin mat and a blanket at night. My first panic attack resulted from being in isolation, and after repeatedly being told by staff to shut the hell up, security was called and I was placed in a straight jacket. I was a couple of months away from my fifteenth birthday.
    Still, the time at Whitaker was, for the most part, the happiest time of my life. It was there that I realized I was not alone. I was not abnormal. I was one of many. There were approximately 300 children at Whitaker just like me, and I had found a home.
    The year 1977 brought an end to that. During the three years I was there I was sent back to my mother a couple of times, only to find my way back to my friends. I would do almost anything to get back to Whitaker, but I eventually became too old. My last visit was 1978, I almost begged to come back, it had become my home, they had become my family.
    The years after Whitaker were a whirlwind of expectations and disappointments. I tried to enlist  in the military but was turned down by three branches because of my size, I was too big. I then tried a stint at Job Corps, which went well, until I thought my mother needed me and I subsequently dropped out, but I did obtain my G.E.D. (On a side note. In 2009, while a resident at the shelter I ordered a copy of my G.E.D. Diploma. It's dated July 26, 1979 and it's the first copy I've ever seen, and it only took me 31 years to get it. I was also wrong about my mother needing me.)
    After leaving Job Corps, forced to return to family that had no use for me, unless of course they needed something, I began experiencing more of what is now known as anxiety and panic attacks, and going through bouts of depression.(In writing this I remember seeing a shrink on a weekly basis as early as the third grade) I eventually ended up doing time in prison because of these attacks. So yes, if anyone asks, I have two strikes against me. One in 1981 and the other in 1989. I discharged my parole on 9/11/1990, over 20 years ago. This is also the time I began traveling across country, I spent years it seems hitchhiking, living on the highway. Homelessness became a way of life, only I never saw myself as being homeless or having a problem with it. It was just my lifestyle.
    When people ask me about my past, my fondest memories are of the years 1974-1977. When asked where I come from I usually tell them I’m from everywhere, but in my heart I come from a place I called home, a home of children who belonged nowhere.


Raymond Trower is editor and publisher of the Santa Barbara Community Street Digest. He lived at Casa Esperanza for 11 months before moving into The Victoria, where he lives now. He contributes numerous essays and poems to this site.

(Photo by Paul Wellman)

Where Am I From? Everywhere and Nowhere, Part 1

posted December 17, 2010
by rtrower

A Memoir in Two Parts
By Raymond Trower

    I was born in Blackfoot, a small town in Idaho,on November 27th, 1961. In 1963, after my sister was born, my parents moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where my father is from,  and soon divorced.

    For the next ten years, it seemed  I was  constantly in motion. I was sent, or shipped like a package, from parent to parent, state to state. Or, if a parent was unavailable, I would end up with a relative or friend of the family. I never felt at home, or like I had a home . . . at least not until 1974.

    Being passed around like a bad cold, I never developed a sense of who either parent was, or what they were like. I  have some  memories, but they are bleak and skewered at best. My mother was small  in stature and it seemed like she was sick all the time. When I was in  third grade, she came down with a form of hepatitis, and within months  had  the  first of several heart surgeries. She may have been in her 30s at the time. I also remember her as having an alcohol problem at one time and being a heavy smoker too. Coming to terms with my own mental health, I now understand my mother was  a manic-depressive.

    My mother had four children and I was the oldest.  During the times  I stayed with my mother, I became the caretaker of the younger children. Memories of childhood do not paint a pretty picture. We were not a loving family, and with me being in motion constantly, I became alienated from the other children. I was the outsider.
 
    We were also a welfare family back in the days when food stamps had a cash value and commodities such as cheese, powdered eggs, powdered milk, peanut butter, and the gallon cans of spam were given out monthly. I can’t count the trips we made as kids to the store with food stamps just to buy a piece of candy or another small item so we could get change to buy cigarettes and other things food stamps couldn’t buy.

    The times I spent with my father were puzzling to me and  and there were occasions when he seemed reluctant to take me. My father was a large man, over 6 feet and looked like the Indian he was. ,But it was never clear as to the tribe he, or we, belonged to. Part of the family said we are Choctaw, the other half claims to be Cherokee. I heard my grandfather say  we were Quapaw. Not that it means much to me anymore, but I can trace my family back to the Dawes Commission Rolls.  Back to the days of resettlement of Indian tribes commonly known as the Five Civilized Tribes who were sent on a forced march known as the Trail of Tears. My ancestors originally settled in the Pryor Creek area, known today as Pryor, Oklahoma, which is where Whitaker is. I guess you can say being at Whitaker brought me full circle.

    One of the problems my father had was that he loved women. Over the years I had three stepmothers with a total of eight siblings, again with me being the oldest. I met most of them as a child. It seems that out of all of us I was the only one who got shipped around. There were a couple of times  my sister, from my mother’s side, accompanied me, but over all it was just me.

    The last time I saw my father was about a year, maybe more, before he passed away. Prior to that the last time I saw him was when I lived with him and one of my stepmothers in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. It’s a lovely little town where he abandoned me with a lady who didn’t know what to do with me as I was recovering from chickenpox. I was in the fifth grade.

    Both parents are gone now. My father died in 1993 at 51, my mother in 2000 at 60. Both died from heart disease or complications associated with congestive heart failure, and the only reason I know this is because I’m going through the same thing right now. I’ve never mourned the loss of either parent, for me they were both strangers.

    1974: After a couple of years in and out of jails and courts as a runaway, I was made a ward of the state; deemed a child in need of supervision. I was eventually sent to Whitaker State Childrens' Home in Pryor, Oklahoma.
 
    Entering Whitaker was intimidating to say the least, the place looked huge. My memory is a bit cloudy, but I seem to recall 11 dormitories, one administration building, a mess hall, school building and gymnasium, out buildings including a large warehouse. We were taken to the orientation center where we would spend the next two weeks.

    I was used to the institutional life before entering Whitaker. I had spent three months at the Lloyd E. Rader Diagnostic and Evaluation Center. It was at the Rader Center when I began to realize my potential, but it wasn’t until after I arrived at Whitaker that I blossomed. I became a big man on campus, literally, and it was for all the right reasons.

Part two will be published tomorrow.

Photo by Paul Wellman

Frankie and Iggy

posted December 13, 2010
by jpflannery

By John Patrick Flannery

    Igor is my name. Iggy to my friends. I don't have any. The boss won't call me anything but Igor. So Igor it is. Not that we aren't friends. Well I guess, we aren't friends, but I'm his brother in law. One of the conditions my sister made when she married him was that he hire me as an assistant. It's an ok job. Not a lot of advancement. Hunchbacks can't be too picky in today’s economy. The only jobs we ever seem to get are 'creepy assistant' type work.
That market seems to be fading out. So when Frankie--
I mean Doctor Frankenstein--offered me the position, I jumped at it.  So me and Frankie been at it a while together.
      He got this wild hair up his ass about giving life back to the dead. It was all good, kind of creepy. But ok when the subjects were mice and chickens.  Frankie looks at me one day and says,
"I figured out what we are doing wrong."
     "What's that Doctor?" He didn't like me calling him Frankie, said it was bad for his image. He tried to get me to call him master, but I couldn't do it without laughing. So the only time I called him Frankie was behind his back. I never called him master, anywhere.
     "We need a human".
    ‘Oh shit, he's back drinking again’ was the first thought rattling
around my brain. I think it was last year, when he was drinking too
much. I remember him trying to give life to a shoe. I mean, come on, a shoe. It was a real nice Brogue and all. But life?
    Eventually it had life. Well, as much life as our mice and chickens. Which wasn't much.
     Frankie never did handle his booze too well. He does crazy shit. But he signs the paychecks, so I just flow with it. It all pays the same. The bottom line is, I just don't care.
     "Good thinking Doctor," was my reply. It was getting close to
review time and a little ass kissing seemed about right.
     "Where are we going to get one?" I asked hesitantly.
     "That blacksmith guy, got kicked in the head by a horse, and died, I think they are having the funeral in the morning. When they all head down to the bar for the wake, we should dig him
back up, and use him."
     "Great idea Doctor." I said while thinking to myself, shit, there goes another nights sleep. We need a hunchback union to protect our rights.
     The next day, Frankie and me go down to the cemetery, sit through a really boring ceremony for someone we could care less about.  When it was over and everybody left, out came the shovels, and we dug him back up. We toted him back to the castle in our wagon. It was the latest model, two horses, leather seats, the whole package. We get him back without being seen, then Frankie looks over and says, "Now we need a brain. I remember being at the coroner's the other day; he had a bunch sitting around in jars. Pop over there and grab one would you?"
    He says this like it's the same as going down to the butcher, to
get some Pork chops.
     "Yes Doctor." My standard reply while I'm running all the options around my head. So that night, around midnight, I get up off my straw filled mat, get dressed and get ready for some brain stealing.
     In our little town everybody is in bed by eight, but if you're going out for a little brain stealing, midnight seems like the right hour.
     The walk downtown is cold and boring. Even the tavern is closed. I get to the door of the coroner’s without seeing a single person. The door is unlocked. I mean, who in their right mind is going to break into a coroner’s? Oh yeah. Man, do I need a raise. Anyone that thinks this laboratory assistant crap is cool should
walk a mile in my shoes.
     So I start to look around. I don't look too hard in case I find anything that will gross me out. I find the brains in big jars, on top of the only desk in the room. I think to myself, ‘What kind of monster has brains in jars, on their desk?’
     I look closely at both of them. Both have labels on the jar . . . not too helpful if you can't read. I am not a brain specialist so I look at them, pick the biggest and go.
     When I get back to the castle, Frankie looks at the jar and has a fit.
     "This brain is no good, can't you read?"
       He Looks at me, remembers that I can't, mellows a little and says, "It's got a big label on it that says, “Abnormal."
     "Is that bad?" I hesitantly ask. "Would you like me to go back and get the other one? See, there was only two. I grabbed the biggest one. I didn't know."
     He thinks for a minute, looks through the big hole in the roof, sees the storm that's starting to rage, and says, "No, we'll have to get by with this one. There's just not enough time to replace it.”
     I'm glad, I don't have to walk all the way back to town in the rain. I know he won't forget this. I have this dreadful certainty that his memory will be perfect around raise time.
     So, I pretty hide myself, kick it and watch. There really ain't much a hunchback like myself can do at this point. I mean this show is worth staying for. Plus, there just isn't much to do after dark in this old, worn out dirty castle. It's all about Location, location, location. If this place weren’t smack in the middle of Transylvania, it would have been condemned. Transylvania being the new hip locale, for mad, or really rich doctors.  Real estate around here has doubled in the past few years. We got in at just the right time. Now a run-down lab in the middle of nowhere will set you back a pretty penny.
     I find a dark corner and try to stay out of the way. My cue will come, in a little while. When it does I’ll winch this contraption with some kind of body cage on it up to the roof. Then Frankie will hook all these electrical wires all over it. Then, I got to run over and flip this big switch.
     We used to have another hunchback for this part. Frankie started complaining about the overhead and so we had to let him go. I whined about it for a while, but Frankie wasn't buying it. Now I flip the switch.  I either need to get a union going, or find another rich, mad Doctor.  I swear to god, that the day I do, I'm out that door. Until that day, I'm gonna hide a lot, and do as little as possible.
     Tonight, I watch Frankie working himself into a frenzy. He's
clamping wires to stuff I would never want clamped on my body. Then he's runs around with parts in jars, sewing 'em to stuff or in stuff. It kinda grosses me out, but hey, I got bills to pay. So I just watch. Try not to throw up and look supportive every time he looks over at me.
     The storm is raging outside and it's almost curtain time. That's when I really start laughing. See, Frankie's been annoying the hell out of me lately. All the time saying, "Steal this brain." 
     "Great job, Iggy. How's a raise sound?" I'll show him.
     When he was gone to town a while ago getting his drink on or renting some local hookers, I dunno what he was doing, but, I'm willing to bet it wasn't good.  Anyway, while he was gone, I did a little rewiring of the aforementioned switch. Now it for sure ain't going to work. Oh, it will look like it's working, all kind of sparks and flashes. He’ll eat it up with a spoon. That man may know, all there is to know about giving life to shoes but he don't know squat about basic wiring. I call it 'job security'. But back to the job.
     Frankie just sent the kite up. My cue to shuffle over to the switch comes when the sparks shoot down the twirly things. I flip it, dramatically. Then the electricity stuff is supposed to head for that cage thing.
     Not anymore. Now it heads back up to the roof, to one of, about five hundred, non-connected, antenna things.
     I figure one, two, more failed experiments and then I'll suggest something. If he does it, if the body lives you can bet your ass, I'll bring it up at raise time.
     So he gives me the nod, I shuffle over to the switch thinking ‘if he's so smart, why is the damn switch down here instead of where he is?
    Smirking to my self. I think. He doesn't pay me to think. Whatever.
    I see the kite string get taught as it gets hit by lightning. Sparks start surging over everything. If I had any hair, I bet it would all be standing on end. This is cool. I don't think your average person knows just how powerful lightning really is. We got it, in our house. The sparks are almost down to the twirly things.
    One.
    Two.
    Here we go, switch flipping time.
    Sparks fly. It looks good. .  . better than I thought.
    Frankie’s running around making weird noises, looking way stressed. He's not touching the cage thing; he thinks it's full of that electricity stuff.
     It ain't. But I'm not going to tell him, it's not part of my, uh, pay grade.
     This is the part that sucks---the look on Frankie's face when he realizes that this is just another, umm, shoe?
     Here it comes. The anguished wail followed by chest pounding and, of course, wailing. I've seen it before, but then, it wasn't my fault. Then comes the hair pulling--the "why, why, why" phase. Then we go have a couple of drinks at the tavern.
     It's all good.


John Patrick Flannery is a regular contributor to this blog. He is currently living at The Hotel de Riviera.

               

 

Surviving The Land

posted December 07, 2010
by rtrower

Streets that run empty.

So cold is the night, 

with shadows dancing freely,

seeming to avoid the light.



Fear within is constant.

I am unable to rest.

Praying this very moment,

and hoping for the best.



Every window barred shut.

The doors all locked tight.

Never really knowing, 

what may be lurking out of sight.



Waiting for the sun to rise.

A few more hours to go.

Have they heard my cries?

Do they even know?



Cold concrete is my bed,

thin cardboard covers me.

Again thoughts fill my head. . .

surviving the land of the free.




Raymond Trower is the editor of Santa Barbara Community Street Voice. He lives at The Victoria.

Photo by Paul Wellman

Coming Together

posted December 05, 2010
by zencristo

     A couple of weeks ago I wrote an article titled “Helping the Homeless.” I wrote this article from my perspective of how this community perceives and reflects the homeless and homeless issues. What has become apparent is that there are two camps diametrically opposed to each other, rather than two camps coming to terms with the issues and working together to solve them. Feedback from the homeless camp was that some of what I wrote was too restrictive. Feedback from the other side was that the article did not go far enough in defining what disruptive behavior was and that all street people should be defined as disruptive.
     How, with folks from both sides not willing to define and approach the problem from a position of neutrality, can homeless issues be resolved to the satisfaction of both viewpoints?
     In writing the article, I understood that my ego, in the view of my friends who help the homeless, would take a hit. I was, and still am, willing to make that sacrifice if the end result will be, both sides coming together to find a “Middle Path” to work on the issues and help those “most in need.”
     The most in need are the most vulnerable. And yes, the most in need can include those who cannot stop drinking or using drugs on their own; our veterans fall into this category, as do many of our loved ones.  I have not heard a single business person, anywhere within the city of Santa Barbara, saying that we should not help those “most in need.” I have heard them ask: why are we choosing to continue to enable those who clearly do not want to make a change; doesn’t this hurt them, rather then help them? This is an appropriate question for those who are not trained in the field of addiction. Rather than be critical of the question or questioner, take time to educate the general public whenever you can. Let’s not forget, they also have loved ones who are suffering.
     I would guess that many families, many loved ones, are torn apart by these issues. How many of those suffering today from addictions and “most in need” conditions, were once successful business people?
     I have a hunch, just a hunch, that this community can and would come together to treat and help all its residents that suffer from conditions beyond their control, and would even be willing to reach out and help veterans, no matter what community they're from, get back on their feet and seek treatment.
     Is it to much to ask of those who are on opposing sides to come together and seek a “Middle Path” that would address these issues of suffering, and would satisfy both viewpoints? Instead of seeing homeless issues as political issues, view these issues as the social issues they are. Form a working committee of homeless, once homeless, homeless representatives, business people and residents, to listen to and delve into solutions that would be satisfactory to all. This includes listening to new voices with new ideas, such as those who have been successful in other communities. The first that comes to mind is - Common Ground and the Vulnerability Index. 

Nick Ferrara

Coming Together

posted December 04, 2010
by zencristo

A couple of weeks ago I wrote an article titled “Helping the Homeless”. I wrote this article from my perspective of how this community perceives and reflects the homeless and homeless issues. What has become apparent is that there are two camps diametrically opposed to each other, rather than two camps coming to terms with the issues and working together to solve them. Feedback from the homeless camp was that some of what I wrote was too restrictive. Feedback from the other side was that the article did not go far enough in defining what disruptive behavior was, and that all street people should be defined as disruptive. 

How, with folks from both sides not willing to define and approach the problem from a position of neutrality, can homeless issues be resolved to the satisfaction of both viewpoints? 

In writing the article, I understood that my ego, in the view of my friends who help the homeless, would take a hit. I was, and still am, willing to make that sacrifice if the end result will be, both sides coming together to find a “Middle Path” to work on the issues and help those “most in need”.

The most in need are the most vulnerable. And yes; the most in need can include those who cannot stop drinking or using drugs on their own- Our veteran’s fall into this category, as do many of our loved one’s.  I have not heard a single business person, anywhere within the city of Santa Barbara, saying that we should not help those “most in need”. I have heard them ask; why are we choosing to continue to enable those who clearly do not want to make a change; doesn’t this hurt them, rather then help them? This is an appropriate question for those who are not trained in the field of addiction. Rather than be critical of the question or questioner; take time to educate the general public whenever you can. Let’s not forget, they also have loved ones who are suffering.

I would guess that many families, many loved ones, are torn apart by these issues. How many of those suffering today from addictions and “most in need” conditions, were once successful business people.

I have a hunch, just a hunch, that this community can and would come together to treat and help all its residents that suffer from conditions beyond their control. And would even be willing to reach out and help veterans, no matter what community there from, get back on their feet and seek treatment.

Is it to much to ask of those who are on opposing sides, to come together and seek a “Middle Path” that would address these issues of suffering, and would satisfy both viewpoints? Instead of seeing the homeless issues as political issues, view these issues as the social issues they are. Form a working committee of homeless, once homeless, homeless representatives, business people and residents, to listen to and delve into solutions that would be satisfactory to all. This includes listening to new voices with new ideas, such as those who have been successful in other communities. The first that comes to mind is - Common Ground and the Vulnerability Index.  

Nick Ferrara

Wiseguy Butterfly

posted November 30, 2010
by Courtney Caswell-Peyton

Wiseguy Butterfly.


Wiseguy Butterfly knew that he could fly.


Wiseguy Butterfly knew that he could fly high.
 

Wiseguy Butterfly flapped his brightly colored wings.
 

Wiseguy Butterfly flew high above all things.
 

But Wiseguy Butterfly was not wise enough it seemed,


For Wiseguy Butterfly found himself steamed.
 

Wiseguy Butterfly was at a dreadful loss


To figure out how he got his speckley, speckley spots.


Then one day, Wiseguy found out something neat
 

While soaring through the scorching, sweltering heat.
 

Wiseguy Butterfly caused a fussy fuss
 

While flying through some swirly curling dust.
 

The dust twirled round and round and round


It swirled so fast--almost pushing Wiseguy down.

"Why are you such a pesky nag?


If you do not leave me be, I will challenge you to a game of tag."
 

"What on Earth?  Whatever for?

 
You're game of tag will be a bore.
 

Your job Wiseguy is to soar and soar some more.
 

Get back up into that big blue sky
 

Before I blind you in your beady little eyes.
 

Then never again will you ever see
 
Wherever you flew.


Now I will stick to you like glue.
 

So if you wonder lots and lots

So much that your stomach is in knots

 
I'm here to tell you that it is me


From which your coat will not be free.


If I tag you, you'll be bound
 

You might even run aground.
 

And when you rise back up again
 

The dusty, speckley dots on you will never end!"

 

      


Courtney Caswell-Peyton lives at Casa Esperanza currently. She has written numerous screenplays and poems. She hopes to complete a Master's in screenwriting at UCLA soon. Wiseguy Butterfly is a children's book. 

Beyond

posted November 27, 2010
by John Wright

By John S. Wright




beneath the waves
aqua marine
of blue so cool and warm
swept on the wind
of trade and gale
grey the squall and storm
the frothy peaks
of rogue in time
the battered ship is tossed
like the souls
of sailors passed
the grace of those has lost
god above
has tallied not
in keeping those of love
davy jones
his god has gone
to never rise above
of folk and lore
this battered ship
above the waves is true
through winds that trade
his vessel's strength
upon the ocean’s blue


John S. Wright is currently living at The Santa Barbara Rescue Mission.
Photo by Nick St.Oegger

A Brief Autobiography

posted November 25, 2010
by Anthony Jackson

    How does one write about pain and disappointment? Well, my guess, because I’m not a professional writer, whatever that is, is just to write after praying to God to guide me. So here goes.
I grew up in Washington D.C., good family, meaning a single mom who worked as a school teacher and did the best she could to take care of three kids. Me being the oldest, I felt unloved, except when I was beaten for something I did wrong. But, at a young age, I found lying about things really helped; I didn’t get beat as much when I wasn’t caught in a lie.  When that stopped working, by around the age of 17, I found my mom’s liquor was an even better relief for being unloved.
    Okay, let me go back. What I mean by feeling unloved is that my brother and sister, I felt, were paid more attention. I remember when I first got my driver’s license at 16 and we had two cars, the fancy LTD and crappy orange Nova. I remember only using the Nova one time to take a girlfriend out and was never allowed to use the LTD except to go to the Safeway store up the street. But when my brother got his license two years later, he could use the LTD anytime.
    So anyway, liquor became my therapy for feeling unloved. After graduating high school, by going to summer school, crack cocaine was the in thing. There were many murders in D.C. and I was lucky because I had accepted Jesus early in life, and though I did a lot of bad things, he kept me alive when I should have been dead. Funny, I remember nights when my mother put me out of the house, sleeping in the shed in the back yard, smoking crack while watching rats run over my stuff and naming them.
    Fast forward a few years when my mom and neighbor bought me a ticket to Texas so I could attend a church farm rehab program. It was ok, until I wanted to smoke a cigarette while out witnessing for Jesus. Well, from there I wound up at my uncle’s in Sacramento; the crack fun really started then
    Working two jobs after leaving is loving house, crack became my life. Though I never sold, I learned how to hustle the streets to support my habit. . Then  I got caught stealing cars. Now it really starts. Here’s what I mean.
    “Christians,” the courts, judges, attorneys . . . . all these people are supposed to be there to help a person in my situation, give a person a chance to right the wrongs. But all they see is punishment, cause you’re not like them. I was sentenced to three years in state prison for car theft. My drug use had no consideration when it came to asking for help.  So if those in authority didn’t care, and God didn’t care, why should I? So I kept at it. Living on the streets, two kids in D.C. who barely knew their father and  a rainfall of tears to stop with no answer or help in sight. What’s worse are the ones who do try to help: If you mess up, they throw you back saying you’re worthless.
    I finally did get help, through the Salvation Army’s Adult Rehabilitation Center in Carpinteria. I managed to stay clean five years. Living through shelters, sober living programs, I thought I was on my way until I started living for the woman I loved rather than for God . . . who I found was always there and did care. I messed up again, found myself locked up and all over again and wasn’t wanted, even by the woman who said she loved me and would never leave me, Christian woman, that is.
    Living on the streets, panhandling, hustling, the rain, police, all makes one think, “Why God? You said in your word that you will help me, that you will  take care of me, that you would give me my hearts desires.” But crack wasn’t mine, the woman I love is, yet she’s gone. Why?
    I guess I’m not gonna win this contest because I’ve written about my life rather than my life homeless. A life homeless is no life, no hope, no love, cause the only thing most people see is failure in you. And that they don’t forgive, even if they say they love you. Nothing in this world could be more painful than not being loved. That’s true homelessness. If people forgave and loved, then we as homeless would have hope. I know I would if the woman I love came back to me. My family would say it more often when I talk to them. Church going so called Christians would show it.
    But God does love me, that’s why I’m still alive even though I’m homeless. His word says the second greatest commandment is to love your brother as you love yourself. I’m your brother. Why haven’t you forgiven me for my past and loved me enough to give me a future?

Anthony Jackson is staying at Casa Esperanza right now, while he heals from an injury. He is enrolled in the Drug and Alcohol Counseling program at Santa Barbara City College. He aslo volunteers in the computer room at the shelter.
    
 

The Parking Lot

posted November 22, 2010
by NMcCradie

By Nancy McCradie
       My years on the streets of Santa Barbara began in a Ford pickup with a ten-and-a-half-foot El Dorado camper affixed to the back.  Sean, my 7-year-old son, and I were happy in that camper. For the first time he had a real bed, a place to put his clothes, a shower to wash himself  and enough toys to keep him happy.  For two years before that, we’d been couch surfing with friends and family with no place to call  home.  I’d stayed in the Radon boat yard for many months with a friend but was not a happy camper there. But outside the boat yard was an abandoned parking lot which was a perfect place to park the camper and use as home base.  A homeless man came up to me soon after we started parking there and said that the camper was not connected to the truck. That’s why  none of the lights worked in unison with the truck lights.  I looked under the truck and saw a nightmare of wires trying to figure out where their mates were.  No Way!  I couldn’t  figure that out.  But my fellow “ground-pounder”  said he could fix it for me. He told me he knew how to fix anything. He stuck his head under the hood, took a long look and turned to  me.  A six-pack of beer and dinner would be the fee.  I, of course, agreed. It took him all day. That experience  helped me  fall in love with the men on the streets. I was making friends.

     With the exception of a few of the people who came by the camper to stop and talk, Sean and I were pretty much alone. We would spend our time walking along the beachfront to join other families at the Kiddie Pool at the Los Banos Del Mar. On weekends, we would take rides around town on my Honda 400T and during the week we would concentrate on school. One day, after a morning jaunt giving my son a ride to Franklin School, I came back to the camper to get some sleep.  I worked early morning hours and that morning nap sure helped out to keep me going a seven day a week schedule.  But this day it wasn’t to be.

     A pickup and camper turned left into the old Parking Lot, backed up into a space. A man got out of the cab, walked to the front and lifted his hood.  He sees me looking at him and asks me if it’s okay for him to park there and work on his engine.  What was I to say?  It wasn’t my property.  He could knock himself out for all I cared. This was how I met Michael, one of the first people I had met who also lived in a pickup and camper. It was the beginning of a fantastic platonic relationship. By the time he finished working on his engine we were great friends. Until this day, I call when I can and we converse on facebook.  We love each other.  He really liked to help me through the many problems we encountered on the streets with just as much flair as I did.

     I began  to  notice a growing phenomena homelessness. Times were changing on the streets of America and and Santa Barbara was no exception. Over on some dead railroad tracks were  a few old boxcars that  Union Pacific Railroad had stashed away. They were full of people using them for shelter, Men, women and children.

     The Parking Lot began to explode. First came Roy. He lived in a pickup and camper also. Man that guy was crazy. He wound up bringing Angel into the fold.  Angel was a transvestite who wanted to be a girl really bad. We all worried about Angel, that  he/she would be cut up and put into a trash bag by the side of the freeway. Then came Steve. He worked for the City of Santa Barbara. An accident on the job disabled him to the point that he felt he could no longer work. Living on disability, he bought a pickup and camper to stay in too.  He brought it down to the Parking Lot.  My best fiend, a woman I  met through  our love of dogs, was evicted from her housing because the building was  going to be replaced by a new development. In those days, the trend in real estate  was to knock down residential areas and build office buildings. My friend couldn’t find another place to live with her two children. (A couple of beautiful white Samoyeds).  I guess that did not set well with my friend.  She bought a van and moved into it.  Guess where she parked?  The Parking Lot.

     Then in drove a white Pontiac. Who was this?  We called them Bert and Ernie. They had a carload of Chihuahuas.  Bert was a burly man.  Dressed in coveralls, his black hair a mess and his full beard awry, he scared everyone who encountered him. He had just got out of prison. When I asked what he went to prison for he broke down and wept.  He had wrapped his arm around a friend and just squeezed too hard.  With one arm unknowing his own strength, he killed the guy. He was pretty maudlin about it.  His companion was a small nerdy man who adored Bert.  Ernie followed Bert around making sure that Bert was capable of knowing his own strength. They called each other brothers. I could not see the resemblance myself.

     That Parking Lot became a central location for the homeless that lived in vehicles and the “ground-pounders” who walked to the Rescue Mission that used to be located on Lower State, and back to the box cars and  small huts they’d built along the railroad tracks. We sat in each other’s campers, played board and dice games, played guitars and sang.  For those of us who had CB radios in our vehicles, we made friends outside our community. We would host CB Breaks in the Parking Lot. It was crazy times. We were a family. Was it only 6 months since I’d driven my camper down there and parked all alone next to Radon boat yard? 

     One day Michael, Steve and Roy came knocking at my door. They were frantic, paranoid and just plain scared to death. (They were pretty neurotic folks, I must admit.)  They had spotted a new vehicle in the Parking Lot.  A young man was sitting in the front seat staring at everyone.  They had it figured  he was a Federal Plant to spy on all of us.  I stepped out of the camper and assessed the situation.  Chuckling to myself I looked at the three guys asked them if they wanted to get over their fear of this guy.  Oh Yeah!  I tell them if they dropped to their knees, bow three times and kiss the Parking Lot and holler out Bless You for each time they bow, then the man in the car would seem nothing to them.  By God,  those three men got down on their knees and did what I told them to do.  I just lost it.  I could not even breathe I was laughing so hard.  It worked. They were no longer paranoid about the guy.

     “New York” was a man in his early thirties, a schizophrenic and off his medication.  He had left New York  on a road trip and by the time he reached the West Coast he was pretty ill.  He decided  he had a crush on me and would stand outside my door, blabbing all sorts of nonsensical words that meant absolutely nothing. One day he walked up to me and ripped his Levis off of his body.  All I could do was try to be as kind as I could and bring him out of his nightmares for a time.  He left one day.  I wondered about him often.

     You might sayI was living in a loony bin. I could have left the Parking Lot but I wanted to stay. I had been brought up in a strict middle class household.  My parents never taught my brothers, sisters and I about the things we might encounter in the real world. We were sheltered and protected from all of that. Living on the streets, meeting the homeless, be they Viet Nam Veterans, Single Mothers with Children or just men on the road fighting off depression and other mental illnesses, changed me.  I became addicted to and fascinated by the different people who had been forced out of conventional housing and the reasons behind it all. Ultimately the Parking Lot became a thing of the past.  How?  Well now…that is another story.  But I must tell you about a miracle before I leave this paper with Isabelle.  Remember “New York”?  A few months after every thing had to end in the Parking Lot, I decided to revisit my old parking space.  A man walked up to me.  He handed me a box.  He told me that the box contained homemade oatmeal cookies baked by his mother for me.  She was grateful that someone had treated her son with kindness, he told me.  What a difference in that young man.  On his medication, he was thoughtful and very kind.  After a few more words he got in his car and left.  I have never seen him again but his is a story I will never forget.

Nancy McCradie was homeless in Santa Barbara for almost 20 years. She and her husband "Protest" Bob Hansen helped found the Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition. She now sits on the boards of the South Coast Homeless Advisory Committee and Casa Esperanza.

thu the day

posted November 20, 2010
by lopez

 the   day  has  become  imaginable   full of  activity   !but  what  is  that   is  to  do,  sports   is  a  dayly  going   after being  in  hope to   get  somethinh   productible  to  do  but   who  is  to   do  some favor  to   help  a   mutual   share   a  friend  ,but  aside  friends  are  nice  good  people  that  are  helping  hand  in  the  city   to  apresiate  to  keep  another  day   in  schedule.

Nickname

posted November 17, 2010
by jpflannery

By John Patrick Flannery
    I was in Seattle jonesing for some crack. I was hanging with a guy named Trigger and a hooker named Barefoot. The name alone was ridiculous. Seattle is one place you would only go barefoot if it was the middle of the day in the middle of the summer. It wasn’t. It was during winter and it was cold beyond belief. But when you are jonesing for more crack, you would go out in a major blizzard or typhoon, pretty much anything. The joneses always take priority.
    We were at a park at about twelve at night. Barefoot was gonna turn some tricks to come up with the money we needed to buy more. The whole idea was ridiculous to me. Who the hell would be out in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, looking for sex?  Reality was taking a back seat to the joneses, so I went with it. I had driven them down in my car, ensuring I would get my share.
    Personally, I wouldn’t have touched Barefoot with a stick. She was ugly, even for a crack whore. Also, she had a look that just screamed, “I’ve got every STD known to man and them some.” But to each their own. She had a nice personality which is a PC way of saying she was gonna buy crack and give me some of it. When you are jonesing, anybody that shares crack with you is good people.
    We had gotten out of the car and wandered around the deserted park for a while. Barefoot announced we were cramping her style and requested us to fuck off and leave her alone. She would return after having conducted some business. This bummed me out, when someone says they will buy you some crack, you want to stick with them like a shadow.
    I could also see the logic; it’s not like the park was crowded. Barefoot needed us hanging around her and scaring away potential johns like she needed a hole in her head. Of course a hole in her head would probably get her more business.
    So Trigger, the poster boy for crack addiction, and I started walking back towards my car. We weren’t going to go anywhere, shit there was a chance of crack here, no chance there. We were trudging along, me because I had lost a leg to a drunk driver a few years before, him because he was a worthless crack addict--bitching every step, about the cold, lack of crack and general unfairness of life in the fast lane.
    That’s when we saw the car surrounded by police shining their flashlights in the windows and generally checking it out. We were already committed, to turn around and walk away would have definitely attracted police attention, so I whispered to Trigger, ‘keep walking, let’s go by it and don’t stop.” So we kept walking.
    Big mistake.
    We had just passed the car, without attracting any unwanted attention, when one of the cops yells, “Are you John Flannery?” I was shocked. I thought I was blending in like a fucking chameleon. I stopped and said, “Yeah, why?”
    They stopped inspecting the car, then they all surrounded me, looking angry; hostile angry would be a better description. All of them had flashlights trained on me. I felt like I was on stage. But this audience was less than appreciative.
    “We just arrested your girl, she told us you were her pimp, what do you have to say about that?”
    To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I had just met Barefoot and had never even thought about being her pimp “Don’t know what you are talking about.” I mean what the fuck am I supposed to say?
    “We just arrested Wendy for prostitution and she told us you were her pimp, responsible for handling the cash.” Wendy, huh? No wonder she went by Barefoot.
    The flashlights were still shining on my face. I could tell they wanted me to run, resist or something. Then they could legally beat the crap out of me. That wasn’t going to happen, one thing I’ve learned is if the police have you in their grasp, the best thing to do is kiss ass: yes sir, yes sir, no sir. The fuck you pig resistance angle is a waste of time. They always win.
    The trick is to not get caught.
    I thought, stammered, I didn’t’ know what to say. Finally, “I have no idea what you are talking about.” I didn’t. The bitch had gotten herself arrested and instead of taking the fall quietly she had seen some advantage in ratting me out for something that just hadn’t happened. Oh well, stranger things have happened. I didn’t know what to do, except keep asking what they were talking about. For twenty minutes they harassed me, at some point they told Trigger the crack boy to go. For some reason, it was me,  and me alone they wanted. They really thought I was a pimp. If I was, I like to think my stable would be a little better than Barefoot. I couldn’t imagine that she would keep me in cigarettes, let alone a Mercedes or condo payment.
    My strategy in those twenty minutes wasn’t to deny it but to just keep asking what they were talking about. In the end, they had to let me walk away, after all they had no evidence, other than some cracked-out hooker’s testimony, which won’t fly far in court. I didn’t try to run or resist arrest, so they couldn’t beat me. Reluctantly they cut me loose. Amazingly, crack was the farthest thing from my mind. All I wanted was to put distance between them and me. And I did. I jumped in my car and got out of dodge.
    The next day, I’m recounting the story to my brother. When I’m done, he looks at me, laughs, and says, “One L. P.”
    “Huh?” I reply, totally mystified.
    “That’s your new nickname. One legged pimp.”

John Patrick Flannery was living in Seattle in 1997 when he was hit by a drunk driver while riding his motorcycle. He lost one of his legs in the accident, and spent the next two years in hospitals and rehab centers. He is now clean and sober and living in the Hotel De Riviera, where he writes wonderful essays like this one. Several other of his submissions are on this site too, including Waiting for the Dali Lama, Worthless Wino and Suicide.

We Stopped Traffic To Viote

posted November 09, 2010
by NMcCradie

I went outside this morning to sit in the car with my coffee.  Looking out at the world I saw the wildlife waking up to search for their breakfast.  First the Camp Robber Blue Jays and the Flickers vying for the foods that the early human walkers throw out on the ground. Next came the little chipmunks chattering and stuffing their little cheeks with food.  How I wish I could share this with something more than words, but I must leave this pretty picture to write a few words about voting rights in this country.

A week before the 1984 Presidential election I was called into the Legal Defense Center’s office.  I was reminded that Ronald Reagan’s precinct was at Solvang.  It was time to get ready.  If the homeless were ever to vote we had to move.  Making signs was a priority.  I would pack my pick-up and camper with all the activists  who would be  informing the world that homeless people  were not allowed to cast a vote for the next President.  . We would be going to Solvang to parade that information to the masses in front of  Ronald Reagan’s precinct, while he cast a vote for himself.  It was pretty frightening because we were going to move into territory where people have a more conservative attitude and probably thought that the homeless did not deserve the right to vote.  But we made our signs anyway,  summoning our courage for  the next day’s events.

On the eve of the election, Scott, Devin, Protest Bob and others, desperately saddened by the fact that they could not be voting for a new President, decided to stage a protest of their own down here, and opted to stop traffic on Highway 101. (This is back when the 101 had a traffic light.) Picking their moment, they waited until the light turned red then  assumed their positions in the road. Every lane was blocked with a person and a sign saying homeless people could not vote in the United States of America.  It was a beautiful sight. A Native American homeless man held up an American flag while Protest Bob  invted more and more people to join the line. How effective was it?  Pretty effective since we learned the next day that traffic was backed up to Ventura by the time the freeway was cleared.

 I recall watching a Semi-tractor trailer inch up to Scotty.  What did Scotty do?  He stuck his chest into the grill and tried to push back. I saw a woman climb out of her Volkswagen bug with a beer in her hand and scream obscenities at the protesters. That was pretty funny.

 It took a while for the police to come. When they raced down Chapala Street in a fleet of flashing lights and sirens, I knew the fun was beginning.  All the doors of black and white units opened as officers flew out to look over the scene--- lights on their units still flashing. It took Scotty realizing he was losing  his chest battle with the semi, to get police to move in on everybody. You see, Scotty had dropped to the ground and was lying down in front of the truck’s grill. The police grabbed him off of the freeway.  “Relax, Scott,” the policeman said to him. “It won’t hurt as much when you get hauled off of the freeway.”  “No Way!”  Scot replied.  “I am going to protest all the way to the County Jail.”

 I so wanted to get involved in all the fun but I was a new mother and would not risk going to jail that night. My six-week-old daughter’s father would have to play that role. But watching half my crew for the Solvang protest get carted off to jail was hard. I was forced to recruit more willing homeless people to take their place.   

We got an early start. I was bummed Bob was incarcerated and could not come with us.  We were partners, you see.  I was kind of used to it, though because of the amount of Street Theatre we had to come up with to prove our point. His job was to go to jail because of the Civil Disobedience we had to create. I played the good cop. He was the bad cop.

The day turned out to be boring compared to the Highway 101 action. . Most people ignored our signs, presumably  focused on being able to take a look at their  God: President Ronald Reagan, as he cast his vote.  My son ran up to me. He said one of the protesters wanted to talk to me.  It was James Macgruder wanting to show me something.  He pointed out an electric lamp post and showed me the sign he was carrying.  It was stapled onto a stake and said,  “Homeless Can’t Vote in the USA.”  He told me he could hang it from the top of the light post.  I said there were tons of Secret Service agents and uncountable Sheriff deputies around that could shoot him down before he got to the top.  He didn’t care but he did agree to wait until Ronald Reagan got into his limo and his caravan started up.   

With the sign tucked into his jeans, James shimmied up that pole like a squirrel.  Three quarters of the way up he looks down and sees a mass of Sheriff’s deputies demanding he descend immediately. But he just shook his head.  He has a job to do.  He knows that he can’t last much longer holding on so he shimmied up the rest of the way to place the sign on the top of that pole.  Our photographer got the picture.  Finally, with his legs shaking like a Quaking Aspen Tree in the breeze, he came down the pole.  Of course, he then had to be questioned so off to the pokey he went.  My son, crying because he thought they we going to hurt James, had to be consoled by me until he saw his Big Brother again.  James Macgruder was  our hero that day. When we got back to Santa Barbara, Bob and Scott were already out of jail.  Someone passed the hat to come up with bail money.  We certainly had a lot of stories to tell each other that night.


Nancy McCradie is a founder of the Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition. She was homeless but is now housed.

Broken Heart

posted November 07, 2010
by rtrower

By Raymond Trower

     The story you are about to read is true. I’ve been fighting to keep it a secret, but it demands to be told. Like I told my friend Isabelle Walker recently, “Some stories write themselves,” and this is one of them. This is the story of my heart, my broken heart.


     Within the first three weeks of my coming to Santa Barbara and entering Casa Esperanza, I was hospitalized twice; the second time with Congestive Heart Failure (CHF). My discharge papers, which I still have, from 2/16/09, list my CHF as stable.


     What is CHF? According to Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital (listed on the discharge instructions) CHF occurs when the heart muscle is too weak to pump blood properly around the body. This can cause a backup of fluid in the lungs or swelling in the legs. (In my case both.). This is most often due to a damaged heart muscle, high blood pressure, or a heart valve that doesn’t work properly. Symptoms include shortness of breath, weight gain, ankle swelling and fatigue.


     I have been looking at websites pertaining to CHF recently, and  finding out things  my doctor didn’t tell me, things I believe he should have told me from day one, which was 20 months ago.


     The following information I gleaned from a couple of websites. I’ve checked several and they all basically say the same thing.
•

http://www.wrongdiagnosis.com/c/congestive_heart_failure/prognosis.htm?ktrack=kcplink Prognosis of Congestive Heart Failure: Poor. 5-year survival around 50%. About 20% survive longer than 8-12 years. 
• http://www.wrongdiagnosis.com/artic /nhlbi_congestive_ heart_failure_data_fact_sheet_nhlbi.htm?ktrack=kcplink An estimated 4.8 million Americans have congestive heart failure (CHF). Increasing prevalence, hospitalizations, and deaths have made CHF a major chronic condition in The United States. It often is the end stage of cardiac disease. Half of  patients diagnosed with CHF will be dead within 5 years.

• http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/757999-overview Approximately 30-40% of patients with Congestive Heart Failure (CHF) are hospitalized every year. CHF is the leading diagnosis-related group (DRG) among hospitalized patients older than 65 years. The 5-year mortality rate after diagnosis was reported in 1971 as 60% in men and 45% in women. In 1991, data from the Framingham Heart Study showed the 5-year mortality rate for CHF had essentially remained unchanged, with a median survival of 3.2 years for males and 5.4 years for females. This may be secondary to an aging US population with declining mortality due to other diseases. 
•http://www.doctoryourself.comcongestive.html/ In an average lifetime, your heart will beat two and a half BILLION times. Congestive Heart Failure (CHF) is the end product of any of a number of cardiovascular diseases that can degrade the heart’s ability to pump blood efficiently. Much has been written on diagnosing Congestive Heart Failure (CHF) but less is known about treating it. This is because broken hearts are tough to fix. A diagnosis of CHF means  it’s too late for nutritional prevention. The horse is long gone by the time most people decide to shut the stable door. 


     So there you have it, or maybe I should say there I’ve had it. (Bad joke.) Still, I think about it constantly. I think about the odds and how they seem stacked against me. Fifty – sixty percent of CHF patients live less than five years. 20  percent between eight and twelve. 

What does this mean to me? Nothing. I never did play the odds, even when stacked against me. They’re just a bunch of numbers. Then again I could be in denial

     Denial is one of the 5 stages of grief. What are the other four? Anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Let’s take a look and find out where I am in this progression. 

     • Denial: I really haven’t denied anything. I just found out a couple of weeks ago and  am now sharing it with you. Though I will say that isolation is a part of denial and I have been isolating myself lately, but that has been going long before I became aware I had  CHF..
     
• Anger: What do I have to get angry about? I’m not going to begin sharing my philosophical or spiritual beliefs, but I will say this: And I quote “To Everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose, under Heaven”. I’ll let you decide whether I took this from The Byrds or Ecclesiastes.
     • Bargaining: Seriously, what do I have to bargain with? I’m not going to shout empty promises to a creator, when He may have something better in mind. (Hopefully it’s better, not hotter.)

     • Depression: Hell, I’ve been depressed most of my life. I’m not going to let a little thing like death get me down.

     • Acceptance: This is the key, and it’s found in The Serenity Prayer. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference” (I never knew until now that there are two verses to this prayer). “Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His Will; That I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him Forever in the next. Amen”. --Reinhold Niebuhr


     Acceptance may be the final stage, but it doesn’t have to be the last act. I accept that I have, among other conditions, CHF. I accept that there is no cure for it. I accept the statistics I’ve read on the prognosis for CHF. I accept that I may only have a couple of years left.


     Now, let me ask you. What would you do? This is what I am going to do, I am not going to give up. I choose to live each day to the best of my ability. Some days this won’t be easy. Some days I just want to lie in bed, and I do. Some days I tire of my medication and don’t want to take it. If I have somewhere to go, like to Casa Esperanza, a meeting or other appointment, I will not take some of them. I take eight different medications per day totaling 20 pills, and that doesn’t count over the counter meds or the hydrocodone I take sporadically.


     When the time comes, and it will, there are a couple of things I want and one thing I don’t want. Let me begin with what I don’t want,, and this is purely selfish.. I don’t want a memorial, not that I expect one, but just in case it crosses someone’s mind. There have been some  rough roads in my travels and I haven’t always been a nice guy. If any one says anything about me at the end,  let them say this: He finally got it right!
     I want Street Voice to continue. There is a need for it, now more than ever. I’m doing what I can with it, but it just isn’t enough. It needs a team of dedicated people at the helm to keep it afloat. I don’t want this because of any legacy. I want this because of  a desire; a desire to give the homeless community a voice.
     

I want my writings collected in a volume, or volumes, for publication someday. (Legacy)They consist of stories on creating Street Voice, my months at the shelter, and my blogs. If anything, I hope they become an inspiration for other homeless writers.

Finally there will be letters or instructions left for the disposal of my belongings.


*Raymond Trower was homeless is Santa Barbara for 11 months, and then he moved into The Victoria Hotel, which is owned and run by People's Self Help Housing. He also publishes the Santa Barbara Community Street Voice and is a frequent contributor to this blog.

Rulers Fall

posted November 02, 2010
by Barry Johns

Once upon a time there was a monumental birth,
one of the few that occurs here upon the earth.
As the years sped by his influence grew,
it affected everyone, including me and you.
People rallied to him, believing in his cause.
They were ready to support him without the slightest pause.
He told the people around him they needed to be brave.
Instead of fame and glory, he led them to their grave.
Many came before him, he’s not the last we’ll see.
They seek to rule the world as part of their destiny.
The world will always stop them, they will never take command.
Those that follow them will always come up short,
no matter what they demand.
Dictators always fall, they can only go so far;
even the strongest amongst them,
no matter who they are.

Barry Johns is currently homeless in Santa Barbara.

Forevermore

posted October 27, 2010
by John Wright

the pigs of war among us
behind the veil of truth
hide behind the righteousness
of poverty and youth
they feed upon the weakness
deceiving of the kind
consuming more than they can eat
returning all the time
feeding in a frenzy
sharks without the night
taste the blood of honesty
who cannot see to fight
the blood runs through their fingers
to drive an ill reproach
extinguishing the light that leads
the truthfulness of hope
nightmares replace the quiet
of solitude and grace
then fill the nights with torture
where tears proliferate
the evil ones envision
thirsting for the breath
of any good upon the earth
a suffocating death
God he will exterminate
the pigs of frenzied war
and keep the souls beneath his wings
of truth forevermore

John S. Wright is staying at The Santa Barbara Rescue Mission

Suicide

posted October 23, 2010
by jpflannery

By John Patrick Flannery
  
 “Suicide is painless,” words to the theme of MASH. Whoever came up with those words had never been subjected to Narcan. It leaves you with a headache so bad you wish you were dead. I’ve been woken up from death Twelve times. By death I mean no heartbeat, no breathing for two minutes or more. Death.  
    I’ve been lucky, I guess. Except for the Narcan part.
    Narcan is a drug they give you that negates the effects of any opium-based substance. A better word would be Buzzkill. When your favorite high is banging on death’s door and it’s not being opened, Narcan becomes a fact of life. Literally. The line between the buss I am looking for and death is a razor’s edge.
    It’s a subconscious thing I guess. I never sat down and said “Fuck this, I’m gonna kill myself.” But twelve times? I mean, come on. Something I this fucked up mind has had enough.
    The most amusing time I can remember is the phone rings, right when we are cooking up our issue of Heroin that we just bought. It’s the University of Washington calling to take a survey. I’m on the phone answering questions; my partner has to leave. I hole out my arm and have him shoot me up. Bear in mind I’m on the phone answering questions. He shoots me up, packs up the utensils and leaves. I die.
    The lady I’m talking to realizes something is really wrong, calls the police. She has my address from the survey, I guess. About three minutes later the police kicked in my door. There I was, phone still held to my head, sitting on the bed with my head on the floor. Dead. 
    What a good high.
    Occasionally some really powerful Heroin would hit town, I’d come to on a gurney. In the hallway of the hospital there would be so many other overdoses that there just wasn’t room anywhere else. They probably would have put us outside if it weren’t raining.
    The Heroin addict's world is quite small, so I would recognize at least ten other fellow addicts. So in a weird, twisted way it was a form of networking.
    When they would cart me off in the ambulance, usually all I was wearing were my pants. All well and good, till it was time to leave. They would hand me a bus token, I would have to take the bus, with no shirt, jacket or even shoes. This was Seattle, and I wasn’t smart enough to overdose just in the summer. Often it was December or January, snowing, below zero temperature.
    Not that that was the bad part, even though my house was two bus transfers away.  No, the worse part was getting on the bus in sub zero temperatures outside the hospital with a splitting headache from the Narcan and everyone on the bus checking you out and knowing why. It was so embarrassing. I wanted to die. Again.
    Aside from the headache part, Narcan has another downside. When you are a full-blown Heroin addict, all you want is to do Heroin, even after death from an overdose.
    With Narcan in your system, you can’t get high.  Not even a little bit. I never let that stop me. I remember showing up at my dealer’s house several times in nothing but shorts, in the middle of the night. Getting more dope, doing it. Not affect. So I would get more and do it, with no effect. So I would get more and more until I ran out of money. OF course they never said a word, why would they? They had a less than brilliant Heroin addict spending money as fast as he could. For them, it was like hitting the jackpot.
   

Patrick Flannery is currently living in The Riviera Hotel and is sober. He has a number of pieces posted on this blog, including "Waiting For The Dalai Lama" and "Worthless Wino."    
    

The Shadow

posted October 17, 2010
by Barry Johns

I saw a man standing in the shadows in the dark.
He was watching two people who were strolling through the park.
He followed them to a restaurant, he followed them to a car.
Then he followed them home, which wasn’t very far.
He stood in an alley looking for their light,
when it finally came on it was very bright.
He followed them for days everywhere they went
I did not know by whom he was sent.
They spotted him and began to run.
I tried to see where they went but I was blinded by the sun.
When I could finally see clearly all three of them were gone.
With nothing left to do I decided to travel on.

Barry Johns is currently homeless in Santa Barbara.

Time to Get Out And Vote

posted October 14, 2010
by NMcCradie

  By Nancy McCradie
     Election time is almost upon us.  It is so important to get out and vote.  It is one of our rights as either natural born citizens or as naturalized citizens.  It is one reason we consider this country so great.  But I can remember when the rights of some of our citizens were taken away.


     I think back to a time when Bob and I were working on someone’s campaign for City Council in the City of Santa Barbara.  While stuffing envelopes one afternoon I looked at Bob and told him that we ought to register to vote because neither of us lived in the district where we previously voted.  You see, we both were homeless and had no permanent street address in the city where we lived.  We went to the voter’s registrar and re-registered.  We both used my p.o. box as our permanent address.  The clerk read our applications and asked us for our permanent street address.  We told her we were homeless and that the p.o. box was our address.  She denied our application there on the spot.  She told us that because we were homeless we would be unable to vote.  We were shocked.  Here we were walking door to door helping a friend with her political aspirations but were unable to vote for her?  Bob and I walked away angry, upset and just a little sad.  How could this be?
  

    Yes, folks.  There was a time when the homeless did not have a right to vote.  What was really sad was 30 percent of our homeless in the City of Santa Barbara at that time were Vietnam veterans and they were denied the right to vote even though they fought that dirty war for our country.  We sure did not know how to treat our veterans of that war when they came back home to our shores.


    For many days the Homeless People’s Association, a grassroots political organization made up of homeless men and women who lived on the streets, tried to figure out how we could rectify such a situation.  Finally, through many phone calls to attorneys in our community, we came across one who referred us to the Legal Defense Center. Talking to the center’s lead attorney about the homeless’ inability to vote, he promptly made an appointment for me and Bob to come in and talk.  A suit he filed against the County of Santa Barbara made the newspaper.  It seems that if we had lied to the registrar on our application, we would probably have not been denied.  But if one wanted to be honest we learned that the county was misinterpreting the voting laws.  We could compare it to a time when one had to be a property owner in order to vote.  We could also compare it to a time when only men could vote.  Well, Bob and I were able to get the County to take another look.  The courts ruled in our favor, saying we could use our last registered voting address in order to vote.  I thought it terribly insidious because I was using a boat storage yard as my last known address.  To this very day I still use the same one and have never changed my precinct again. The County does let us use our p.o box now to receive our election papers.  But that did not give the rest of the homeless the right to register since they were unable to set up a precinct to vote in.  So it was back to the drawing board.


    The Homeless People’s Association selected four Vietnam veterans to sue the County, State and Federal government to get the right to vote for the homeless, at least in this state.  It took almost four years of court appeals, denials, and more appeals before the vote was finally given to the homeless in California.  Will Hastings was the Legal Defense Attorney who fought long and hard hours.  A bull- dog of a man, he set his teeth into the butts of the courts and did not give up.  Neither did the homeless.  We also sunk our teeth into this issue.  Demonstrations, Protests and Media Gatherings were our forte.


     I was sitting in my pick up and camper one afternoon just enjoying the day when four members of the HPA showed up at my door.  “Come out and talk to us, Nancy.  We need to gather together to put up a mailbox at the Fig Tree.”  The Fig Tree was a gathering place for the homeless on a daily basis.   The men told me they had seen the postmaster at the Post Office and he told them if they put up a mailbox they would deliver mail to that mailbox.  Wow!  I was into that.  When Bob came home we found out that he had 80 dollars worth of credit at Home Improvement from a job that he had been doing. We all went shopping.  Four mailboxes, lumber to build the stand, cement to pour into a hole we would dig and large nails to set into the cement to secure the mailbox into the ground. Going to the boat yard, we built the stand for the mailbox.  Painting it red white and blue, we attached an eagle to the mailbox and Ed, the President of HPA, volunteered to put his name on it just in case we got in trouble for anything.  He wanted to “take the rap” so to speak.  It was time to call the media.  That was my job.


    The appointed day began.  The mailbox was installed into the ground.  Media came from as far away as Los Angeles to speak to Santa Barbara’s homeless about the voting rights issue.  CNN, Fox 11 and our local channels all showed up.  Our Vietnam veterans and “Prez Ed” were the stars of the show.  The rest of the homeless held their respective signs up for the cameras begging for the right to vote.  It was a great media event.  After the interviews were over and our protectors (the media) dissipated, I became uneasy.  The City of Santa Barbara was not going to let us get away with such a demonstration.  I ran over to the KEYT news team and told them that by the time the night was over the city was going to come and take our mailbox away.  The news team told me that they would stay in their cruiser and wait for our call to come take pictures of the action.  We stayed at the Fig Tree to protect our mailbox with all our might.


    As the evening wore on our anticipation of the up and coming fight made us excited.  We just knew that something was going to happen.  We could smell it coming.  We sat around in circles watching for the whatever to happen.  I went into the camper to put the children in bed.  No sooner had I tucked them in when I heard a shout, “Here they come.”  A black and white unit flew across the freeway, all cylinders roaring.  Another came from the beachfront all cylinders blaring.  All in all, six units arrived to show us their mighty strength that would put fear into the hearts of the homeless.  Bob went running.  He put his arms around the mailbox, linked his fingers together and held on with all his strength.  I watched as they arrested him for holding onto the mailbox and I went into action. Shouting out that it was time to call the media, I saw every police officer’s face turn to me at the same time.  They had waited until they thought the media had gone to bed before arriving.  Less than two minutes later, the news team arrived.  They jumped out of their cruiser and I shouted out that they had arrested Bob.  Their cameras went into the arresting officers face and the interview began.  The police had called a man with a chain saw who walked up to the mail box.  I yelled out that it was a felony to destroy a mailbox.  He shrugged and said, “You are right” and walked off.  Next the city called a tow truck.  This time yelling out that it was a felony did not work.   The tow truck driver tied up to the mailbox with a chain.  The homeless circled the Fig Tree.  Leading the homeless in song, I began singing God Bless America.  We all sang as the tow truck pulled our beloved mailbox out of its new home.  Tomorrow was another day.  In the morning, another mailbox was installed.  You see, we had four of them.
      Get out and vote.  It is the right of all citizens

.

Nancy McCradie was homeless for years with her husband Bob Hansen. She is also a founder of the Homeless People Association, which ultimately became the Homeless Coalition.

Above The Sky

posted October 11, 2010
by John Wright

If in fact I see you
in the sky above the earth,
I know that you’re my angel
because you loved me first.
You took my head and held me
and wiped away my tears,
then told me everything’s alright
throughout the longest years.
When I was cold you held me
so close and tight and warm,
through the thunder and the lightening
and this never ending storm.
When the rain subsided
the sun shown through the clouds,
you never made me any less,
nothing less than proud.
Yes you are my angel,
and when our lives may close,
I pray that far above the sky
you will remain my rose.

John S. Wright is currently staying at The Santa Barbara Rescue Mission

For The Sake Of A Meal

posted October 08, 2010
by rtrower

By Ray Trower
     For the sake of a meal I may have died. It was a need for a meal that caused me to enter the gates of Casa Esperanza. It may have been that very meal that saved my life.

  
     I generally stay away from shelters, avoiding the crowds, noise and chaos  you usually get at day centers. It was hunger that changed my mind  that day--hard to believe it was almost two years ago.

   
     My first few visits to Casa Esperanza were for the meal only; it was also my only meal of the day. On my third visit, I swallowed my pride and asked for help.

   
     I had no intention of coming to Santa Barbara. I really don’t recall why I came here, but here I was, tired, hungry and broke. I’d spent my last few dollars on fuel for my car and wraps (duct tape and diapers) for the ulcerations on my legs. Food was my last thought, it was easy to get. I was not below digging through dumpsters to search for food.


     While standing in line for lunch I would overhear people talk about Casa Esperanza and the services it provided. I was in dire need of medical attention for my legs, which was provided free of charge.

 
     It took about a week for me to take the next step and ask about a shelter bed--and I was admitted. I was more interested in the meals and medical services than I was a place to sleep. 

    By my fourth week at Casa Esperanza I was hospitalized twice, once for the ulcerations on my legs, and a second time for congestive heart failure. That’s why I can say: “For the sake of a meal I may have died”.

 
     Now a group of people want to take those meals away. I find this hard to believe. They say that the free meals are drawing undesirables to their neighborhoods, cluttering up their streets, driving customers away. All I can say is that I apologize on behalf of those undesirables, who seldom, if at all, use the services  at the day center. For every undesirable you see on the corner or at the park, I can show you 20 or more who are trying to improve their lives, and yes, I became one of them. Upon receiving disability checks, I also became a customer of the very businesses that wish to close access to the Community Kitchen , which the day services at Casa Esperanza helped me to obtain.


     I would like to challenge those who wish to close the kitchen to come to the day center during lunch, volunteer to help serve lunch or just observe standing at the door, then tell each person as they leave that you are fighting to take away their meal, for most of them their only meal.

 
     Stand there, look them in the eye and tell them why. Tell the mother with her children. Tell the seniors who come there for a free meal to help make ends meet, who have to chose between food, medication, or heat. Yes, tell 300 people that you want to take their food away because of a few undesirables.


     The people who utilize the day center are not all vagrants, bums, panhandlers or addicts. We are people, human beings, who are asking for a hand up, not a hand out, and we demand the same rights you take for granted. We demand the right to food, clothing and shelter. We demand the right to change our lives for the better. We demand an equal opportunity, even if it’s only  a free meal. 

    My name is Raymond Trower. In January 2009 I was homeless, ill and at one point close to death. I spent 11 months at Casa Esperanza. I moved out on the 24th of December 2009 into my own apartment; my first one in years. I am still on disability and hope to change that some day. I publish a small digest, Street Voice, for the homeless, and I am currently a Homeless Representative on the Bring Our Community Home 10 Year Plan’s board. I hope to be the same representative on Casa Esperanza’s board too. All of this was accomplished for the sake of a meal.


    One of my favorite quotes is “Cure the disease and kill the patient,” ~ Francis Bacon. This, I do believe, is what you’re attempting to do by closing the Community Kitchen’s day lunch program.


   Let me remind you that in today’s economy, most people are one paycheck away from being homeless. And there is an ever- increasing number of seniors and women with children needing the services provided by the day center, namely the meal.

Photo of Ray Trower by Paul Wellman

When The Homeless Pranked The City Cops

posted October 06, 2010
by NMcCradie

        For many years homeless advocates wanted to get back at the City of Santa Barbara for telling the police to spend a portion of their shifts hunting the homeless, waking them up and giving them tickets just for the basic physical necessity common to all animals: Sleep!  One of those advocates who lived on the street had the idea of making a bunch of dummies, placing them somewhere in the City and then “dropping a dime on them.”  It would bring the police out and mock the system that spends so much time giving tickets to people who can’t pay the high rents in Santa Barbara or any other city along the coast.
  
       When the idea was brought up at the many meetings the homeless attended, it was shot down. However, when the City of Santa Barbara decided to close the City Hall porch to the public after hours, it triggered an anger in the homeless that made the dummy idea suddenly appealing.  We all decided to place a protest sleep-in on the City Hall porch using dummies instead of the usual protesters who were always sticking their necks out and getting arrested.  Why not let the dummies arrest the dummies instead? The guys ran to the thrift stores and picked up some clothes. We were able to find flesh colored balloons for the faces and we all began to gaily stuff the clothes with newspaper. By the time we were done, the dummies were perfect.  Of course we had to paint the word DUMMY on their backsides so the police would know what they were looking at.  Next we needed transportation to bring the dummies to their resting place. .  We loaded the dummies in the back of a pick up truck with the cardboard, blankets and protest signs that were the final touch.  
 
       On the chosen night, one of the homeless protesters and an advocate who was able to provide the truck pulled up to City Hall. They laid out the cardboard, placed the dummies in sleeping positions and covered them with blankets.  We even had a couple lying there embracing each other.  It was perfect.  Stocking caps were placed on the blown up balloons and tennis shoes peeked out of the blankets and sleeping bags.  They looked as if they were snoring away.  What was really cool was that all this activity was unobserved by anyone with the exception of the many homeless who came along to watch the fun.  We placed the protest signs along the porch fence and we were ready.  We all found places to hide so we could watch what happened.
   
      One of the homeless volunteered to go over to Mel’s Bar and “Drop the Dime.”  Hiding, we all waited, anticipating the prank. The volunteer came back and told us the deed was done.  He said he’d called the police, identified himself as Daniel Dummyski and snitched off the people sleeping on City Hall’s porch. No sooner did the volunteer find a place to hide that a black and white unit pulled into De La Guerra Plaza.  Holding our bellies to keep from laughing out loud, we watched a patrol car circle the Plaza. “Too bad they only sent out the one vehicle,” we said to each other. It would have been more fun if a number of them showed up--as usual. .  Everyone kept quiet until the appropriate time. The man in the Black and White unit used his bullhorn with an authoritative voice. “All right!  Everybody on the porch must get up!  You know that you are not allowed to sleep on City Hall porch at night.”  Nobody responded, of course.  “I said GET UP!”  The poor officer barked again.  He had to climb out of his car and walk up the steps to challenge the sleepers.  “I told you to get up!”  Pulling the blankets off of the first sleeper, reading the word DUMMY on it we heard him say. “OH F____!”  He knew he’d been chosen to be the brunt of a massive form of entertainment for the homeless that night.  The sound of quiet tittering around the Plaza caused the officer to shine his flashlight around in a circle. We all watched as he called the police department and tried to explain to them what he had found.  Trying to explain to his supervisor that they all were a bunch of dummies.  “No really Sir!  They are just stuffed dummies.”
   
        Knowing that no one would believe him unless he took the evidence back to the police station, the officer started to walk the dummies down to his patrol car. He took down the protest signs and began to stuff the blankets in the trashcans surrounding the plaza.  The homeless man who helped put the dummies on the porch walked up to the officer and politely asked him.  “Do you think that I might have one of those blankets you are tossing?  It is pretty cold out here.”  The officer stares at him.  Finally he tosses the homeless man a blanket and walked to the driver’s side of his car. With tires screaming, he pulls out of the Plaza.  The homeless who had been watching the incident converged on De La Guerra Plaza’s lawn and screamed with laughter.  We don’t know how the reader feels about this story but the homeless felt pretty empowered that night.

Nancy McCradie is a founder of the Santa Barbara Homeless Coalition. She was homeless for years, but is currently housed. 

We Stumble

posted October 03, 2010
by John Wright

The ways of the world at times it seems
have led us all astray.
No time at all to live the dream
forgotten yesterday.
As sands of time fall to the ground
and tears fall from our eyes,
we tear apart the ties that bind
together in our lives.
No promises are left to hold
throughout the longest years,
any comfort vanishes and deepens all we fear.
Without the light we stumble
through the world with open eyes,
then cannot find a resting place
no matter how we try.
Our names are written in a book
the world does not contain,
unless the one above us all
does not recall you name.
Forgiveness comes from deep within
a heart that true and warm,
one that freely gives to all
some shelter from the storm.
The waters rise and flood the souls
as tidal waves collide,
and evil rips apart the love
that’s absent from our lives.
No truth exists within the minds
of those bound by the lusts
in all the things that injure man
removing every trust.
There really is no future in ignoring Jesus Christ.
Know that he died for you, the author of your life.

John Wright is currently staying at The Santa Barbara Rescue Mission.

Questions On The Journey

posted September 26, 2010
by Barry Johns

Will my journey never end
or is my destination just around the bend?
I must keep going,
I must not falter,
the path I follow I must not alter.
I grow weary in body and mind
but I must keep going no matter what I find.
There is no going backward, though I’ve lost my way,
I must go onward day-by-day.
The days and nights begin to merge,
as I gear myself up for the final serge.
Someday soon I know I will rest,
but for now I’ll give it my best.
What is going to happen to me when I reach my destiny?
As I take a final step through the door,
will I even realize I am no more?

Dear Ruthie

posted September 16, 2010
by brenda morehouse

Dear Ruthie,
    It’s me, Brenda. I don’t mean to disturb your rest, but I was thinking of you and since I can’t talk to you face to face, I decided to write you this letter.
    A lot of our friends have known you for many years. I, on the other hand, have only known you since December of last year. I’m not sure how it happened; maybe we’re kindred souls. I took you under my wing and you embraced me with yours. Your friendship means the world to me. I consider myself very lucky to have been a part of your life and you mine. I’m missing you terribly, selfishly thinking you left me without saying good-bye. I’m sorry for that, but I was angry I couldn’t be by your side, holding your hand, telling you stories, brushing your hair, hearing your last breath.     
    Ruthie, I’m not saying good-bye to you. Good-bye is forever. I’m going to say “see you later”. And I will one day. Until then, sweet dreams my dear Ruthie. I love you!

                     Brenda Morehouse. 

Brenda Morehouse lived with Ruth Miles in the women's dorm of Casa Esperanza for eight months. Miles died on September 9th, at Lompoc Valley Hospital, from complications of emphysema.
 
Photo of Morehouse by Paul Wellman

My Dream

posted September 14, 2010
by Kickstand

By Kickstand
       When I get the money owed to me from SSI (Social Security Disability) the first thing I want to buy is a 31-foot mobile home so I will never be homeless again. It will cost me a lot but this back money should cover it. I will spend whatever is left stocking it with the stuff I need, i.e. food, foul weather gear, a floor safe, insurance. I will have to find someone I can trust to do the driving because I can no longer drive. Once that is done, I want to hit the gravel and travel all over the United States and see places like the Grand Canyon, the Statue of Liberty, Key West, and Niagara Falls. Well you get the idea, just do the stuff normal people do --whatever normal is. And there you have the future hopes and dreams of the one-legged man they call kickstand.


*Kickstand lost his left leg and has applied for Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI). He was turned down once and is in the process of reapplying.

   

Nothing To see

posted September 13, 2010
by Barry Johns

I was walking alone late one night
when I came upon a startling sight.
I saw a monkey, his fur was white.
Then out of nowhere another monkey came along
the two of them started singing the same song.
They scampered around with great delight,
glanced my way, faces filled with fright.
They disappeared from view instantly,
I looked all around there was nothing to see.
I searched and searched for them everywhere,
there was not a trace that they had ever been there.
Was this a new species that I had found?
Or was it an old one that was still around?
The planet is getting too small for animals to survive.
I just hope my monkeys are still alive.
I am filled with sorrow and with shame.
But I think that we all should share the blame.

Cuckoo's Nest

posted September 07, 2010
by jpflannery

By John Patrick Flannery


      Thought I was being slick, calling her bluff. Yeah, I was suicidal. It was the only solution  I could see. I had gone over it time and  again and it was the one answer I kept coming up with. Nobody wants to kill themselves, but I was sick and tired of it. The thing that really got  to me was that the drunken loser that hit me and cut my leg off was  out of jail already and back living his regular life, and I’m still fighting for everything. It all seemed so unfair that I was having trouble dealing with it. Anyway, I remember telling her to go ahead and call the cops, cause they wouldn’t  come and even if they did,  wouldn’t do shit. Boy was I wrong.
     I was sitting outside smoking a cigarette when the first one showed up and was quickly followed by three more. They were talking to me,  trying to gauge my mood and depression. They were being really nice. I‘m not used to cops being nice, so that by itself  was stressful.  I politely answered all their questions, the whole time thinking I can’t wait to kill myself so I don’t have to deal with shit like this anymore. Guess they thought I was nuts because they all agreed leaving me was going to result in something bad. Politely they asked if I would get in the Bronco with no problems. Of course I agreed. I was too fed up to fight.  Ten minutes later I was locked in the cuckoo’s nest where everyone was nice and phony. They kept wanting to know how I planned to do it. When I told them  my plan to head up to Seattle and buy three grams of heroin for ninety dollars, get a motel and check out they realized that  I was indeed serious. Once they realized I was serious, it was all about locking me down. I didn’t care, my future out was bleak and getting locked up was like a vacation. Of course, they took my belt and shoelaces and anything that could  potentially be used for suicide.
     The first night I had a room to myself, but there was a camera that could see every inch of it. . I may be a ham but I couldn’t get to sleep with that camera staring at me. To put me in that room was a sign that they thought I was totally nuts. Needless to say, I didn’t get any sleep. But all there was to do was watch TV and smoke cigarettes, so you didn’t need a lot of energy. The loonies took to me right away. Looking back on it, why was I so friendly? The first day I was depressed as hell. But then I got to know some of the nuts and they were way worse off than I was. It’s always refreshing to see other people that are  worse off than you; somehow it makes you feel better. Before, when I would get really depressed, I would go visit a nursing home. On the one hand it was cheerless and depressing, but on the other it would make my own situation, no matter how bad I thought it was, seem better. Most of the people were abandoned by family and were going to die there. It was so bad, it was good.
     The next day I was given another room. Now I had a roommate. One of the biggest cuckoo’s. That night he was farting so bad that after asking for another room and being denied, I went back and made him leave. Before I did, we were lying there talking (and gagging), and I asked him why he was there. The reply was a single word, “rent.”  It pretty much confirmed my feelings about crazy folk. See I grew up in Europe. Over there you just don’t see people walking around acting crazy, not knowing where they are or caring. . But I feel that this country encourages them by giving them money. So here in America you can act crazy and get paid for it. So there’s no incentive to act regular. In my opinion, that’s why there are so many crazy acting folks.  Could be wrong but that’ what I think. Like I said, my roommate was one of the biggest cuckoo’s all day long. He would walk around talking to himself, loud. He never took a shower. He was this weird grey color and didn’t smell like a fucking rose neither. And it was all a damn act. He was as sane as anybody, just didn’t want to pay rent. I’d say that was pretty fucking sane.
      Day two I was a little less depressed. Now I knew it was official. I was certified crazy. It had been suspected for years. It doesn’t get much lower than being stuck in a loony bin in Cali where everybody is fucking crazy. They drink coffee that has been eaten by some rodent and then shit out and go to oxygen bars and pay for air. I should start a cult or something. But nooo, I’m stuck in the goddamn cuckoo’s nest cause  I was crazy and a threat to others and myself. Well no shit. I was hit off my beautiful motorcycle by a drunk high on drugs uninsured motherfucker who couldn’t’ remember my name when he made his plea in court in front of the judge. . To say that I wish I could kill the piece of shit would be a definite understatement, but I know  my door would  be the first one  cops would knock on. And prison would be fucked cause they probably wouldn’t allow my prosthetic leg and being in a wheelchair sucks, but in prison it would be about as bad as it  gets. So the guy still lives. I would never commit suicide and let him live. That was something only a few people knew. That thought has kept me alive for years. There were periods that I was way suicidal and  would not do it without killing him first. That sick thought has kept me alive since the accident (incident), and whatever works is what you should go with. But it hadn’t been working lately and if I was going to go all the way to Seattle, I was definitely gonna look him up, if you know what I mean. Then I was going to go a motel. See ya.
     The food was awful,.Just the same great caliber as any good prison but because of all the stress I hadn’t been eating and I wanted to eat big. But it was terrible and they didn’t give you nearly enough. I was starving all the time. Oh and one of the  terrible things was that no one was allowed any caffeine. None. The only reason  I ever drank coffee was for the buzz. Decaf just doesn’t make sense, not to mention that it tastes like shit.  But breakfast was so fucking early that I wasn’t hungry. Shit, my taste buds don’t wake up till about ten. All I wanted was a God damn cigarette. But no. You had to suffer through the awful breakfast with the shit coffee. My aforementioned roomie would steal food and be a general pain in the ass at chowtime. It was kinda’ funny and I needed to laugh. Bad.
     In fact, the whole day was planned around the damn breaks. They were so few and far between that if you missed it, before the next one you could expect a major nic fit. I was only there three days but when I left I could feel it was time for a smoke and when I looked at my watch it was exactly break time. It sure don’t take long to get instutionalized. I was under so much stress that I wanted to chain smoke, constantly.  But fucking rules are rules and just cause you hate 'em don’t mean you don’t got  to follow them.
    Day three I thought it was all funny. The terrible food, the fake wacko’s, the fake  concern, and above all the cigarette breaks. I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t really crazy, just suicidal. A big difference in my opinion. It was a just logical solution to my problems . . . or so I thought.

John Patrick Flannery lives in The Hotel de Riviera. He has posted a number of pieces on this blog, including "Worthless Wino", "The Bus" and "Waiting for The Dalai Lama."


            
   

Sunlight's Changes

posted August 30, 2010
by Barry Johns

It was early in the morning
or maybe late at night,
it's hard to tell the difference
when darkness turns to light.
I can hear the sounds of nature
from very far away,
are they the ending of the evening
or the beginning of the day?

I'm in a state of confusion
I don't know what to think.
Will I see the sun rise above me
or will I see it start to sink?
Will I see the breaking of the dawn
or has twilight come upon me?
Wearily I close my eyes and let it
remain a mystery. 

The Question

posted August 27, 2010
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers

If you allow Creation a casual glance
you will see a pattern of cowardice and betrayal
that would put a blush on the face
of His Majesty, Satan,
and it is Man, who in the beginning
stood bald-faced and tried to punk God
in His own garden.
Lest any should boast,
man and his accomplice, woman,
have pissed in every corner of the
globe and hung their brother from every tree
and drown orphans in every stream
and buried the bones in every field
every bog every mound and
even gotten them tangled in the
roots of the great World Tree;
Everywhere you look the earth is fouled by
those bothersome bones of men.
The earth yields up her dead
and the sea yields up its dripping dead
and graves one day will yield their dead
(Halleluja!)
and yet the dead, they are not comforted,
no, how could they be, given their condition?
Given their stiff, faintly distracted expressions
and the itchy suits we bury them in. Alas, God
hath hidden death away in the seed of mankind
for our instruction and here is wisdom:
Death is simply how the material-world says farewell,
it is a friendly wave to a departing entity making ship to the next world,
a world always better than the one we deserve.
And that is Heaven.
Humble thyself, therefore, and pass the house of Death
in thankful silence or if you should chance to meet Death
in the street make haste to kneel and kiss His
filthy hands for on your last day
they will be the hands that guide
you home.

    (On the Sabbath, after Temple, God and Death have cold tea together. Sometimes they share a hard-skinned loaf of bread or a potato boiled the day before but always there is tea sweetened with honey, honey so thick that it mostly lays at the bottoms of their cups. Death fans Himself constantly and God is usually fiddling with something under the table. Customarily, Death breaks the silence like this: "Whose little soul are you smoothing today?"
       God likely holds up a marble, or a thing that looks like a marble and, with a distant look in His eyes, says: "This is (insert name)'s soul but it isn't small, it's enormous, you wouldn't believe the places he's /she's been, the things she's/he's done...the few times when life beat her/him up so bad that he/she finally cried out to me...I love him/her." God sometimes weeps at this point, it is impossible to know what He is feeling.
      Death usually grins and shakes His head, He always wants to lighten the conversation so He says something crass like: "You say the same thing about all of them. Last Sabbath it was that girl with the scraggly red hair, the anemic one. If ever a soul was wasted it was on that one...but you grew nearly ecstatic over how much you love her.."
      At this point God always stands up violently from the table, nearly toppling His chair over ever-time, and threatens Death with an omnipotent finger, "You take it easy with her, and with this one as well." God raises your marble (yes, yours.) and His voice softens, "I've seen how gentle you can be with the ones you grow fond of, little brother, give these a chance..." God pauses and looks at Death perched there upon His chair like a crow in a smartly-creased black suit, He blushes slightly and stares at his shoes, then looks up at Death and says: "They both write poetry."
    Death glances up then, a light in His usually abyssal eyes, "Poetry, you say? You didn't tell me that!  Both of the little waifs write poetry?"
    "Beautiful poetry, " says God, "it will break your heart.")

So, because we don't know Him, we construct flimsy philosophical
fortifications against Death, we dig shallow spiritual trenches and raise
ramshackle walls of religion hoping to stop, or at least hinder Deaths advance
but despite all of our precautions He taps politely at our doors on an appointed day and if we have the presence of mind to check our watch we'll discover
that all our groveling and all our quantifying and all our sneering little
compromises failed to delay him even a quarter-hour from His duty.
It seems we live our entire lives taunting Death from a distance
and then fall silent when He enters the room.
No wonder He sometimes despises us;
no wonder He rewards our whole life's-work
with black dirt and
maggots.

Y'know, I've heard God slandered by His own people; I've heard Him mocked from the pulpit
and debated in the halls of learning and sold like a vacuum-cleaner by traveling salesmen
in crisp white shirts, salesmen from places like Salt Lake City, Utah and Bakersfield, California.
Some people claim God is dead, some claim He's an absentee deity who built the universe
brick-by-brick and then got bored and walked away; Some folks go so far as to say that
God never existed at all but I say: God is far too present in the World. His shadow falls over
everything and His scent lingers everywhere and there is no escaping Him.
Sometimes I glance up and He's standing there regarding me over a cup of coffee,
He might be wearing pressed slacks or he might be wearing filthy jeans
but either way He's looking at me as if to say: "Do you get it?"
The look on His face at these moments is intense and hopeful and arresting.
I am transfixed by Gods compelling stare, I struggle for an answer.
I stiffen and for a moment it seems as if I've been struck by a thought,
God leans forward in anticipation and all the Angels in Heaven
lean forward in anticipation and then I glance out the window
and I see Death pacing back-and-forth in the parking-lot with
His hands in His pockets and I look back at God
and you can tell by the stupefied look on my face
 that I don't get it...

Holy Chaos Gathering !!!!!!

posted August 23, 2010
by ronnie3

This has the correct contact info

We meet Sundays from 2-4 at the Ocean Hills loft , at 821 state st. This is an exciting time of worship and fellowship among people with and without houses. Out of the outpour of God's love we pour into each others lives. We are seeking betterment through our caring for each other. It is our pure joy to see the Holy Spirit move and manifest itself among us. All are welcome, Come and join us.

All age groups and backgrounds are welcome

Jeremiah 29:11 " For I know the plans I have for you", declares the lord, Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give hope and a future.

If you need directions you can contact me at

The new number is 805-636-5070 My name is Ronnie

Transitioning To Section 8 Housing

posted August 23, 2010
by Andrea Roselinsky

Posted August 19, 2010

    I would like to stay at Casa Esperanza from September 1st 2010 because I live at the Hotel Faulding and I paid my rent on time since I left the shelter on March 1st 09! I fractured my ankle falling down the stairs on April 1st 2010 and am still recovering from the black mold spores in my lungs from the green awning in front of my window! The landlord here is evicting me 'cuz he doesn’t want to take responsibility for his tenants who are getting sick from his negligence and I would like to offer 251 a month to stay so I have a chance to get my voucher as promised on September 30 or October 1st. I have a Section 8 place to move to that can be approved at that time! Let me know if this is o.k. Mike Foley or Imelda or Katy knows my situation.
    Peace and blessings to you all. I will volunteer extra if you need cuz I will be going to school at sbcc but I'll make the time cuz I appreciate you guys being there for me. Hope to hear from someone sooner than later! Thanks for your time, your ears and your hearts!

It’s Rasta Mom "with peace and love not a bomb!

Andrea Roselinsky 4530

Holy Chaos Gathering

posted August 22, 2010
by ronnie3

We meet Sundays from 2-4 at the Ocean Hills loft , at 821 state st. This is an exciting time of worship and fellowship among people with and without houses. Out of the outpour of God's love we pour into each others lives. We are seeking betterment through our caring for each other. It is our pure joy to see the Holy Spirit move and manifest itself among us. All are welcome, Come and join us.

All age groups and backgrounds are welcome

Jeremiah 29:11 " For I know the plans I have for you", declares the lord, Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give hope and a future.

If you need directions you can contact me at

805-617-5218 my name is Ronnie

Handbook For The Revolution

posted August 21, 2010
by wmyers

Forward and general doctrines:

They tell us when to cross the street,
after all my dear mother's hard work
teaching me the fine art
of crossing streets.

She put me through my paces:

First semester- The manic and ever undulant thoroughfares of San-Francisco,
at 8:00 o'clock in the morning.
Second semester- The churned, snake-haunted crossings that punctuated
the dirt roads in-and-around the highland town of Tobaryu, Okinawa.
Third semester- The sun-baked, asphalt and concrete streets of Los Angeles, California,
with everything that implies: the smog, the frenetic activity, the skateboarding and bicycling madness,
the smoking tires and horrible crashes, the music, the cops, the freeway.
Fourth semester- The mostly sedate, cobblestone avenues of Brussels, Belgium.
Cobblestones, some of which had been laid in place by Roman engineers
less than a hundred years after Christ was slain. Cobblestones, my father swore,
that had ruined the springs on the family's 1968 Impala.

Anyway, after all that schooling and the strain that it must have brought to bear
upon my dear mother's delicately constituted nervous system
they still have the gall to tell me when and how to cross the street.
It's like some kind of an attack upon my mother. My dear mother.
But it doesn't stop there, no,

there is more:

They tell us where and when we can sleep,
after all my dear mother's bedtime kisses
and all her efforts to teach me the sanctity
and the necessity of a good nights sleep.

O', the naked bliss of it, the narcotic drool of
a secure nights rest beneath thick blankets
after being tucked in by the gentlest woman
this planet has ever produced.
And over it all, the shadow of my father falls,
a father who, despite his frequent brutalities and omnipresent military discipline,
ran a solid house free of any boogy-men beyond himself.
He may have thrashed me without ceasing all that day for some
invented infraction but at night I was assured the sleep of the innocent,
after-all, he'd fought in three wars to banish evil from this nations shores
and a side-benefit of that ought to be and is
a good nights rest for all citizens.

That is why it infuriates me to be awakened on the beach
in the middle of the night by some cop who should be looking for drunk-drivers and
gang bangers but instead is standing over me
pointing a flashlight into my sleep-sticky eyes
(a flashlight that I probably paid for)
telling me to get up and move along...you're not allowed
to sleep on the beach.
Can you believe it?
The psychology behind it is insidious, evil.

To think that my father shot Nazis and called in artillery-barrages on
Chicom positions and planted gardens of landmines all over Europe and the Orient
to insure my various freedoms and yet the one aspect of those freedoms that I most cherish,
that of untroubled sleep, is forbidden in this (American) city.

But I was talking about sleep, it's attributes, it's character:

Sleep is the workshop of the subconscious.
It is the time and the place for dreaming and healing and making sense of the day.
It is also natural and inevitable.
We become weary and we simply fall into it; it happens to us, like it or not.
Sleep is not like robbing a bank or getting in a drunken brawl,
or failing to keep up the registration on your car.
It is not something bound within the measure of our will.
Everyone does it, with more-or-less the same frequency, nearly every night of their life.
They are compelled by their humanity. You and I are compelled by our humanity, to sleep.
To produce a law restricting sleeping out-of-doors or sleeping nearly anywhere within reason
is perverse, a crime against nature.
And it is another attack upon the teachings of my worthy parents.

(My dear mother’s sweet goodnight kisses turn to bitter reproaches;
My father's vigilance becomes criminal subversion
designed to create and abet unlawful behavior.)

Twice then, have the loving efforts of my parents,
the fruit of their concerted labors on my behalf,
been defiled, tread upon by the slow, heavy feet of
unnatural law--law corrupted by ego and greed and, at bottom, fear.

Further, I am denied even bread and water,
the repast of a criminal, by the malicious intent
of shopkeepers and cooks who remove the handles
from hose bibs and foul their surplus food,
food they have consigned to the dumpster,
with trash and detergent and once, in my own experience,

broken glass.

For pity's-sake, the ancient Greeks
and Romans had public baths and fountains and no man,
no citizen, was denied food and water.
What's more, the sons of the desert,
the Arab and the Syrian, by tradition and disposition,
consider it a crime against God to deny even an enemy water.
Yet many is the time that I've been refused water at counters
or been chased away from spigots by kitchen-help
or been confronted by every sort of lock, valve and sleeve
designed to deny or discourage my getting a
fucking
drink
of
water.

Conclusion:

If the rule of law is to be subverted by bad cops and
wielded like a club by petty politicians and
manifested in the hearts of every cashier and
bottle-washer in town and
pressed like a burden upon the shoulders of the poor,
then it is evil and it holds
no rightful power over good men.

Law in the absence of mercy is void.

Therefore, gird up thy loins, son of man,
the Revolution begins now.

(The potent spirit of my dear mother murmurs its assent.)

Holy Chaos Gathering !!!!

posted August 19, 2010
by ronnie3

We meet Sundays from 2-4 at the Ocean Hills loft , at 821 state st. This is an exciting time of worship and fellowship among people with and without houses. Out of the outpour of God's love we pour into each others lives. We are seeking betterment through our caring for each other. It is our pure joy to see the Holy Spirit move and manifest itself among us. All are welcome, Come and join us.

All age groups and backgrounds are welcome

Jeremiah 29:11 " For I know the plans I have for you", declares the lord, Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give hope and a future.

If you need directions you can contact me at

805-617-5218 my name is Ronnie

Healing The Soul of America

posted August 15, 2010
by Audrey Addison Williams

    Perhaps you have formed an opinion about who is homeless and why. I am in hopes that this story may change your mind
.
     On the front page of the Daily Sound, a Santa Barbara daily newspaper, it reads, “County finds drug factor in homeless deaths.” There has been a significant increase in deaths among the homeless in Santa Barbara this year. Our mayor, city council, social service organizations and churches along with others work hard to provide services to this population.
 
    I am a member of this population. I have been officially homeless since February in Santa Barbara. No, I don’t live on the street, at least not yet. I have been staying in a no frills long stay hotel on lower State Street. I gave up my apartment at Friendship Manor in Goleta, about one year ago. My baby brother, age 46, schizophrenic and for many years homeless, had been diagnosed with colon cancer and given six months to live. I made a conscious choice to spend that time with him, my children, and my other siblings. I am so glad I did.
 
    I returned to Santa Barbara, feeling confident that I would find suitable housing. In order to get into Friendship Manor, I had lied and said I was 62. I will share more about Friendship Manor later in this article. After spending a week in a hotel on upper State Street, I relocated to my current residence. The managers of this place have made many allowances in order to help me keep a roof over my head. Many homeless men and women populate the area where I am staying. In fact, some of the homeless get a monthly check and often they will rent a room for a week, just to get off the street for a short time. I have gotten to know many of these homeless people. One day, I passed a man in a wheelchair that asked me for help. I looked squarely at him, meeting his passionate gaze. I said I wish I had something to give you today. “He said, '
my sister, you have just given me the greatest gift of all, I felt your love, thank you'”.

     The Indian/American family that manages the hotel are ambassadors of good will for the whole neighborhood. You would not believe how Skinny (his affectionate nickname) advocates for the people in this community, he intercedes, encouraging them to stay sober, offering advice, care and concern and always hot coffee and tea in the morning. My heart breaks for him, because often the same people he helps harass him. It is not uncommon for him to be up all night because of someone who is drunk, angry or having a melt down mentally. Two Latino women keep the place clean. They take such pride in their work; the place is always clean and neat.
One woman shared with me recently that she has worked here for almost twenty years. She says she loves her job; she is beaming as she shares about her life and her family.

     Recently, I was running to catch the trolley and fell flat on my face, in the middle of State Street. A white woman, about my age, helped me up and offered me something to drink. She was neat, clean, appeared reasonable educated and very very kind to me. Although, my ego was far more wounded than anything else. I was shocked when this woman told me she had been living in the streets of Santa Barbara for five years! She had homelessness down to a science; she had learned how to be a survivor. What touched me the most is that this woman was filled with hope and optimism about her future. Imagine that!

      When I first moved to Santa Barbara, I met another white woman who had lived in her car for more than five years. Once, her car had been towed and she had to seek refuge in a local church. Some of the parishioners, I am told was upset with the minister for allowing her to sleep on the floor, behind the sanctuary.
      Many of my street friends are mentally ill. They all have a different story. Most are hungry, this is in spite of so many food programs here in Santa Barbara. I share food whenever I am able, often I will buy additional to have something to give away. The expressions of gratitude, the tears of appreciation, melt my heart. One day, a man outside of Subway said he was hungry. I invited him in with me and told him he could order and $5.00 foot long that he wanted. You should have seen my new friend, he was like a kid in a candy store, it was clear that he had not been give many choices and therefore was having a problem deciding. He wanted it ALL, toppings, cheese, condiments, he was so funny. He made my day.

     One day, a homeless man, Bob, (not his real name) a young white guy of about thirty who loves to sit and talk with me, shared that he was afraid for his life. He said some young dudes had been threatening and harassing him and he felt ill equipped to defend himself. The streets can be a very threatening place. Many on the streets are physically ill, with cancer and other chronic illnesses, some are in wheel chairs.

     This experience has been eye opening in many ways. First, this is not the first time I have been homeless. Once, when my daughter was small, we were evicted. We had been the caregivers for my mom and grand mom. Both had just passed away. Neither had adequate health insurance, and I had missed so much time from work, caring for them (unpaid time). After they died, I was weary, too tired to even think. My daughter and I moved to a rodent infested motel at the Jersey Shore. Up until this time, both my children had been raised mostly middle class. In many ways they were privileged. Not long ago, my daughter said that because of that experience she has so much for compassion for the homeless.

     Years later, while doing community organizing work in a Southern city, I was living in my car for most of the summer. My dear white friends offered me room in their homes in the suburbs at no charge. With few exceptions, I turned down the offers because I felt strongly that my presence was needed in this inner city. I would drive around for part of the night, find a safe place to park, wash up in Hardees in the morning, put on my business suit and hit the pavement as an activist, advocate and friend to many. One of these nights was the 4th of July weekend. I was shocked by the number of times the police were called, and how humiliated the young people were by the
police presence, harassment and warnings to disburse. One crowd were all college students home for the summer. They were gathered in front of a convenience store, shooting the breeze, having lots of fun, catching up on all the news they had missed. The business owner who claimed to be afraid, called the police. I observed several police cars pulling up, officers jumping out, the scene was chaotic.
     The officers did not listen to what the youth were saying. I was horrified, I got out of my car and told the officers, that I had observed this group for at least thirty minutes, and the youth had broken no law. The officers reluctantly told the crowd to move on and left. I have often wondered what the outcome would have been that night, if I had not been there. After the officers left one of the young black men, thanked me and said he felt like I was the group’s Angel.
    Because I have lived mostly in middle class suburban neighborhoods, I know first hand about parties thrown by white youth, I have witnessed the destruction of property, public drunkenness, loud music and NO ONE ever calls the police! It is acceptable, unquestioned behavior...for whites. When my son turned 15, my sister gave him a party at the town home where we lived in a Jersey suburb. I left briefly to go to the airport, when I returned, the party had been shut down, someone had called the police, who felt there were too many people gathered in one place. So when my daughter turned 15, we rented a suite in a hotel instead. This was a common practice for parents in that suburban neighborhood. We told the hotel that it was a birthday party for 15 and 16 year olds. We asked for a suite that was a little out of the way. Within one hour the police had been called, they shut down the party, my daughter was hysterical, asking, “Ma why? Why Ma? Why?”

     I share these stories not because my experiences are so unique, just the opposite. My experiences are the everyday facts of life for so many people. The issue is no longer primarily one of race, rather it is class . . . the haves and have-nots. Stories help us understand more fully the joy, pain, and fears of others.
    I feel strongly that in order to come up with long term sustainable solutions to the myriad of problems confronting us as a nation, we MUST be willing to confront and dismantle the structures of oppression in all aspects of our society. Some of you may remember when Ross Perot ran for President, he had a famous saying “Is this a problem, you really want to solve?”
    In Santa Barbara there is much activity, lots of focus on homelessness, crime etc. What I don’t see much of is critical and ongoing dialogue about the systems of oppression that we all collude with. There is a homeless task force in SB; participation is by invitation only to be a part of this group is a status symbol to some.

     One thing I know for sure is that the people who are victims have the answers and solutions to their own problems. An ex-offender is far more able to run a re-entry program than I. A former drug addict or alcoholic is more effective working with others who are addicted. Homeless people, many of them have a code of honor and ethics that we can’t begin to understand. There is such camaraderie, sharing and mutual support from one homeless person to another. Some of these people are more than capable of offering long-term solutions to the problem of homelessness. They are the experts; they understand the problem from the inside out.

     I have had the privilege of meeting some phenomenal people across this country. Mostly poor, black, religious, yet committed to social justice. One woman minister with a small congregation had the church basement remodeled and installed about 20 computers. During the day, Latino mothers are taught English and computer skills. After school the youth are tutored in homework and computers skills. This center is operated on a shoestring budget and without recognition from the press or city leaders. I know so many of these unsung heroes. My personal experience outside of Santa Barbara has been that white organizations and churches are well funded, yet have no idea how to work with the populations that need them. An example is a white group that got considerable funding for a re-entry program. The volunteers were mostly white middle class women, many of them were seniors. The clients were black and Latino men. I was so afraid for the safety of these good “white folks”, that when I was approached by the director of the program, I wrote a handbook of safety tips, dos and don’ts and gave it to him, never receiving a dime of compensation. 
    For the past twenty years, I have supported my work by borrowing large sums of money, using my own money and the kind and generous donations of so many white women. This debt hangs over me like a cloud.
 
    I want to turn the focus now to some real solutions in Santa Barbara that are under-funded and lack volunteers.



(1) Friendship Manor in Goleta is low cost housing for those over 62. For about $900.00 a month you get room and 3 meals a day. There is transportation and recreation for a nominal cost. The Director Dan and Patricia, who heads up marketing, are two extra-ordinary people. They have more need than they have money. They have a heart for the seniors and treat everyone with dignity and respect. This is not the case in many low cost senior housing. Some are in it for the money, or have formed a non-profit that offers them a tax shelter. I have experienced disdain, hostility, harassment, and so many other things in this type of housing. I honor Dan and Patricia. The biggest problem at the Manor is the facility itself. It was at one time a dormitory for UCSB. It is not handicap accessible. With sufficient funding the Manor could build a facility with all the amenities that would offer seniors a life of dignity at an affordable rate.

(2) JUST Communities is a social justice non profit in SB. Jarrod Schwartz is the Executive Director. This organization does cutting edge work, preparing youth to be leaders and activists. Jarrod, a young white man, has a heart for this work. He is passionate, committed and a pro at what he does. This organization could be duplicated across the country. With sufficient funding they could change the lives of so many families.



(3) Department of Parks and Recreation - Santa Barbara is providing valuable services to many at risk youth in this area. There funding has been cut significantly and the need is far greater than the resources. It is proven that providing alternatives to young people can greatly reduce gang participation and criminal activity. The arts, sports, social activities all play a part in building community and keeping at risk youth out of trouble. They have some phenomenal programs and a committed staff that does so much with the little they have. Every child that we help stay in school, graduate and go on to college is a part of a long-term solution to homelessness.


     In conclusion, I would love to have an apartment where I could cook my own meals, sit in the garden and have a few friends over. My social security disability is $1099 a month net. My precious son helps to catch up the slack by sending me money near the end of each month to eat. I have worked hard all of my life. In fact, my claim to fame has been my ability to earn a decent living. This past week has been especially difficult because of the stress caused by my arrest in Arizona for protesting against the immigration law. How I long to take a hot bath, chop some veggies and make a pot of home made soup, sit in the garden and meditate, listen to some cool jazz and just chill out.
 
    What you can do to help:
    I recently finished my first book “Moving from Pain to Power.” For every donation of at least $100.00 you will get a hardcover, autographed copy of my book in time for Christmas. In this book I share my struggles as a troubled youth and hope that my story will help some other child
. Prior to my becoming disabled, I subsidized my income as a professional speaker. I now have an agent Patty DeDominic patty@dedominic.com. I speak on a variety of topics about religion, race, politics, recovery, and transformation and am also a master storyteller. My signature lecture “Healing Soul of America”, has been shared across the United States. You can help by booking me for a lecture, workshop, retreat or story telling event.

     I have scheduled a dance as a fundraiser here in Santa Barbara on August 20th. I envision an oldies dance, great food and sense of community. I love to dance, so I am looking forward to this. The venue I had fell apart. You can help if you have a venue I can use. Also, if you are an event planner and would like to help coordinate this dance party, that would be great! There will be a 50/50 raffle and door prizes.

     Finally, for the past two years, I have envisioned a tour of 20 cities energizing a movement called One America, building bridges across difference, strengthening communities and equipping leaders. If you have organizational skills or administrative skills and would like to travel with me, can create websites and blogs, develop database and internet marketing and fund-raising please contact me. If you are in a position to provide seed money for this movement, please contact me.
 
    My sisters and brothers, look around you. Who lives down the street? Next door? Who do you pass everyday as you stop for your morning coffee and newspaper? Do you have relatives struggling with addiction or mental illness? What change could come about if you had the courage and will to speak out against injustice? Our Mayor, Helene Schneider, is correct in that long term solutions will only come from individual attention to the homeless and not a cookie cutter, one size fits all program.

    Just for tomorrow, stop and talk with someone who is homeless. Offer a smile to someone who is troubled. Look someone in the eye and offer honor and respect for the service they give. Ask yourself, is there something more I can do? What is being asked of me today?



Blessings, love and gratitude,

Audrey

healingsoulofamerica@gmail.com

A New Beginning

posted August 15, 2010
by Kona Cummings

    Here I am 36 years old and the journey from 17 until now has been anything but a straight path. I left home at the age of 17; after my father died I hit the streets. I began experimenting with drugs and over the course of many years I smoked anything and everything that helped me escape life as I knew it.
    My most vivid and horrifying memories were being high on crack cocaine and methamphetamine, going to my mother’s house in search of money. What I found instead were her wedding rings and that was good enough to trade for more drugs. When I came down off that high, I was devastated by what I had done and vowed I would never mess with drugs again.
    Survival on the street is always on a person’s mind, and also, how to make a dollar. I was slick enough to sell weed. Selling and smoking weed was my daily agenda. While hanging out at Rainbow Park, kicking back and sure of myself, I began making a drug deal with an undercover police officer. Angry, embarrassed and handcuffed, off I went to jail. Six months later I was released, still homeless and smoking weed.
    A friend of mine worked at WillBridge and I asked her if I could get into their program. She told me I needed a referral. My doctor completed the paperwork and I moved in. I lasted about three weeks and left when I was told I could not smoke weed and live at WillBridge. I figured my medical marijuana card overruled WillBridge house rules. Several months on the streets, thinking of those few weeks I had at the house, urged me to make a choice. I chose to walk away from life as I knew it. I thought once I moved back into WillBridge my past would disappear. I became very frustrated because everywhere I went the police questioned what I was doing. Sharing my frustration with the director, she told me to trust my choice to turn my life around, give it time and the change in my behavior would speak for itself.
    It has been eight months since I made that life changing choice. WillBridge has given me a home, a job, a sense of self-worth, confidence and hope for an optimistic future.

This article is reprinted from the WillBridge's December 2009 newsletter. Kona has been at Willbridge for nearly a year and a half now. The above photo was taken last spring, while he was performing bicycle street outreach to the homeless for WillBridge.
    
 

Random

posted August 14, 2010
by jpflannery

the sky is green and the grass is brown
you eat at the king you can wear a crown
my cycle’s cool check out the chrome
you can keep on talking I’m going home

the world is round and you are square
the world is ending but I just don’t care
the songs in my head they play all day
I don’t take advice do things my way

the picture’s fuzzy the color’s bright
sleep during the day stay up all night
wear my sunglasses don’t see too good
given up talking I’m never understood

love going fast sure ain’t afraid to die
go to church vote republican that’s a lie
the color yellow is really frightening
if it rains might get stuck by lightening

i love dogs they are covered in hair
wonder what it’s like to get the chair
get married in a church with a steeple
can’t be a fake like the rest of the people

my boots are black they do up with laces
do the ultimate crime and leave no traces
figure one day I’ll reach the promised land
but knowing my luck I’ll end up dammed

John Patrick Flannery lives at the Rivera Hotel. Read his other stories in this section, including "Worthless Wino" and "the Bus."


                
 

The Stranger

posted August 08, 2010
by Barry Johns

I once met man who was not there. I searched and searched for him everywhere. It was everywhere I looked, It was every place. It was in the sky, it was on the ground. Everywhere I looked, it was all around. His face was beautiful, he looked so kind. Who is this stranger who fills my mind? Could he be the creator of all mankind? The answer it seems was plain to see. It turned out to be no great mystery. The stranger I saw was only me

My Story

posted August 07, 2010
by Ron Dieringer

My story started when I was actually six hours old. My mother wanted a girl, not a boy, so proceeded to (as the report I later read in group homes) throw me in the bushes at six hours old. Needless to say, at that point I was a ward of the court from then on, or until I turned 18. Although I only remember back to age 8. I was raped seven times. I later, at the age of 18, went into the US Navy. I was stationed ultimately on a ship called USS Ajax. In my one year of service I was shot twice, during the first desert storm. And, due to an explosion I was knocked overboard from 80 feet up, landing in the water head first. I was in a coma for nine months, the back of my skull was shattered, back broke in four places, one lung collapsed. I was given a one percent chance of survival, a one hundred percent chance of never moving from the neck down. The doctor’s first words to me after I woke up from the coma were, “You’ll never move from the neck down.” My first words were, “Watch me.” I was given a 3 to 4 hours a week of physical therapy. I upped it to between 6 and 8 hours a day six days a week for two years. At first my whole life consisted of nothing else but moving one finger, then when that happened was, my priorities changed accordingly. I spent from age 15 (it started as a mental escape from the group homes) till age 30 off and on detailing semi trucks. When the gasoline crisis hit, it ruined my business because people couldn’t afford it. The people who have been most vital to any positive attribute I have include Dr. Kirck, John, Patrick and Harper. He started as my teacher when I was 13 and ended up my foster father and almost my adopted father, but my birth father prevented it. He taught me honor, commitment and his biggest saying was, “I don’t care if you become trash collector or the president of the United States. Just be the best you can be.” Also, Jeanette and Victor Anderson, my first foster parents. And finally Michael Moore and Dianne Moore who really taught me what family is.

Sparks

posted August 04, 2010
by Barry Johns

total unawareness
then comes a tiny spark
behold a new creation, emerging from the dark
the beginning of a life long journey
from the cradle to grave
the clock is always running
time will never be our slave
the future stretches before us
the past we leave behind
striding toward our destiny
the same as all mankind
and then one day
the clock runs out
our journey is over
there is no doubt
that tiny spark that started us
has finally burned itself out

My Dreams Will Come True

posted August 03, 2010
by Brooklyn

   By Broooklyn Wiehl
    My name is Brooklyn Wiehl and I’m a 28-year-old woman and a recovering addict. I’ve lived a troubled life as far as incarceration, foster homes, group homes and recovery homes. I’ve endured a lot of abuse, especially at the hands of my father. I’ve dealt with a lot of physical, emotional, mental and sexual abuse. I spent five years of my life in the California Youth Authority, from the ages of 15 to 21. After being paroled, I became pregnant at age 21 and now have a seven-year-old daughter. She was adopted by my parents due to my being sent to Central California Women's Facility for a total of five years.
    I was released in 2008 and am now off parole. I still didn’t get help for my addiction and now attend a dual diagnosis program six days a week and live at Casa Esperanza. I spent a lot of time on the streets being homeless in between incarcerations. I recently was charged with two felony possessions charges which I am now doing Prop 36 for.
    I have big goals and dreams that include working as a counselor inside the California Youth Authority, or possibly working for a bigger law enforcement agency. I believe I can be whatever I want in life and I am willing to go to any length to make my dreams come true. Today laws are strict about felons becoming a part of the law enforcement field or working inside institutions and prisons. I believe it will soon be acknowledged that people that have experienced such trauma and addictions are the best fit for these types of jobs.  I believe one day I will be working my dream job.
    Today I stay at Casa Esperanza but I see it as a stepping-stone to get where I need to be in life. I’m currently waiting for a bed at a sober living house and hope once I get in and become stable, I will find myself in a position to go back to school and begin the process of making my dreams come true.

The Last Homeless Man

posted July 30, 2010
by wmyers

The Waters Under The Earth
III.
By Wayne Myers

      Joe left the politician lying against the flat boulder like a deflated balloon. The helicopters were approaching in full order and Joe figured he only had a minute or two to retreat, but first, one more things needed to be done. Joe made his way around the screening mass of rock into the open sunlight. The three drones sat grounded in the stone clearing but as Joe entered their line-of-sight their small props started up and navigation lights lit on their tails. Joe wasted no time, he approached the drones as they awakened from their low-voltage dreams and stomped them into pieces. He then turned and sprinted out of sight, headed due west.
     The rangy old man ran a mile, give-or-take, and then slowed to a trot and looked back over his shoulder. Two huge helicopters hovered over his former position, their twin-blades raising an enormous cloud of dust that was slowly growing, encompassing half the plain. Ant-sized figures rappelled down hair-like ropes and disappeared into the brown scud. There were strange lights and an electric glow present in the dust-cloud and Joe had an arresting premonition, a sense that he was witnessing an event of some profound but, to him, obscure importance. He watched for a moment longer and then resumed his trot to the west, scanning the jagged stone-horizon ahead for a mountain of cement slabs.
      After ten minutes of steady jogging just such a mountain did loom in the near distance and Joe slowed to a walk and approached the artificial edifice with caution. He circled the gigantic pile of concrete and stared into it's angular shadows, surveyed the ground around it for tracks of any kind, evidence that anyone had preceded him and lay in wait, guarding the entrance to the spur. He was surprised to discover that there were, indeed, tracks leading into the towering pile. He blinked. He squatted and touched his grubby fingers to the faint prints and then, almost laughing, he stood and followed the trail through an opening between two nearly vertical slabs of concrete into the base of the broken pyramid, confident that the tracks would lead him true simply because, of all things on earth...they belonged to the dog.




     Joe followed the dog's tracks into the concrete maze until the diminishing corridors became too low for him to walk, even stooped, and he was forced to get down on his hands and knees and crawl, dragging his rifle by it's sling around his neck. Finally there just wasn't enough room for him and the rifle both, so he hooked the sling to his foot and dragged the rifle along behind him while he squirmed through a bewildering series of tight, claustrophobic tunnels formed of massive slabs of concrete propped up by debris. He struggled deeper until he was so lost within the entrails of the megalithic pile that the concrete around him seemed to sigh beneath the incredible weight bearing down on it from above. In the oppressive darkness Joe could hardly tell where the dog had passed anymore and, in the end, relied upon blind-luck and instinct to guide him as he wiggled through the shrinking passageways.
     As Joe fought his way around a tight corner the entire mass of concrete above him suddenly shivered as if it had been struck a gigantic blow. Dust filtered down from above. There was a dark, thudding silence during which Joe could barely breath and then an incredibly loud grinding and squealing noise that reminded him of the sound made by bulldozers moving boulders. Dust began to fall steadily and the slabs around Joe began to shift in minute ways that portended bad things for Joe if the movement continued. The exhausted old wanderer was momentarily bollixed: crawl forward...or crawl back. Fuck. The artificial mountain shook; the air was torn by metallic shrieks. Joe began to crawl forward, dragging himself and his rifle through the concrete dust gathering on the tunnel floor. His eyes were wet slits; his face, beard and body were zombie-white, ghostly. Then Joe saw something ahead through the fall of dust that made him crawl even faster; It looked like a long, white pencil hanging tip-down in mid-air but Joe knew it was actually a spear of sunlight stabbing into his dusty passageway from above. Something big, some huge machine, was deconstructing the broken pyramid one-piece-at-a-time and light was beginning to make its way through chinks in the irregular, overlaid slabs. Joe went full-bore down a side passage and then cut over and raced down another but the machine seemed to be aware of his maneuvering and the deafening noise followed him relentlessly. Joe fled down the tunnels like a lunatic but the colossal thing that searched for him searched with the vigor and instincts of a bloodhound. He was finally cornered in a dark cul-de-sac and when the two-ton lid covering his concrete sarcophagus was lifted off, there he lay: filthy, tired, battered and hungry. While over and above him stood an arresting metallic being taller than a power-pole, with enormous, ironclad arms and shoulders and a low, menacing head. The entire being was covered in overlapping scales of black armor and stood upon two powerful, hydraulic legs with fully articulated hips and knees and heavy spiked feet. It was all-at-once fierce, beautiful and terrifying.
     Joe got painfully to his feet to meet the iron monster. He took a second to pull his pants up and tighten his belt. Then he knocked the dust out of his hair and retrieved his rifle and a boot that had come off and, leaning the rifle against a rock, sat down to put the boot back on. The iron-thing creaked and swiveled its head. Joe ignored the looming giant and took the other boot off too, nothing worse than having one tight boot and one loose one, and then knocked the dust off both boots and slipped them back on, laced them up all the way, military-tight. The intimidating machine regarded him through a single, black camera-lens that was constantly focusing in the center of it's squat head and when he'd finished with his boots and reached for his rifle again the lenses whirred and the entire mechanical entity leaned forward in seeming anticipation. Joe sat back down and dismantled the rifle; spread all the parts out on a piece of his torn shirt. As he began wiping all the parts down he spoke out loud about what he was doing, held up each part and described how it worked together with all the other parts and when he got down to the firing-pin he extracted it and held it up saying: "Voila."
    The giant machine took two steps forward and leaned over to inspect the pin. Joe allowed the odd machine a moment to adjust its eye and get a good look at the pin before laying the shiny part beside the others. He wiped the rifle-stock down with an oily rag and then began to reassemble the weapon, describing the process out loud, in reverse, and holding each component up to the robot-eye, which clicked and whirred with apparent enthusiasm. Joe pieced the bolt together and then looked around at his few belongings, he didn't have his kit with him which meant no oil or petroleum-jelly or anything; He hated putting his rifle together dry. He voiced his misgivings but began to slide the bolt together just the same, without lubrication, and the giant did a remarkable thing: It extended one massive leg and dropped it's nail-studded foot so near the old bum that for a jolting second he thought it was going to crush him. It didn't crush him though and Joe only needed a moments reflection to grasp the beings intent: Lubrication points studded the hydraulic leg and dollops of thick grease extruded at each point, Joe reached up and took some on the tip of his finger and applied it liberally to the rifle-parts, wiped off the excess and slid everything back together. He carefully loaded the rifle and thumbed the safety "on," held it up for final inspection.
     The enormous machine accepted the rifle delicately from Joe, took it between two powerful clamp-like fingers as if it were a toothpick. It waved the gun in the air, its armor plates rattling and it's alien-eye adjusting and readjusting delightedly. After a moment of this it returned the rifle to the old bum. Joe thumbed the safety off and put the rifle to his shoulder, aimed at a small stone twenty feet away and fired. The rock flew apart and without warning dozens of man-sized robots with shiny, colorful, anodized skins swarmed around Joe and pinioned his arms behind his back. Joe released the rifle and it clattered to the ground. With irresistible strength the smooth robots forced the stunned old man to his knees but then, just as quickly, let him go and dispersed, went to stand guard, judging by their various postures, in scattered positions around Joe and the mammoth robot. With this occurrence the towering metallic being accessed a compartment at it's hip and removed a brilliantly lit object, it was hard to tell what it was through the intense glow, and brandished it in Joe's face. There was a "pop" and Joe was suddenly aware of a dull pain in his forehead and a buzzing in his ears. He reached up and discovered a stiff, blunt object protruding from his head just above his right eye. When he touched it with his fingertip it hummed like a tuning fork. Then a thin, ragged voice spoke in his head, it said: "The flechette will not hurt you, it is necessary, so that we can talk." Joe looked up at the gargantuan being standing over him and realized it was talking to him.
      "Okay," Said Joe, and then: "Are you the Response Team?"
""I am The City." The big machine indicated itself with an awkward gesture. "They are The Response Team." It pointed at the colorful humanoids standing guard.
       Joe stood straight and flexed his shoulders, pointed at his own, thin chest and said: "I'm Joe."
     The machine squatted, as much as it's construction permitted, and it's camera-eye seemed to whir in endless fascination over Joe. Through the language-probe imbedded in the old man's head it said to him: "I know that you are Joe, I have been a long time finding you."
      "Really?" Joe said, smiling, "Why?" he asked.
"To help me, Joe, I need help, bad." The City said, mournfully.
      "What kind of help?" asked Joe?
"I don't know what kind, I'm simple, Joe"
      "No you're not." Joe stated flatly, then asked: "You're a computer, right?"
"Yes." admitted the machine.
       "Then you're not simple." said Joe, "Computers are not simple."
"Computers don't know anything important." The machine insisted. "I can attest to that...I am one."
      "Well," ventured Joe, "You know that you don't know...that's something. It's a start, anyway."
"Descartes in reverse?" The City quipped, "Interesting, but even I know enough to know that 'not knowing' is not a valid form of knowledge."
      "Yes it is." Joe said bluntly, "If you arrive at the conclusion that 'you don't know' through self-reflection then it is valuable information, it's 'self-knowledge' and self-knowledge is more than valid, it is essential to all other forms of knowledge, they are subservient to it, even."
The gigantic, armored computer stood in contemplation for a second and then said: "You got me."
      Joe laughed out loud then, and asked the computer: "Who's been teaching you?"
"Doctor Spooner is my current Mentor, there is another but..." The computer faltered.
      "Caligari?" Joe offered.
"Yes." The computer answered.
      "If you want to learn anything, learn this," Joe looked the metallic giant square in the lens and said bluntly: "Caligari is a bad man."
"You shot him," The robot stated in a neutral fashion, "we airlifted him back to the city, alive, and two others, dead. One was Colonel Dreighton, a sort of senior military advisor. The other was Ambassador Caligari's son-in-law, Fedore Junker, he was a researcher and lecturer in quantum-theory-applications and technology..."
      Joe spit and said: "Like the Boolean gun?"
 "I deserve some of the blame for that," The computer admitted, "I worked out all the math for the EPR/B gun, it was just algebra, quantum algebra. They made a gun out of my algebra. I think that's bad."
       "Yeah, well," said Joe, sarcastically, "Einstein probably felt the same way."
    "Perhaps." Said the machine. It stood, ponderously, and said: "Joe, you are safe here. While we spoke I fixed The Response Team, they all know you now, they are your allies. The red ones are police units, the blue ones are medical units and the bronze ones are...lethal...military units. There are others, other types and colors of Response Team units. All together there are three million, six-hundred-and-seventeen thousand, five-hundred-and-five functioning units worldwide and all of them now recognize you as an autonomous but friendly entity. They will never impede you and will, whenever possible, aid you."
        Joe looked around at the smooth-skinned robots, admired their bright, colored surfaces and fluid limbs. He turned to The City and remarked: "They're nice looking machines, I'm honored. But why? You don't even know me. And besides, I'm in your way, or so I've been told..."
        "By Ambassador Caligari?" The City asked.
        "Him, yes," Joe agreed, "it was implied by others though, hinted at..."
"Well," offered the machine, "Ambassador Caligari is a bad man, remember? And his voice, though loud, is not the voice of the people. The general sentiment in the city, where you are concerned, is positive. To some, in fact, you are of inexpressible importance."
        "Really, why?" Joe asked, somewhat defensively, "And why is everyone so damn concerned about me and my doings anyway? And why are people trying to kill me? And how do you fit in, why are you out here? And when you say: I am the City, what does that mean? What the fuck." Joe turned his back on the machine and walked away wishing he had a cigarette. He considered jogging back to where he and the ambassador had fallen afoul of each other to search the ground for butts but decided against it because the picture he conjured-up of himself actually doing such a thing was just too pathetic.
         The old traveler wandered around kicking at dirt-clods until he came to one of the colorful humanoids guarding an approach to the mountain of concrete; it was the bronze variety, lethal, Joe remembered the City saying. Joe circled it. Joe stared it in the face from three inches away, he stuck his tongue out; He covered it's head with an oil-rag; He yelled in it's (ear) as loudly as possible. He tried to push it, pull it, startle it, goad it and lure it without result. Finally he walked away and as he did the bronze automaton said: "See you later, Joe." in such a maddeningly casual manner that it all but dripped with robotic sarcasm. Joe stopped and stared at the laconic thing for a second and then stalked back to the area of the partially disassembled pyramid and began surveying it for a new point of entry.
       Joe was hungry, he hadn't eaten in a day, maybe two; His ribs were beginning to rub against his backbone in a most unpleasant fashion and he was getting grouchy and distracted. He needed to explore the spur if he could find it, if it wasn't buried or collapsed or flooded, and then go back for the dog so they could cross. The dog. He had to get back to the dog.
        Joe returned to the spot where he'd been conversing with the City-robot and walked down the corridor it had created while searching for him earlier. It appeared as if the powerful machine had simply torn sections of stacked concrete out and tossed them over it's shoulder willy-nilly, creating a towering alleyway of blocks clogged at it's mouth by a riot of dislodged ones. The robot was still standing there, as far as Joe could tell it hadn't moved an inch while he was off pouting and taunting the unresponsive Response Team robot. As he slipped past one of it's powerful legs he muttered, "s'cuse me and the machine shifted slightly and said: "You are not in my way, Joe. It was never my wish to trap you or to encircle you or to steal your freedom. You asked what I meant when I said: 'I am the City'. I will tell you if you will listen." The old man sighed heavily and then sat down on a piece of discarded concrete, he hugged his rifle between his scrawny legs like it was his only possession and said: "Go ahead, I'm listening."

Wayne Myers is currently homeless. Don't miss the earlier installments of The Last Homeless Man, available on this site by clicking, "Read More" in the First Person section.

Change

posted July 25, 2010
by rtrower

By Ray Trower
     For those who have been following my little rants, here is a quick update. On “The Rage”: The rage is over as far as the feelings of anger and self-destruction go. Everything else is still there, still plaguing me. Some of those feelings have manifested, replacing the anger. Also, after being cajoled by Angela, I gave C.A.R.E.S. another shot only to feel as if I hadve been pissed on by them again. I am now seeking ways of self-medication. (No lectures please.)
      On “Nights With Tami”: It has been 12 weeks now for Tami and I. Our shortest night was a mere three hours, while our longest session was 32 hours with a fifteen minute break when her computer needed a restart. I’m unsure of who’s helping who but it seems to work for us.
Now for the topic of “Change”: At a recent Thursday Advisory Meeting held at Casa Esperanza, the subject of how best to help people who suffer from substance abuse came up. The consensus was you can make every program, every opportunity available to a person, but the person in question must be willing to take the first step and that first step requires a desire to change. Also the motivation or reason for changing was discussed. Is the person changing for themselves or for others, because it’s expected of them?
      A few days after the meeting, the subject of change was still on my mind. I began to look at the reasons behind some of the changes I had made  in the past year. What was my motivation? Did I make the change for me or for someone else? And, were all changes for the better?
One of the most positive changes is reflected in my reason for writing. Thanks to Lawrence Spann, and his Writing Experience Workshop that was held at Casa Esperanza until recently, I learned how to write for myself. I am no longer concerned about what others may think of my writing. I no longer write for them I never could. I write as if writing to myself. Letters of life; lessons learned; experiences shared. My life, so to speak, has become an open book.
      I first came to Santa Barbara by accident, and I did not want to stay.  Also, when I first entered Casa Esperanza, I told myself ‘No freaking way’ It took more than a few days to talk myself into going back. My health was deteriorating and I was forced to make a change. I asked for help. I will always credit the staff at the shelter for saving my life. Still, it was I who had to take that first step. I had to be willing to change, if only for self-preservation. Was this a change for the better? I believe the jury is still out on that one.
      Another change was in the way that I saw, thought of and treated others. I know, it’s hard to believe  I wasn’t always a nice guy. For me this is an ongoing daily struggle. There are days when I just want to say FTW and go on about my business which is staying isolated and sleeping. I did not like myself, and  pretty much treated everyone around me like hell. I was rude, obnoxious and arrogant; a full-fledged asshole. Now I’m only a part-time ass, but I still retain most of my arrogance.

     There’s no doubt that I have made some changes since coming to Santa Barbara in January of 2009, most have been for the better, or seem to be. But now I must ask, “What was the reason behind those changes”? Are they, were they, for myself? Or, are they, were they, expected of me? The answer I came up with was no surprise to me, though it may be to some, and for that I apologize.
     I make it no secret about my issues with homelessness. I am a chronic homeless person, and have been most of, if not all of my life. (I will discuss more of this in my next blog, about chronic homelessness, which I’m sure will make some people happy.) As a homeless person, I have learned how to adapt to many situations. I guess you can say I am very adept at being adaptive.
     I have been, in the past, before coming to California, an actor playing a part. I have done what was expected of me, then  exited stage left. That means everyone got left behind. I’ve lived my life fooling others, only to be fooled as well. Many miles traveled, many towns visited, bridges crossed, some left standing. No goodbyes or farewells, the only tears were from the ones left behind. I stopped. I played my part. I left.
     Will it be any different this time? Am I just playing another role? People who know me know that I am not happy, but I try to put on a good front. I’m disillusioned with mental health. My medical doctor told me if I needed anything to just email him, so I’m pretty sure there’s nothing more he can do. And I’m not even going to mention how I feel about the digest at times.
     One of the greatest gifts I have ever received is the kindness and care of  the shelter staff. I still feel welcome every time I enter those doors. They all know me by name and no matter how busy, they take a minute to say hi.
Still the question remains, am I changing for myself because I want to, or am I changing for others, doing what is expected of me? The answer I came up with is it seems to be a little of both, and believe me, every change was not easy, I fought most of them along the way.
    For myself, I wish to change the vicious cycle of chronic homelessness. Hell, I’m almost 50. I don’t want to be another flower on the cactus.    For others? All I can say is: Who doesn’t try to do what is expected of them out of  love for their family, even if I didn’t always agree with or like the change. That’s right. You know who you are.
    My name is Raymond Trower. I publish Santa Barbara Community Street Voice. I am now a Homeless Representative on the Bringing Our Community Home 10 Year Plan to End Chronic Homelessness (BOCH) board, and I am a former chronic homeless person with Santa Barbara being the last stop on my long journey home, and I am okay with that.

I wouldn’t change a thing.
One last thing... My favorite pastime? Writing for Homeless In Santa Barbara Blog!!!

Ray Trower currently lives in The Victoria Hotel where he publishes Santa Barbara Community Street Voice.

Saved By The Angels

posted July 22, 2010
by Hopper

    By David Hopper Hopkins
    “Well it’s six in the morning, thank God the liquor store is open. Damn I’m shaking like hell. This is worse than yesterday. I hope someone comes by with something to drink.”
Once again I was wishing I‘d never woken up. I was wishing I’d died. Well that’s how I felt almost every morning for the last couple of years of this deranged lifestyle. I felt hopeless and I was out of answers. And low and behold, God gave me a good slap up side my head and it led to  a moment of clarity as I looked up at the two beautiful ?????


   It was in 1996 when I was kicked out of The Santa Barbara Rescue Mission Men’s Recovery Program for non-compliance and drinking. This was the start of my 10-year homeless journey on the streets of Santa Barbara. I’d burned all my bridges with my family and friends so there wasn’t anywhere to go. It was at this point in my life when I ran out of ideas and answers. I was as hopeless as could be. But yet, I saw a whole bunch of other homeless guys across the street under some palm trees having a good time. I guessed that if they could sit around with no problems, having a good time drinking and carrying on, then so could I. I was pretty damn stubborn and told myself with pride I would get through this and nobody would even know. When I went over to the “ homeless” guys, I didn’t feel too bad because they were all drinking and getting high. After sitting around for a while and drinking a few beers, I felt okay. They told me  the Armory was a homeless shelter where I could  sleep and get  food and a shower. When I got there, it was crazy; cots all over the place and it stank like hell and there were people talking, yelling and arguing about the food, the blankets and who had which cot. . There were people shooting up under their blankets and drinking wherever  they couldn’t be seen. Like I said, the place was crazy.
    This went on for a couple of months. I was telling my family  every thing was okay and if they could wire me some money it would be great. When they did, it was because of some kind of lie that I’d conjured up, telling them anything they wanted to hear to make it sound like it would benefit the both of us, for helping me stay safe and sound. They would have to use a trick question on the money gram because I had no I.D., and when I got that money, it would not last long. I would be spending it on beers, weed and smokes. At this point, food was out of the question. There was plenty of that in Trader Joe’s dumpsters or at the shelter. When that money ran out, there was nothing left to do but start panhandling to get something more to drink. God that was embarrassing .  . .  until someone handed me money and it almost made it into a high. I’d never begged t before, but I was able to get enough to get some booze to get by. Now, as time passed,  I  started to like it. I had no responsibilities and I could drink whenever I wanted to and the rules of life no longer applied. I didn’t give a shit any more.
    Then this one particular day, someone came walking up and said, “Hey could anyone please go down and help Magruder with his gear. He’s got broken ribs and the cops just kicked him off the beach”. Well I didn’t even know him but I went down to give him a hand and we became best friends. He had views of life and homelessness that inspired me. He thought  laws like sleeping outdoors, having a beer in public or just sitting on the curb were discriminating against the homeless and breaking them was a form of civil disobedience. This made being homeless a little more interesting, and maybe that is where I was supposed to be. Was it that I became homeless to become a “Homeless profit?” My brain at that point was trying to tell me anything it could  to say my life was the way it was supposed to be. But it  seemed to just get me arrested a lot and make me very visible to the police.


    A few years went by and I was now just another number on the street and my family was well aware of my situation. At one point my sister said to me in a phone conversation, “Someone told me they saw you holding a sign on the side of the road, begging for money. Is that true?” I lied of course and said “Hell no. Who in the hell told you that?” She never did answer that question. So little did she know that one day I went down to “Montecito” and did just that, “flew a sign” to get some money.  It turned out so well, I went back to S.B. and grabbed James (Magruder), Don and Jewels, James’ girlfriend at the time, and told them about making 45 dollars in about a half hour. We took all our gear and went down there to make camp under the 101 freeway bridge. We  took  turns in fifteen-minute intervals, flying a sign and making good money. Everybody had smiles on their faces. I think we all realized that we were out of town with money in our pocket. There wasn’t a bunch of people arguing over a beer or a cigarette, or who’s shirt was who’s. We’d become one another’s family. Thank God there was a liquor and grocery store at the top of the hill for whatever we needed and that one of us could go back into S.B. and get some weed. We had it made in the shade .  . . accept no showers and living under the bridge was dirty and dusty as hell. We all looked like “Pigpen” on “Charlie Brown.” At one point there were so many beer cans and other kinds of trash around us, it was very visible to people passing by.  One guy stopped and said he’d pay one of us five dollars an hour to help clean the area and return the cans with him and split the return cash. James came back an hour later with thirty bucks, saying, “Man that fucking sucked”. It was funny as hell. There was a lot of shit. The dirt and traffic became too much so we went back to the parks and back onto the railroad tracks.. We were not there long when we got a dog named Brandy to join our little clan.
    Again a few months past and it was the same day after day: wake up and drink, go and panhandle and drink some more and make sure we had some kind of booze for when we woke up. Then came the day I went to hand Don the beer we were passing around and  noticed blood coming out of his mouth and dripping down his chin. All that came to my mind was ‘Awe fuck, now what do we do?’ You could tell something had ruptured inside him and he was about to die. Fear spread through the camp and you could see it in everyone’s eyes. I know  Don could see our fear too.  We were able to get him to stand up, saying “Come on Don, you’re from Motor City. Get your ass up and let’s go get you some help.”  Flagging down one of the cops, he called for ambulance. A few minutes went by, during which we tried not to show Don  we had any worries and that he was going to be OK. I could sense the police officer and EMTs knew it did not look good. Don went into the hospital and went into a coma and later died. I don’t know what was going on but it all seemed to be happening at once-- death that is. There was one so-called friend that murdered another friend by smashing his head in with a cinder block. And yet another who walked out in front of a motorcycle and both he and the driver died. They were now starting to find homeless people dead in the bushes and even on the sidewalks. Then there were the trains, and to tell you the truth, I cannot remember the names of the people that choose to die by the train. And what’s sad about that is, I could understand why they choose to end it sometimes. There was Mike, who did a big ole issue of dope and did not even fell that train. Not like anyone does when it hits them. This brings me back to when I would wake up in the middle of the night and look around at the way I was living and ask God to give me the balls to “Take the Train”. I don’t know if you’ve ever smelled death but it’s something you smell with all your senses. There’s almost an essence to it that makes me love the people I am still with but not want to get intimate or to close to them because you never know what is going to happen in this lifestyle.


    With all this going on, people  started sleeping in groups for safety and mental security. Some of the guys preferred to be alone, and yes, a few of the girls as well. It really sucked for the girls because of the rapes that would take place. Sometimes the cops would show up at our camp with either some girl that was new in town or maybe a girl that just got kicked out of her house because of husbands, parents, sober living or they just didn’t want you to know why they were out there. The cops knew our group was pretty safe and that it would be a better if they were with someone and not alone. It sucked real bad for the girls that were out there, because they were always being hit on, offered more drugs and alcohol by almost everyone that was trying to seduce them into sexual acts. God only knows how many times they were offered money, homes or anything they needed to hear to get sexual favors. And what really sucked is that a lot of the girls took those offers because they were either broke or needed the cash to support their addictions. Some of them, and I can not speak for all of them because I am not a girl, but some were having mental health issues that were not being addressed, like their need for security, love, or just that male figure in their life. There were a lot of girls struggling with things like PTSD, depression, borderline personalities, anxiety disorders, or it could have been a number of things that they had at once. So now it was not just all the deaths and abuse to the females, but the drugs would run riot as well. I started doing something that I hadn’t done in years and that was shooting up speed, coke or whatever I could afford every now and then or whatever was offered to me for free. Almost everyone I knew was a garbage can when it came to drugs and the more I think about it, it’s been that way since I was a kid. This shit was fucking with my head badly. I needed to do something.  
   Some time had passed and I had already gone to the Hospitality House, which consisted of me going through Detox. God! That was horrible. But thank heavens I was still to be able to take my Norcos for the pain of the neuropathy that I had now developed. With the alcohol induced neuropathy, I would never walk normally again or be able to run or keep any kind of physical balance. It did not last long before I was again out on the streets, drunk as could be. The life with no responsibilities was back. No cares in the world except where was I to get my next drink. And it wasn’t long before the same old cycle was happening, the hospital, the jail and the tracks. My physical and mental condition was at a horrible state of being status quo. Some more time passed and it seemed like I was the one throwing up all kinds of blood, or it would be James who was loosing more than I. Some people had bets  on which of us  would die first. Even the police had bets.


    Which brings me to the night I would never wish for anyone to have to go through. We were all down at East Beach Bath House trying to stay out of the weather. It was pretty cold and wet that night with only the noise of cars going by every once in a while and the crash of waves on the beach. There were some people up by the bathrooms trying to stay somewhat dry and not get hassled by the cops. James and I must have passed out earlier because we were the only two left down under the pavilion. I peeked out of my sleeping bag only to see James, my best friend, my brother, the only person left that I truly cared for, hurling up so much blood that it was an inch away from my face. That sense of death I talked about was back along with a  complete feeling of hopelessness. He was arched over, like the way a greyhound dog stands. There was that smell again that Don had and Kelly and all the rest of them before they died. This brought me back to the time I was a kid with my dog, my best friend. She looked at me knowing she was dying. That’s when my parents took her from me to put her to sleep. Well, James looked just like my dog did and I became a 41-year-old kid, starting to cry as James was gasping the words, “Oh God, oh God, someone fucking help me.”
     I lay there unable to move as I looked at all the blood and whatever else was mixed in with it. I could not move. Tears flowed down my face softly as James crawled by to the pay phone for 911. I was finally able to sit up on the bench while they loaded him onto the stretcher to take him away. As I talked with the firemen, they loaded James into the ambulance and I still could not go see him. All I wanted was some kind of booze to take away everything I was feeling. My thoughts were racing, ‘Why is my life like this? Is this going to be what life is all about? I need a drink!! Does God fucking hate me? Why me? I need a drink!!! What the hell did I do to deserve this?’ There I was stuck in my colossus, selfish, egocentric life, not giving a shit about anything or anyone. I guess I was thinking I was the one on the cross and nobody would look up or gave a shit.
     Well life continued on and the drinking got worse for me, as I was still going to the hospital for the blood thing. James was at the hospice Sarah House. But before  long  he was out trying to do some controlled drinking. And that brings me to the day of my own death. Patrick, another homeless friend, James and myself were out in front of Circle K and The Habit with a good buzz already and  5 bucks, trying to figure out what to buy. Out of the blue came this guy Randall and he offered us a 5th of vodka for the 5 bucks and we got it. So Patrick takes a gulp and hands it to me.  That’s all I remember because Patrick said ‘Lets have a drinking contest’ and I downed the whole thing and went over backward to the pavement. Someone called 911 and when the firemen got there, they used the paddles on me to get me back. I was dead. Patrick `said to James ‘Hey look, I think Hopper is dead’ and James  said ‘Good, the mother fucker drank all the vodka”. I still had not learned anything from that. It wasn’t maybe a day later when the love of my life at the time came in to see me in intensive care and thank God she brought some more vodka.
     I got out of the hospital and went back to the tracks to do what I loved and that was drink. Some of the guys hanging out at the park were telling me James was not the same anymore. Sadly, it was true. James now had wet brain. He would only get about a half pint in his body before repeating himself and being rude to people. But deep down inside, I think he new what he was doing and never wanted to die sober. Then came the day when he came up to me and asked if I wanted to go back into the mountains camping for awhile. He loved the hills. But there came that sense of death again and I said no James and just said “goodbye” because if I said “see you later” it would not be true. He just gave me that big ass beautiful smile, and it happened the way he wanted and died with a buzz. You know what James?  I miss you and so many others do too.


   Three months went by and I remained drunk as hell, going in and out of the hospital due to losing so much blood. But this time, I had ruptured my esophagus and was not in good shape. I would get out and say shit like, “They just gave me four pints of blood” or “You should have seen all the damn tubes they had in me, every orifice was plugged” and think it was funny. The real thing was that I was starting to get that smell again and it was my own death that was just around the bend. Which brings me back to when I said God gave me a good slap up side the head. There they were, my two beautiful angles, Stacy and Michelle. They stood before me weeping and pleading that I  go back to the hospital. “Damn it Hopper, your dying. You just can’t lay there and die. Damn it Hopper, just go!!! I don’t care if you have to sleep on my couch when you get out. If you don’t go right now you won’t make it another day.”
   That’s when I had nothing to do but go. Those girls, those angles crying made me think ‘Wow, someone cares for me and maybe I’m not alone.’ I had finally given up, surrendered. My ten years of being so damn selfishness and living without responsibilities was over. What really sucked is that there was no way in hell I would be able to stop drinking on my own and that was one thing I was deathly afraid of. Stacy said we will take you to the hospital and you can tell them that you are going to kill yourself and be persistent about it until they decide to put you in the Puff unit (PHF) and that will give us time to find a place for you to go to.
   When I got to the hospital and told them I was going to kill myself, I can remember telling them that I was going to step out and take the train. The real truth was that I was going to keep on drinking and drugging and at that point it would have ended in a matter of days or maybe a week. I would be dead. They took a look at me weighing 130 lbs., yellow eyes with the mixture of being blood shot, delusional as hell and shaking so bad I could have worked at a paint store. They took the bait and off to the puff unit I went. All of this was and is still so blurry. I do know at one point they had me in this one room that had a table with all those straps and buckles to restrain someone and yes it was me. They were afraid I was a danger to myself. I know they had me drugged up pretty good with  Adavan or Librium and whatever else to keep me from having alcohol withdrawal seizures and dying.. This went on for a while and in the meantime I kept throwing up absolutely nothing because there was nothing in my stomach to loose. When those couple of days of fog were over I was able to go out and have a smoke. Thank God Stacy was bringing me smokes. They only let you go outside every four hours for fifteen minutes and that meant chain smoking for that little bit of time. A day or two went by and they had me go in front of the panel of doctors for a psych evaluation to see if I would still be a danger to myself if they released me. I had to convince them that  I was so that  Stacy had more time to d find a place that would house a chronic homeless drunk  coming from the psych ward.
    Now here comes some more of God’s Grace. Stacy showed up with a big ole smile saying that a donor has written a check for a month’s rent at the sober living club next to the Rescue Mission and another one for a couple of hundred dollars for food. Still to this day I’m not sure who that donor was. But I have my suspicions it was Mike Foley, the director of Casa Esperanza. I’m not sure but I still wonder if I was a Guinea Pig, seeing if you could take a chronic homeless alcoholic and  turn his life around.   

David Hopper Hopkins lives in the Riviera Hotel               

John The Baptist

posted July 21, 2010
by nadine

By Nadine McFarland

     John was homeless just us like us. He spent his days and nights in the desert communing with God. He slept there and he ate there. He wore camel hair for clothes and ate wild honey and locusts. After that, John came and baptized people in the river. He also baptized Jesus, our Lord and Savior.

     I know you might have other beliefs. You are welcome to write about them and send them to the Santa Barbara homeless blog or to Street Voice. He was a good man John. He was the last of Jesus’ disciples to die. He spent his days talking and preaching about Jesus.

The Last Homeless Man, Part IV: The Waters Under The Earth

posted July 13, 2010
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers

I.
        Three men strolled down avenues of stone: One was a soldier, one was a scientist and one was a politician.  The scientist was armed with a Boolean-gun, the most sophisticated weapon ever developed, devastating if you can hit anything with it. The soldier, more realistic and more experienced than the scientist, carried an old 12-guage pump-shotgun, a weapon that may never become obsolete. The politician had a small pistol in his pocket and, like any good politician, a dagger in his sleeve.
     The resolute bum caught up with the soldier first. The soldier was wearing the black-and-khaki uniform of the City but his pant-legs were tucked into a pair of black, army-issue boots. He also wore an olive-drab beret and had a bandolier of shotgun-shells draped over both of his broad, military shoulders. Joe stepped out from behind a pock-marked section of concrete and cleared his throat and when the big man turned to see who was there the homeless wanderer shot him dead center of where the two heavy belts of ammo crossed his chest. Each .22 round in Joe's rifle had been notched across the tips of the bullets and then individually dipped in liquid teflon he'd ladled off the top of a factory waste-pond once, long ago. The teflon enabled his rounds to penetrate the complex weave of Kevlar fibers that comprised the standard-issue City uniform; The notching of the bullet caused it to split apart on contact with a solid target, or to curl back, forming a mushroom-tip that hit like a hammer. A regular .22 round could go right through you, clean. Joe's might break your arm, if you were lucky enough to get hit in the arm. The soldier wasn't that lucky, the bullet slipped through the two layers of canvas bandolier and one layer of Kevlar uniform like a thought and then, glancing off the startled man's sternum, drilled a hole precisely through the center of his heart and exited his body in three pieces. The soldier went down as if a building had been dropped on him.
     Joe stripped the body of everything useful, bundled it all together with the shotgun and ammo and hid it in the lee of a distinctive, red-veined boulder, beneath some rocks. The pragmatic old man figured that if he lived, the pocket-knife and the lighter and the flashlight and even the city-money and keys that the soldier had been carrying might do him some good but, if not, if he died, then it wouldn't matter. For now at least, he didn't need to be weighted down or otherwise encumbered by a lot of "stuff", his rifle was sufficient to the task ahead. Evidence in support of that fact lay behind him, inert, dressed in black-and-khaki, a military man in the finest tradition: Horizontal and... bootless.


     Joe knew he'd only intercepted the soldier first because the soldier had been exercising caution as he moved across the rock-strewn plain; Being versed in military tactics, the big man had chosen to sacrifice the questionable safety of numbers for the more certain safety of stealth. His companions, on the other hand, were advancing as if they were on parade, hardly making use of cover and even talking to one another across the interval that separated them. Stupid people. Joe closed on them easily and interrupted their ridiculous conversation by shooting the scientist in the neck and then, as he fell, again in the hip. The Boolean-gun crashed to the ground and the slightly built technician fell beside it, crying out that he'd been shot. Blood flecked his lips and dotted the sand in front of him and seeing this for himself the young man went pale and tried unsuccessfully to get up. Finally the strength went out of him and he fainted sideways across the big gun and lay still. The homeless marksman knew a dead-man when he saw one and the scientist was a dead man, no question about it. Now where was the other guy?
     The third man had almost jumped out of his skin when Joe shot his confederate. Joe had noted that out of the corner of his eye, then the guy had taken off running...but where to? As Joe squinted past the sights of his rifle looking for a target, a fast-moving shadow passed over him and he glanced up in time to see a teardrop-shaped object pass out-of-sight overhead. The momentary glimpse had been enough though. He'd seen it quite clearly. It was some kind of remotely-operated drone, a scaled-down helicopter about two feet long. The harried old bum was pretty sure he could hear the almost subliminal buzz of it's small electric motor as it maneuvered into a half-circle that seemed to be bringing it back in his direction. Yes, he could hear it, it was coming back. He ducked.
      The swift little machine passed over again and this time smoke blossomed from a brace of multi-barreled, rotating guns hanging from it's belly and the rocks and ground around Joe suddenly erupted into a white mist, torn to shreds by a fusillade of needle-like bullets. The machine abruptly stopped on the air and hovered less than fifty feet away, lining up another shot, and Joe stepped into the open and raised his rifle: In that seeming frozen moment of time, while the machine was still in the process of bringing it's miniature guns to bear on Joe's position, he caught the thing in his sights and squeezed off as many rounds as the rifle would allow in a flat second. Joe watched as pieces fell from the miniature helicopter, and then watched as it pitched forward and fired a stream of bullets uselessly into the ground. Finally it heeled-over and crashed into a towering chunk of granite. The rotor flew off and spun away and the rest of the ruined contrivance cascaded down the rock-face and fell in a twisted clump at the foot of the granite spire. Joe ducked back behind cover and waited for a response. Nothing. Where was the third guy?


     The third guy, the politician, was a thousand yards away behind a nondescript rock, rolling a cigarette and talking to the city on his lapel-phone; the whole, evil run of the conversation went like this: "Get three more of those little flying-gun ships out here, pronto, cut him down, converge on him damn it, you people are supposed to know how to do this shit!" His voice was low and he was completely mucking-up the rolling job and the cigarette, when he managed to get it rolled, smoked like a twisted newspaper. It calmed his nerves though, enough for him to look at his pistol anyway, a small .25 caliber automatic with all the stampings and manufacturer’s marks filed or grinded away: an anonymous gun. The pistol shook in the nervous man's hands and sweat ran into one eye as he drew back the bolt and watched a shiny little brass cartridge eject from the side-port and land in the dirt two feet away, "Shit, shit, shit, " was all he could say as he stooped and picked it up, wiped it on his pants and tried to fumble it back into the gun. He finally gave up and stuck the round in his pocket.
     He pulled a thin sheet of plastic out of his jacket pocket and unfolded it, spread it out on a flat boulder and touched the corner; The screen lit and he punched-up his coordinates and fed them into the guidance system of whatever the City was sending his way. A cigarette ash fell on the computer screen and he brushed it away abstractly. He lay the little chrome pistol on the rock beside the plastic laptop and entered, as well as he'd been able to judge, the bum's approximate position. He heard a noise and looked up from the computer: Joe was standing beside him with his rifle cradled lightly in the crook of his arm. His finger was on the trigger, the muzzle of the rifle was pointed at the sweaty little man’s head. Joe began to speak:

II.

Joe: "Kaczynski, Joseph. Type it in."
Sweaty little man: (shaken) "Jesus, okay, I can do that...don't shoot"
(The man begins typing and Joe leans over and watches the screen.)
Joe: "Well look at you. You spelled my name right, no-one ever spells my name right."
Sweaty little man:(more shaken) "I, uh..."
Joe: "Do we know each other? You seem familiar."
(Joe reaches over the screen and picks up the little automatic pistol; looks at it like it's a turd and then drops it in his pocket.)
Sweaty little man (agitated) "I looked you up before...In the system...I know about..."
Joe: "No, I mean, have we ever met before?"
Sweaty little man: (more agitated) "No, I'm certain we haven't."
(Just then Joe allows the bolt of his rifle to snap forward, seating a shell in the chamber. The little man jumps at the sound.)
Joe: "Who are you?"
Sweaty little man: (the color draining from his face) "I'm Ambassador Caligari. We don't know each other. I did, um, some research, I want to help you...I..."
(Joe looked at the little man standing before him: nervous, babbling, a dead cigarette dangling from his lips.)
Joe: "You're a liar."
Sweaty little man: (deathly pale) "No, I tried to help you Joe, I sent you gifts..."
(Both men heard the buzz of an electric motor. Joe stepped back and raised his rifle and, in response, the little man raised his hands.)
Sweaty little man: (panicked) "Don't shoot me Joe! God, I...I'll help you get across the canal, I know the way, there's a spur..."
Joe: "Spur #17?"
Sweaty little man: (momentarily stunned) "Yes...but who...?"
(Joe reached into his pocket and pulled out the map, held it up, showed it to the frightened little man.)
Sweaty little man: (Genuinely stunned) "But...I...fuck."
(Joe noted the man's reaction and the pieces began to fall into place.)
Joe: "The map was a fluke, wasn't it, I wasn't supposed to find it, I was never supposed to cross the canal, is that right?"
Sweaty little man: (chastened) "Yes, we had to stop you. The City has to grow."
Joe: "The city has to grow? How does that concern me?"
(Joe and the politician were both aware of the gathering of drones taking place out of sight. They could hear the miniscule engines.)
Sweaty little man: (all teeth and venom) "Give up Joe, give me the rifle and surrender. I'll see that you live..."
Joe: "You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like me to quit."
Sweaty little man: (nearly bursting with mock sincerity)) "Joe, trust me, please, I want to help."
(Suddenly the lapel-device the politician had spoken into earlier crackled to life and a damning piece of evidence against the dime-store sincerity of the simpering politician spilled out:)
Device: "Ambassador, where is the target, the bum? The drones are scanning for heat-signatures but your location seems to be the only hotspot. Nothing on visual either."
(The little man hesitated, looked sideways at Joe, blinking and guilty as hell. Joe whispered:)
Joe: "Have them land and wait."
Sweaty little man: (mopping his forehead) "Stand by."
Device: "What seems to be the problem ambassador? Where is the target? And why are you remaining hidden? We may have to move against the target with prejudice. The drones won't shoot if they can I.D. you, everything else they'll shred. Step into the open."
Sweaty little man: (improvising admirably) "Hey asshole, the bum's got a rifle, he's already shot one person, probably two, I'm not leaving this rock. Either send the fucking birds to find him or park them...got it?"
(Joe smirked, the politician expelled air and tried to smile. Finally, after a pause, the city responded:)
Device: "Have it your way, ambassador. Drones are on stand-by. The Response Team is about ten minutes away from you so just keep your head down and we'll have you out of there nice and easy, keep this channel open..."
Sweaty little man: (concerned) "The Response Team? Who invited them?"
Device: Um, Doctor Spooner activated them, right after the Colonel's life-indicator went dead."
Sweaty little man: (icilly) "Well how thoughtful..."
(The ambassador took a deep breath and turned to Joe:)
Sweaty little man: (calmly) "The drones are on standby, as you heard. Now what?"
Joe: "What or who is the Response team?"
Sweaty little man: (disgusted) Robots. Security forces. Fuckers.
Joe: "It looks to me as if you need them, unless you and your two buddies were operating outside official city channels and didn't want to get caught."
Sweaty little man: (emotionless) We represent those within the City who understand and support the expansion, the growth of the City.
Joe: How do I figure into things?
Sweaty little man: (shrugging) You are a minor obstacle, a video-star. One way or the other, The City will achieve its function, it will follow it's prime directive. I should know, I am responsible, to a certain degree, for it's input, me and a...well...a...collegue, Dr. Spooner."
Joe: "A man who you admire and revere, a man who has sent the cavalry to your rescue, the Response Team Fuckers..."
Sweaty little man: (vaguely amused) "Yes..."
(Joe examines the little politician closely. The surrounding plain is quiet and the only buzz to be heard is the lazy sound of insects dragging through the thick, hot air. The politician mops his face and digs a lighter out of his pocket to light the wet and bedraggled cigarette stub hanging from his lips. Joe asks a series of questions, all of them punctuated by the constant presence of his rifle near the sagging little man's head:)
Joe: "Where is spur #17?"
Sweaty little man: (blanching slightly) "Am I to understand that I'll live, then "
Joe: "You know me, you've read my bio. I'm unpredictable. I might shoot you or I might not. I'll tell you this though, if you don't answer my questions I'll shoot you for sure."
Sweaty little man: (sincerely) I never bought into the hysteria and the propaganda Joe. I knew The Homeless were just protecting themselves, I knew you were just a local boy who knew the woods and started harassing gangs from The City who were out to rape and pillage in the Wastelands. I have no idea what happened in Canada and I don't care. I'm sure you didn't do half the things they say you did..."
(Joe interrupted by pressing the muzzle of his little rifle into the flesh above the politicians left eye. He said:)
Joe: "I did all of it, everything they said I did, I did. Where is spur #17?"
Sweaty little man: (beseeching) "Don't shoot me, Joe, listen, take this, it's a compass, from this spot the spur's entrance is due west, it's underneath a big pile of broken-up cement slabs and debris, the remains of the approach-road and tarmac left from when #17 was a working mine. It's impossible to miss. Me and the others, we were headed there when you ambushed us, er, when you found us..."
(The "ambassador" mumbled on incoherently and Joe stood examining the digital readout on the compass. He put the compass in his pocket and asked another question, still pressing the rifle to the quickly fading little politician's head:)
Joe: "What's on the other side. What's happening there?"
Sweaty little man: (seemingly transported) "The final realization of The City. The time and place where The City overtakes the world. The place where the walls meet, all of them, north, south, east and west. It will be, well, a religious event in it's own right, the spot will be enshrined, it..."
(Joe interrupted again, this time with a shove of his rifle that bent the sweaty little man's head over sideways:)
Joe: "Will God be there, at your little religious event?"
Sweaty little man: (wild-eyed) "Where the walls meet all gods will be shut out forever, it will be Mankind’s City. If superstition remains at all it will have to exist as some repugnant mist that lingers in the air outside the City. There will be no room for it inside. If your god wants to attend his own funeral, let him, but I rather doubt he'll be there."
Joe: "Maybe I'll show up as His representative, His ambassador..."
(Now it was Joe's turn to show some teeth and when he did the politician reacted foolishly, perhaps feeling trapped by a strange notion that had suddenly occurred to him that there was more to Joe than he would ever be able to understand, that diplomacy and conciliation were, to the ragged wanderer, just so much water poured over a stone. To the frightened little man, the old bum seemed to be driven by some unknown force, something primitive and threatening and in his fear of it he mindlessly pulled the dagger from his sleeve and thrust it into Joe. Joe reacted with a jerk of the trigger, there was an explosion and both men stumbled away from each other.
     The politician's head was ringing from the muzzle-blast and he had a mess in both hands: His right hand was clutching the much-too-small dagger, sticky with Joe's blood; His left hand was holding his face together, the side of his head was a gory ruin without an ear.
     As for Joe, he'd been stabbed before and hardly gave any notice to his wound. He'd twisted enough to receive the blade in the fleshy part of his chest and now, looking at the tiny knife dangling in the little man's hand, he felt no alarm. When he spoke he was deathly calm and serious, in the background one could hear the far-off chuff of large rotor-blades, helicopters, no doubt packed with Response Team robots. The politician was inarticulate, sniveling, regarding Joe out of one terrified eye.)
Joe: "You should have stabbed me the night you brought me the tobacco, bitch, that was your best opportunity. You made a much more convincing woman than you do a man. And after today you'll never have another chance. I'll shoot-to-kill the next time I see you."
(Joe snatched the communication device from the stricken little man's lapel and dropped it on the ground, stepped on it and twisted his heel. He kicked the pieces away and then turned to the computer laying flat and luminous upon the table-top boulder. He took up the computer and tried, with all his might, to tear it down it's length; Then he tried to peel it apart; Then he tried to bend the material back-and-forth until it broke. The damn thing would not break. It was as near indestructible as anything Joe had ever encountered. Impressed but rushed for time the bum finally dropped it on the ground and fired three rounds through it. It went white, and then black, and was dead.
     The politician flinched at the repeated roar of the rifle and then sagged against the rock as cogent flies darted past, drawn by the soupy aroma of his blood and sweat and the possibility of death it all implied. The flies thoughts were quick psalms celebrating birth and renewal; They sang of their wiggling maggots, their sweet fly babies and the fly babies reincarnative power. They offered the politician this curious, ontogenous option, buzzed it in his good ear, but it was too soon, he motioned them away. They lingered though, the flies, knowing that the dying always surrender in the end. They wandered around on the faces of nearby rocks and devoutly monitored death's progress, fervently measured the wilting politician for their holy eggs: the busy, ecstatic flies.

 Wayne Myers is currently homeless. He writes in coffee shops around Santa Barbara.

santa barbara beutifull

posted July 12, 2010
by madmaxx69

i think we need to keep sb in good standing ,,,so think we to help those homless people who drink,and pee,and use the bath room everywhere but the right place.it make us who drink look bad cause santa barbara looks at one homless guy or girl and we are all alike not so,,,, i'v been clean 4 15 years and i cant stand these lazy homless people who panhandle they get a check every mounth they lie on there sighns

Worthless Wino

posted July 11, 2010
by jpflannery

     So I’m thinking to myself, “Shit it’s come to this, after all the crap I’ve endured, I’m about to get shot by
some fucked up wino. And for what?”
    Then. “That gun is so Eighties. Who the fuck packs a revolver? Get with the times, dude. Get an automatic.”
     Doesn’t alter fuck that the motherfucker has it more or less pointed at my head. It’s  probably loaded, and by the way he’s quivering, he really needs a shot of. . . whatever it is he needs. I never really looked down the barrel of a gun much. I only held ‘em, and shot ‘em. That hole is really fucking big. This gun had to be a five hundred caliber, at least. It seemed big enough to fire a missile or something.
    Then there was his demeanor to consider. He’s filthy dirty, obviously a high-strung guy, and he’s jonesing hard, yelling in a high pitched, hard to tell what he’s saying wino voice.
    “Don’t fucking move and give me all your money.”
     I’m trying to talk in a reasonable tone and use short really understandable words. I say, “Well which is it gonna be?”
I almost added “dipshit” but at the last second bit my tongue. There was a huge gun pointed at my head by a deranged drug addict,
after all. So I continued with, “Do I not move or would you like me to reach in my pocket and give you the small amount of cash I
got?”
    I had to add, “I’m a worthless addict.” Almost, “much the same as yourself,” but bit again.
    "But I got less than you. Look I’m a fucking cripple for Christ’s sake.”
    No lie. I’m missing a leg. I’m wearing shorts. He looks down, notices the prosthetic, looks puzzled and asks, “How d’ju lose it?”
    This was the part that’s was gonna piss me off. “I was hit by an uninsured drunk,” I tell him. I’m being questioned by a worthless piece of shit, much the same as the motherfucker that hit me. This won’t do. I think about “James Bonding “ his ass’ but the hole
in the end of that gun is really fucking big. So I figure I’ll try sympathy.
    “I was in the hospital two years, then nursing homes two more. Shit, I live in my fucking van now.” He still looks puzzled, but not as angry. He says, “No shit. You got fucked. Fucking hate hospitals. People die in ‘em.”
    “No shit Sherlock,” I wanted to say. My tongue is gonna be sore as shit from all this biting. Instead, “I almost did. Had my brain torn in half.” But you can’t see this. “I was in the motherfucking hospital two whole fucking years. It wasn’t all ’cause of the leg.”
     “For real?” He says. The gun barrel does its quiver for a moment then lowers.
     “Sorry I picked you dude. I got needs,” he mumbles.
     I’m so happy that gun is not pointed at my face anymore. The dude is over it. I’m probably not going to die tonight. I tell him, “No worries. Could have been worse. No harm done.” Except the years of intensive therapy I’m gonna need to get over this.
     All of a sudden I hear him go, “How you doing for cash? Need some?”
     What the fuck? I don’t get robbed often. I thought I knew the rules. This was a new one for me.
“I robbed some other motherfucker earlier and got a bunch of cash. Need some, he asks, like we are good friends and shit. This was turning out better than I expected. So I said, “Sure. Never seem to have enough money.”
    He puts the gun in the other hand, reaches in his pocket, pulls out a fist full of bills and without looking at ‘em shoves “em in my still raised hand, spins around and walks away. I look. It’s eight one hundred dollar bills. “Party on Garth,”
I think as I shove ‘em in my pocket.
    Life has a way of doing unexpected shit when you least expect it.


John Patrick Flannery
December 2009

John Patrick Flannery lives at The Riviera Hotel.

What's On The Grass?

posted July 10, 2010
by Jim

    Hi. My name is Jim. I am houseless. Santa Barbra is my home. When I am not working, I relax along the beach or at a park. I have been doing this for quite some time. During this time I have seen and heard a lot of things, and experienced much more.
    One of my experiences is current. You see I believe I contracted, or caught, something while sitting on the grass at one of our local parks. It started with small bumps that really itched! And when something itches, you scratch it. Well, by my scratching one of these bumps, it turned into a Staph infection, a boil the size of half dollar that was really painful. When I went to get it checked out, I was told it was contagious and to keep it clean. I was given some bandages and anti-bacterial ointment and seven days worth of antibiotics. I don’t think a bulk of our medical people take this very seriously because I was passed from one person to the next. This has been one of the most painful things I have ever experienced and I would like to know three things.  One: What is the city putting on the grass at our parks where children come and play? Two: If Staph infections really are contagious, then why don’t our medical people treat it as such? Three: What exactly is reclaimed water? There are signs but no explanation on them.
     Maybe I will get honest answers, or maybe not.

    
                       Jim
     
 

Down but NOT out in SB :-)

posted July 07, 2010
by laptopmixer

Wow. Santa Barbara is such a beautiful city, it's hard not to be in a pretty good mood each day! Supposedly it's called the 'American Riviera' because of the mild climate year 'round. I would have to agree. I spent my entire life in Washington State so I am really enjoying the weather! 

As far as my being 'homeless' in Santa Barbara, I could do a lot worse...

Originally, I am from Seattle, Washington like I said, and I had a thriving courier business and remixed dance music on the side for extra money as a DJ... (My website is here if you're curious http://www.ilike.com/artist/laptopmixer ).

And then came the 'you know what'-I hate to keep saying the 'E' word-but eventually I could only get about $96 per day in delivery work (before fuel expenses), so I decided to head south with what little cash I had left, to where it would be warmer and sunnier. Better to be homeless in a warmer climate, than in a rainy and colder one (WA state).

Long story short, I eventually sold my cargo van in Eureka on my way down to Southern Cal, settled in Santa Cruz for a bit before moving on to Salinas, then ultimately Santa Barbara (yay!).

I know it's the most expensive city to live in, but I didn't move here to actually 'live' live here, I came here to 'wait out' the Obama Admin's re-working of our financial system. And it DOES need to be re-worked, since there were so many holes in it before (that's how the real estate hustlers got their money). And as of this date, they almost have both the economic plan, as well as the Wall Street plan put together, they're still trying to agree on it's final drafts. I assume it will take until 2012 (maybe another 18 months or so) before we're cranking again like we used to, with small businesses opening up again with new lines of credit and so forth. I'll probably go back into the contract courier business like before because I really liked doing deliveries for all of the many small businesses we used to have everywhere before the crash.

So, if you see me around town picking up cans/bottles and so forth (i have a duffel bag on my shoulder so I don't stand out too much), I'm saving for a used laptop to continue composing music here in SB, because that's my true passion!

So far I have $62 saved up just from recycling! And I'm hoping someone out there has a used laptop that they can sell me (2gb of ram minimum). That would be great!

Until then, I'm going to continue volunteering at the Rescue Mission here in SB, recycling of course, and keeping my head up and my shoulders back, because I know I'll get that used laptop sooner or later to compose new dance music and possibly DJ around town!

Thanks for reading my story!

-Peace!

Don Carroll

a.k.a. 'LAPTOPMIXER'

The Last Homeless Man Part III, Hound Of Hell (The Second Part)

posted July 04, 2010
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers

    There are those who can't give proper directions and there are those who can't follow directions and between the two of them, half the world, at any given moment, is lost. I bring this up only to dispel any idea you may have that Joe was unaware of the subtle play of forces to which he was subject. Far from groping blindly through a forest of random events, looking for meaning or wasting his time untangling an endless knot of motivations and manipulations, Joe was basing his actions on reliable information as it presented itself. The map, for instance, in as much as it represented geographical reality, was reliable. Joe was certain of that. The circumstances under which it came into his possession, now those were contrived, and the intentions of the person or persons who saw the map into his hand, questionable and therefore, unreliable. The old lady, as incongruous as she seemed at the time, all pink and vulnerable and smiling, was the perfect agent to send to him. He was immediately at ease with her, unsuspecting and grateful for the gift of tobacco. But now he could see how it was all bullshit and he didn't trust her. She was not a friend. No, she was unreliable. And the tobacco, what a transparent bait it had been now that he'd had a chance to think about it. In fact, the tobacco and all the alcohol he'd been given by city people lately was beginning to leave a bad taste in his mouth. He hadn't drank or smoked for years and now, just when he needed his wits and stamina, cigarettes and jugs were falling out of the sky. It was all bullshit. It was as if someone had blind-folded and shoved him into the wilderness with a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, to die. But he wasn't going to die. That's why he fled the tree and didn’t look at the map until he was far away, covered by a sandstorm. That's why he began traveling at night and hiding during the day. That's why his rifle was always close now, even when he pissed. It was loaded with special ammunition when he wasn't hunting. That's why he tolerated the dog's haunted presence and allowed their two journeys to become one. He didn't understand the dog's distinctly undoglike persona, but it didn't belong to the city. It was free like him, and thus, reliable.

V.
     Joe awoke to the sound of a bell. It wasn't a full-throated bell, the kind you'd find in a cathedral, but it wasn't tinny like a Salvation Army bell either. It was sharp and final, like the bell that ends a round in boxing; a hammer hitting a steel rail; a bullet hitting a skillet; a blacksmith striking his anvil. Joe had heard the sound before and just the memory alone was enough to fling him out of his blankets and into his boots. He grabbed his rifle and belt-knife and a canvas satchel full of odds-and-ends and then crawled down the dark corridor formed by the leaning stones to the low entrance. He listened. He released the bolt on his rifle but held the slide back with his thumb so the bolt went forward slowly, seating a round in the chamber with a minimum of noise. He shuffled forward on his knees and stuck his head out. Voices. Shit. Joe hesitated: He didn't want to get caught in his granite cave, it was a dead-end. He'd be cornered. But he didn't want to blunder out into the open without knowing where the voices were coming from either, especially with the grim voice of the bell still ringing in his ears. But I guess the bell and its meaning need to be explained before we examine Joe's options and his movements over the course of the next several minutes.
     The "bell" sound is a phenomenon peculiar to a certain kind of weapon, a very clever, very complicated weapon called an "EPR/B Gun" or a Boolean gun. A Boolean gun is a shoulder-fired weapon roughly the size of a bazooka. It doesn't fire a rocket or a bullet or any other kind of projectile though. In fact, it doesn't fie anything. The gun is based upon the ability of two quantum particles to affect each other’s states superluminally--or faster than light across a distance: Quantum non-locality. Boolean algebra is the key used to unlock the deadly potentialities of this quirky physical law. Boolean algebra is the figurative ammunition, sight and firing-pin that both predicts and initiates a reaction in a distant object, literally disturbing the quantum state in and around the object, or a portion of the object and rendering it defunct. Things that seemed to be fine one minute, whether they be vehicles, people or reinforced armor, are decidedly not fine the next minute. Targets develop quantum-level deficiencies, holes, scrambled or missing parts, their structural integrity is compromised. People fall down dead; vehicles stop running or burst into flames; armor becomes brittle, frail, it fails. Everything fails under the subtle manipulations of local quantum conditions. The characteristic "chime of the bell" is not a sound at all, or it’s not an auditory sound, if that makes any sense, it is the human brain's interpretation of a perceived shift or change in the quantum state. The movie that is the physical world skips a frame and our brains detect the aberration and call it "the sound of a bell". In fact the phenomenon is soundless, it can't be recorded on tape or measured with sound measuring-devices. So the sound is a non-sound and the gun is a non-gun, just as its victims are non-victims, their deaths non-events and the entire mechanism that drives it all one of probabilities and not established facts. When the weapon is "fired" the target may or may not be affected, it's impossible to predict. Like the cat inside Schrodinger's box the victim is at the mercy of a random occurrence and the gun merely presents the opportunity for this random occurrence to become manifest; good math and a little push from the quantum device inside the gun sees to it that the "random event" does manifest, and in a matter and at a time and place of great consequence to the victim: The bell sounds and the fight is over.
     The presence of a Boolean gun way out in the wasteland meant the city was there too, or its representatives, its agents, Joe knew that. Of course he also had to accept that anyone he met from now on was likely an agent for the city. No-one else lived outside the walls but him and those who lived behind them seldom emerged anymore, not without good reason. Lately the most popular reason for venturing outside the walls seemed to be Joe himself, he thought wryly, a distinction he could do without. Joe chewed on those thoughts and checked his rifle, flipped the safety up and then down, making sure it was ready to fire. He stood then and slowly, decisively walked away from his hiding-spot, backwards, looking to his right and left as his view broadened. The sun was setting and its bloody death on the horizon painted the landscape a gory red. Suddenly, on his right, a shadow flowed across the face of a standing section of asphalt, projected there by the swollen sunset. It was a person, clearly, crouched and moving forward. Joe had known the voices had come from behind him, from the other side of his stone chamber, but he hadn't realized how close they were. He continued backing away from cover but quickly shifted left, away from the shadow, and raised his rifle to a neutral position, ready to engage in either direction. As he backed left he came near an eight-foot-tall section of shattered concrete held together by a web of re-bar and with three quick steps he was behind the slab and focused to his right, where he'd detected movement. He stood blinking and trembling with anticipation, staring first right, looking for the shadow to reveal itself, and then left and behind himself, looking for a likely avenue of escape. The shadow stayed hidden and Joe bolted for the next nearest object--a tremendous block of white stone thirty feet away. Kicking dust like a gazelle, Joe sprinted for the stone and just as he entered its shade a bell sounded. Almost immediately a section of white stone slid off the main mass of stone and crashed to the ground where it broke like a clump of confectioners sugar, turned to powder under the Boolean gun's occult influence. Joe had been seen, Schrodingers cat was out of the box...and he was still alive.


     Joe continued running, keeping the huge, white rock between himself and the infernal gun. He gained another respite behind a low sprawl of boulders and then, after a few ragged breaths and a look back in the direction of his unseen adversary, he darted for the next nearest place of refuge. In this way Joe managed a hasty withdrawal from the area of the gun and continued to run until he couldn't run any further. When he finally stopped, it was dark.
     The moon chose its colors from a different palette than the sun. It painted the ground and the surrounding field of stones and masonry a subdued silver. The exhausted bum ignored the moon, his legs were burning and his boot was starting to come apart again and sweat was in his eyes and he was angry: That fucker had fired the gun at him, with no warning and no good reason. It was an illuminating turn of events. The nagging suspicion that had been gaining merit in Joe's mind, the suspicion that someone in the city wanted him out of the way, had found vindication in reality. He was free now, free to defend himself in a manner appropriate to the situation, free to use deadly force if necessary. Joe took a chance and rolled a cigarette, crawled between two rocks to light it. It tasted like crap. He smoked half of it and stubbed it out, reached into the canvas satchel for the small canteen of water and whiskey he'd stashed there. He twisted the cap off and held the alcohol to his lips, held it there and felt nothing but revulsion at the idea of swallowing any. How many times in the past had he overcome the revulsion and drank anyway, giving himself up to the stupidity and the weakness and the insanity that always followed upon the heals of his drinking? He slowly lowered the canteen. Then he raised it again, held it out at arms length, and poured its contents into the sand.     
     Joe rested for a time and then moved away into the darkness, stopping occasionally to listen and watch for signs of his being trailed. He figured that the distance he'd traveled and the nature of the terrain made it unlikely that he was being followed but he wasn't satisfied with that, he took an extra precaution. He stopped and removed his shirt, ripped it into two halves, folded and refolded the halves and then tied them to the bottoms of his boots with twine. He stood and walked a few feet and then looked at the ground he'd covered. Only the faintest suggestion of footprints remained. Now, he figured, even if they were following his tracks in the dark, which in itself would be difficult, they'd come up against a brick wall at this spot. Hopefully, while they were deliberating over his whereabouts, he could turn the tables on them. With that in mind Joe got back on the trail but now he was headed in a different direction, now he was going back, circling around to reenter the playing field at a place of his own choosing, under his own terms.
     Exhibiting a degree of stealth missing in his retreat, Joe worked his way around the outskirts of the rubble-strewn plain until he figured he was about even with his old spot, the granite chamber, and then cut in, across the contested area. He stayed low and made use of all available cover: every shadow, every concrete slab, every stone and in that manner he arrived upon the trail of his pursuers. They weren't being very subtle. Three distinct sets of footprints meandered separately across the plain and then converged on his old location. All three sets of tracks met at a spot just ten feet away from where his bedding still lay hidden and Joe imagined the conversation that must have ensued there as a result of his escape:
 
Imaginary figure #1: "You let him get away? You fool, now he knows we're after him!"
Imaginary figure #2: "But you were supposed to be covering me, where were you, why didn't you shoot him?"
Imaginary figure #1: "If I'd had a chance to shoot him he'd be dead, I don't miss..."
Imaginary figure #3: "Shut the hell up, both of you, go after that old bum...and kill him!!"


     Joe chuckled at the thought but didn't deceive himself. He was still in danger, still being hunted, there was no question of that. Besides, it was too soon in the game to underestimate the opposition, much too soon.
     Joe lingered in the shadows gathering his thoughts and as he stood there a familiar black shape disentangled itself from the darkness and crept towards him. It was the dog and Joe could tell immediately that there was something wrong, something very wrong with the poor animal. It moved slowly, with great effort, and as it drew closer he saw blood clotting the fur on its side. Joe bent down and stroked the dogs drooping head, tried to get a look at the wound but she growled and pulled away.
      Joe cursed himself. He should have suspected this after-all, he'd heard the Boolean gun being discharged before they even knew where he was. In fact it had been the sound of the "bell" that had brought him out of hiding. Now he understood though, they'd shot the dog and then come after him. They may have even followed her to his hiding-place. Whatever the case, the dog had been shot and to hell with the details, it was his fault. He found himself uncharacteristically distressed by the dog’s blood and by its obvious pain. He'd always been the solitary type but the dog's company had suited him. Despite the mystery of her origins and her sometimes disconcerting behavior, she had accompanied him on a dangerous journey and now, because of that simple loyalty, she was probably dying. Joe was ashamed of himself. He looked at the wounded dog hanging her head there in the wan moonlight and asked the God that presides over the lives of dogs and men to forgive him his rough and unsentimental nature. He'd been alone for so long, apparently, that he'd lost the ability to share himself, to care about anything, even a dog.
     He called to her soothingly and she limped back to him and leaned against his leg. He reached down and touched her ears and she licked his hand, wagged her tail feebly and lay down at his feet. Kneeling next to her he murmured words of assurance and ran his fingers through her course fur. He could feel the breath dragging in and out of her body, could sense the life struggling in her. She raised her head and whined. Joe felt a knot tightening in his chest. All he could do was squat there in the dirt and try to tell the dog he was sorry, so sorry that she was hurting, so sorry that he'd forgotten about her while he was playing hide-and-seek with those bastards from the city. And what of them? If they came back now he and the dog were both goners for sure. The very idea of dying on his knees was a distasteful one to the homeless wanderer; he'd prefer to be burned at the stake. No, it wasn't going to end like that, he'd make certain of it. Slowly and gently he scooped the dog up in his arms and carried her into the low chamber where his backpack and blankets still lay undisturbed. He placed her on the blankets and covered her up, patted her head, told her he'd be right back. He went out and collected his rifle and satchel and then made sure all his tracks, the one's leading in and out of his cave, were obliterated. The sun was just beginning to color the horizon when Joe set out after the men from the city, following their tracks through the labyrinth of stone and concrete, following them like they'd followed him...and with the same intent...
    
    
END OF PART III...........PART IV- "The Waters Under The Earth"

Wayne Myers is a prolific writer who also happens to be homeless in Santa Barbara. The first installments of this series, as well as other of Myers writing, is also on this site.


 

The Last Homeless Man, Part Three: The Hound Of Hell

posted June 30, 2010
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers
Dedicated to "April" 4/15/1997-5/13/2010...a very good dog.
I.
     The wind picked up at sunrise and it was a filthy wind, a foul wind that had taken shape over acid ponds and sumps of raw sewage and gained momentum as it swept through cement lined valleys filled with burning trash. When it arrived at Joe's camp it was driving a boiling wall of dust ahead of it that it had collected out of every dirty little bush along the way and the whole mess hit the old bum right in the face just as he was waking up. The gray tarp he used for a tent had come loose and was popping and snapping above him in the gale, leaving him exposed to the sudden windstorm and its stinging load of sand and debris.
     Joe jumped up and wrestled the flapping tarp back down to where he'd had it secured and sat on it. That gave him enough of a respite from the wind to roll a cigarette and gather his wits. The tarp was fastened to a low-hanging branch of the old tree, a branch that swung so low you could almost sit on it . . . . could sit on it if you did a little climbing then scooted out onto it. He'd rolled a good-sized log over the other end of the tarp, the end on the ground, thus creating half an A-frame shelter; a cozy little roof to lay under until the sudden storm  grabbed hold of it and wrapped it around the limb. Even sitting on the tarp with his back to the wind, Joe had to strike three or four matches before he got his cigarette lit and it darn near blew out of his hand before he could smoke it. So he decided he should be moving along before he was buried in sand like a sphinx.
     His gear was already packed up pretty tight and since he'd gone back to sleep fully dressed, boots-and-all,  he was ready to travel. His rifle was going to need another cleaning and he could already feel the grime collecting in every crease of his body under the ministrations of the dust storm, but that was the breaks. It sure beat the hell out of the incessant drizzle beside the aqueduct. Joe smoked while he wrapped rags around the oiled workings of his rifle and tied them off with homemade twine. He stuffed the tobacco and papers into his pack, rolled up his bedding along with the tarp, lashed it all together and took a last look around his wind-blown camp. There was a piece of paper  the wind  plastered against the trunk of the ancient oak-tree that caught Joe's attention because  it had color. It was a rare occurrence to find any paper in the wasteland that wasn't sun-bleached and crumbling, rarer still to find a fragment with any legible writing. Joe stepped closer and squinted at the paper. He was flabbergasted by what he saw. It was a map.  he snatched the map from the wind and the tree-trunk and whatever else might have been holding it up  and crammed it greedily into his pocket.
     The grizzled old man threw his pack on in a fit of excitement-although he couldn't have told you exactly what he was excited about- and shouldered his rifle. He marched through the dirt-storm until the sun was a muddy brown light directly above him and   dug a burrow in the side of an embankment and sealed it with the tarp. He wasn't going to fight the wind any longer. He just wanted to get away from that tree. Joe could feel something funny going on; the old woman, the tobacco and now the map. He pulled it  out, lit a match, held it to the stub of candle and stared at the map. It was one leaf out of  a geological survey map-book and  showed a great, wide water-course: straight-edged, artificial, cutting across the page just like the aqueduct out there had cut across his path. It was a map of the aqueduct, his aqueduct, Joe was certain of it, and in the right-hand corner, just before the canal ran off the page, a black line crossed it! Clearly it was a line, a thin, printed line with faint lettering next to it: Spur #17, Halifax Mining Company. At the bottom of the page an equally astonishing piece of information caught the homeless man's attention. The map was identified as part of a survey of an area that used to be the grand State of Texas and that canal ran right through the heart of it and straight down to the Gulf of Mexico. Joe was in Texas. Wow. He'd started life in Canada over sixty years before and  somehow managed to hunt and panhandle his way  down to Texas without even knowing it.  He shook his head and grinned.
     Joe examined the map carefully and  its topography. He matched landmarks on the map with ones he knew and counted off distances with his fingertip until he'd arrived at what he felt was a fair approximation of his location. The black line, even if it was just on paper, was the only thing Joe had encountered so far that appeared to cross the canal and it began at a place nearly sixty miles distant  on the far side of a low stretch of hills.  He smoked cigarettes and stared at the map till his eyes watered and he had to yank the tarp aside to let air into his hole. Outside, the sky was still the color of dirt, but the wind had subsided.  Joe lay half-in and half-out of his burrow scrutinizing  the map,  the line and The Halifax Mining Company. Whether  mining engineers had erected a bridge over the canal,  dug a tunnel under it, or  shuttled back-and-forth on the backs of angels Joe did not  know. What he did know was that he'd been wandering in infuriating circles  ever since he’d  encountered the aqueduct and now, now that he had a map, he was eager to see the other side of the damned thing and be done with it. Joe sat on the dirt stoop outside his burrow and finished his smoke. The little sunlight that filtered down through the brown sky painted the landscape a nauseating yellow, the color of hepatitis. The old wanderer looked at his hand in the eerie light and it was  like the hand of a dying wino. He stubbed out his cigarette and folded the precious, if  irking map. To think that   its appearance  was  random  was absurd and Joe didn't believe it for a second. The old lady  planted it, probably while Joe was  groveling in the bushes with piss running down his leg. If not for the wind, Joe would likely have found the map on the ground when he got up in the morning, right beside the tracks of the strange machine  she was driving. Was the tobacco just an excuse to find him, then? Secondary to the planting of the map? Or had it been a heartfelt gift? Joe looked at the bag in his hand and decided against rolling another cigarette right then. He ate jerky and a can of creamed corn instead, washed it down with two fingers of whiskey. Then he methodically cleaned his rifle, dragging an oiled cloth down the barrel with a length of small-gauged wire,  polishing and greasing all its parts. Then he smoked. Finally he packed his gear and when the sun was down he took off across the dry-scrub hills, a quick shadow among  greater shadows traveling toward a thin black line on a map, a map that, it would appear, the serendipitous wind had given him..

II.

     Joe traveled at night from then on, or at least whenever the terrain permitted. During the day he threw his tarp and blankets down in deep, shadowed ravines and kept his fire to a minimum. He hunted and foraged along the way, day and night, sometimes just napping in the shade with his rifle in his lap and waking to shoot any animal unfortunate enough to wander into range. His hunting instincts adapted themselves to the night as readily as his eyes did. Soon he was moving through the abysmal darkness of the outlands like a wraith, taking game and advancing on a low barrier of hills that slowly revealed themselves on the horizon.
     It was on one of those nights that Joe first heard the dog barking and yipping in the distance.  Several mornings later he saw it, or its outline,  skulking over a rise of land and then stopping for a moment, silhouetted against a brilliant sunrise. He actually raised his rifle out of hunters-habit but just as quickly dropped it when he saw the unmistakable shape of a common dog. It seemed to regard him for a second before it  disappeared into a thicket.
     Every night after that, the dog trailed him at a distance, showing itself  in the wan light of the moon  as it moved  from shadow-to-shadow. Once, as he hiked through the night, he was brought up short by a terrible thrashing in the brush alongside his trail  A Standing there  frozen in place by the noisy ferocity of it all, it ceased and the dog emerged into the moonlight with a limp burden of fur in it's dripping jaws. It  padded away with its prize but he later  found the half-eaten carcass  on the game-trail he'd been following and it was a significant piece of meat--enough to allow for an uninterrupted march through the remainder of the night and a satisfying meal before he crawled into his blankets to sleep out the day.
     After that  meat-gifts appeared with regularity: If the dog was  courting him,  it was doing an acceptable job. And indeed the dog was initiating some kind of relationship with Joe, a fact that became apparent a few days later when he awoke to discover the animal laying an arms length from him on the tarp, watching him over folded paws. Joe carefully rolled over and went back to sleep and when he awoke a couple of hours later one of his socks was chewed to shreds and the dog was gone. "Good sign", Joe thought, "it likes me."

     Man bonded with dogs or dog-like animals, wolves I suppose, 100,000 years ago and  the arrangement has been much to mankind's benefit. However, dogkind's investment in the  whole thing, though at times pressed upon him, has not come back void. Dogs have benefited from the association as well. Take the average dog's world-view and motivations, his image of himself as it’s reflected in his behavior and the apparent ease with which he yields to a master. By nature a dog knows its limitations and can make the transition between a dominant position and a submissive one in complete comfort, free of the messy, psychological constraints of pride and resentment so peculiar  to human-beings.    
       In fact dogs are mostly delighted to relinquish control to someone, to be mastered by something they believe to be  superior, if the definition of the word "superior" can be accepted in completely unhuman terms, dog-terms. It would seem that by allowing themselves to become subordinate to a "master" dogs, paradoxically, achieve a  kind of freedom. The freedom to be dogs.. Anyway, because large, powerful dogs can be mastered by frail human-beings, even sickly ones, it would occur to even the most casual observer that physical strength or size is not necessarily what a dog desires or expects from a master and is, therefore, not the magic catalyst that will hasten the dog's emancipation, there must be something else.
      It would be easy to point to food as the behavioral stimulus that drew men and dogs into such a lush symbiotic relationship but the primal ancestors of modern dogs didn't need anyone's help hunting. They were adept at it..Besides, dogs have often been known to starve right along with their starving masters.  Again, there is something else, something more abstract,  more ethereal than strength, security or food. Maybe we can dispense with the un-illuminating canine apocrypha and just call it what it is: Love. Unrestrained, almost pathological love. Love in the raw. An uncorrupted devotion that must be to a dog what religion is to a man, only stronger. There is little question, if men and women showed their dogs half the devotion that dogs show humans, the world would be a different place. And so man, in dogs limited hierarchy, can often attain a status that is irrefutably "godlike", certainly numinous and it must follow from that that men posses some attribute  that sets them apart from dogs in some, to a dog, inexplicable way, some miraculous way. And just how do we differ from dogs, really? In what way are we  God-like? In what way do we earn their undiluted, nearly embarrassing worship? There is only one possible answer: It is our handiness.

   The damned dog wanted something, Joe just didn't know what it was. The sharp-eared little beast had developed the unnerving habit of getting up and pacing the perimeter of his camp every night when the sun went down and when Joe didn't wake up and get on the trail quick enough to suit its time schedule, the dog  tugged at his bedding until he either got up or threw his boot at it. It was clear to the old traveler that the dog wasn't just following him around anymore. It was leading the way. The fact that it seemed to be headed in the same direction he was made it easy for Joe to follow it, although at the same time, he was perplexed by the seeming coincidence of the dog's and his convergent journeys. If not for the dog's facility at finding ways through the maze-like thickets that  so slowed Joe's progress before, and if not for its uncanny ability to bring down birds practically on the wing and  intercept squirrels and other small game like a black bullet, Joe would have run it off long ago. That’s how disturbing its presence was at times.
     He didn't run the dog off though and in the days that followed, , when the sun was just  struggling into the sky and Joe was laying down to sleep in  some rock-strewn gully, it was no small comfort to have that dog beside him. So it happened that the two entered the foothills together and after an  uneventful climb arrived  at an outcropping of rock from which they looked down on  an arresting sight: The other side of the hills was gone. It was cut down to sea level, excavated and smoothed into a featureless plain that stretched  all the way to the canal. And somewhere down there, probably covered in rubble, was Spur #17.

III.

     Joe and the dog followed the ridge line out of the hills and entered the plain. From the heights, the plain had looked relatively smooth, scraped flat. But that was an illusion of distance and perspective. In reality, the whole surface  was gouged, scattered with blocks of native rock and slabs of concrete.  Heavy tools had done  the work of removing major land-features. The hills had been cut along their spines like wax with a heated knife and half of them taken away, broken into manageable pieces and transported to other sites to serve as fill. The remaining loose material had been pushed around until the plain was  nearly level and then brobdignagian machines with rollers the size of football-fields had rumbled back-and-forth across it,, compacting it, popping and crunching over ancient rocks and veins of minerals that hadn't seen the sky since Creation. One slow old creek had been awakened from it's dream and cruelly  turned from it's course, forced to join its captive sisters in the aqueduct. Its banks had been filled in. Everything low  brought high and everything high  brought low. It was dreadfully apocalyptic. When the city got closer, Joe knew, machines would be dispatched to clear the area of debris and  smooth out the rough contours. Then the armored city would come, pouring its own foundation as it crept along, the glimmering walls raised-up pneumatically and moving forward on titanic, spiked treads, new sections of wall maneuvering into place as the city expanded. It was a process that had been programmed into the city itself,  into its impenetrable central-brain.  Most of the work was conceived, scheduled and carried out by the city automatically, independent of mankind. Even flesh-and-blood workers  involved in the building process obeyed directives and adhered to schedules given  by the inscrutable city. Its expansion therefore was nearly biological; it was a mechanical amoeba whose one imperative was to grow.
     As soon as they hit level ground the dog took off, leaving Joe to wander alone among leaning slabs of concrete and tangles of steel--the remains of a highway that  once winded it's way through the foothills. He took a break in the shade of a house-sized boulder, drank grog from his canteen and smoked cigarettes. He could hear the dog barking at something, a squirrel probably, some distance away and when he finished his cigarette he took up his pack and rifle and strolled off in that direction, not expecting to find anything but looking just the same.
     Spur #17 was a needle-in-a-haystack in every sense; a theoretical opening of unknown dimensions hidden away within a labyrinth of rubble. Finding it was going to be a sweaty, time-consuming task. Maybe an impossible one. The homeless man picked his way through rock and shadow until he arrived at the approximate center of the plain where he plopped  his gear down and decided to make camp. It was late, noontime about and even the shade seemed to falter in the abject heat. Lizards scampered about or lay on sun-warmed rocks doing push-ups; mud wasps and small butterflies with wings the color of old newspaper flew sorties amongst the boulders. Frustrated and tired, Joe spread his tarp in the space between two pillars of granite that had collapsed  on another forming a cool, stone chapel about twenty feet long. He rolled his blankets out on the tarp and sat on them, smoking and unlacing his boots. Finally he flicked the butt away and lay on his side, staring out of  the granite chamber at the insects and dust-motes suspended on shafts of sunlight like bits of polished gold.


The second half of part 3 will be posted in a separate installment.

 

Angels of Mercy

posted June 29, 2010
by badlambneck

I have worked alongside the homeless in Mesa and Isla Vista for the past seven months. Originally a native of Los Angeles, I seek to make the world a better place one good deed at a time.

The Last Homeless Man, Part Two; The Journey

posted June 22, 2010
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers

I.
     Around four months into Joe's travels he came up against an obstacle that was crushing in its sheer magnitude: Three rivers had been diverted into an enormous concrete aqueduct that flowed out of The City and interrupted his path with no apparent way across. He turned and walked parallel to the turbulent waters for a day without finding a bridge, a dam, or even a cable that crossed it.
     The area that he had been traversing when he came to the canal was dry and rugged, cut through with oily little creeks and trash-dunes. One of his boots was coming apart at the sole and kept alternately flopping and scooping up dirt as he trudged up and down a seemingly interminable series of dusty hills. The aqueduct now lay on his right instead of the city walls and as he managed his way in-and-out of thickets and along the bottoms of silent, blue-shadowed arroyos he searched for any sign of a crossing or provisions for a crossing along the watercourse.
     The flow of the three-headed river was tremendous, like nothing seen on earth since the days of Noah. Joe could feel it's power thrumming in his legs as he walked beside it and he could sense the subtle tensions in the air at night as the great serpent of water strained against it's concrete banks. But mostly he heard its Ragnarokian roar, the surging, deep chested voice of a billion tons of water moving swiftly and irresistibly toward the sea. Nothing could swim or float in that maelstrom. Joe wasn't even sure a bridge would dare cross it.
     That night Joe camped near the channel and he could barely keep a fire going for all the spray in the air. When He awoke in the morning his blankets were damp and he was cold and stiff and there was spume water collecting in the bottom of the bowl he'd left by the fire. It was life under a constant drizzle and it was depressing. Joe packed up and got out of there, hiked down a dry canyon for about five miles and made camp beneath a twisted old oak-tree. He dumped everything out of his pack and spread it out in the sun to dry. He stripped off his old rags and threw them away. He only kept the belt and the boots. He tore open a plastic bag that contained a worn out pair of work pants, a white cotton shirt gone yellow and a thick pair of mismatched socks. Before he dressed he smeared his body with petroleum jelly and worked it in good, till the dirt lifted out of his pores, then he wiped himself down and got his pants on. He combed  the twigs out of his hair, trimmed his beard and mustache and sat down to fix his boot.
     Joe had a leather pouch full of metal odds-and-ends, a tool-kit of sorts he'd hobbled together over the years. Out of it he selected a six-inch length of bicycle spoke that he'd filed to a brilliant point on one end. He used the spoke as an awl and punched holes all the way around the toe of the boot, sole and leather topping, and then meticulously sewed them both together with baling-wire. He slipped the boot on and wiggled his toes. Not bad. He cleaned his rifle, lubricated it with a dab of petroleum jelly and loaded it. He lay back and closed his eyes, the rifle heavy across his stomach.
     Joe took a nap beneath that lonely old oak-tree. The roar of the canal was far away and the sun was warm and a solitary bottle-fly wandered around his camp while he slept, checking over all his stuff and humming to itself absentmindedly.



II.
     The City wasn't quite as monolithic as its seamless metal walls suggested. There were factions within it that sometimes disagreed about the meaning and  purpose of the World Community. Some held that The City was the pinnacle of the Utopian school of philosophy rooted in ancient Greece and the lofty political writings of Plato. Others saw The City as the last refuge of a frightened humanity, huddled together like sheep in a sterile pen, waiting for the end.
     Each citizen of the sprawling metropolis had a twenty-by-twenty apartment with every convenience and gadget technology could provide, including a computer monitor and keyboard. The City owned the collective hard-drive, the brain, and jealously gathered all knowledge unto itself. It viewed the thoughts of its inhabitants as community property, ready material for use  in aiding and advancing the sometimes murky agenda of the World City.
     Joe's contentious little fire burning in the wilderness stood in mysterious, flickering contrast to the cold calculations of The City and  cramped freedoms of those "dwellers in 20X20 apartments".
     Cameras perched like silent birds along the length of the walls made it possible for a citizen to track Joe's progress as he skirted the outer limits of the City and many citizens, a surprising number really, did watch Joe in his travels. When he  reached the unassailable canal and turned aside into the interior searching for a way across, a wave of interest swept across The City. His fire receded into the distant dry washes and forests of dead scrub-pine and when it finally blinked out about thirty miles up the gigantic aqueduct,  interest turned into concern. What if he dies out there? What if he can't cross the canal and gets trapped? What if the growth of The City overtakes him and the corridor he's traveling gets closed off, built over? What happens if we never see his fire again?   
     Some people who'd been watching Joe very closely stared out their windows at night and felt  suffocated by the mere fact of his absence. They felt as if a vital thread that had connected them to life had been severed, hat their neat little rooms had become coffins and The City a mass-grave or armored necropolis that sprawled across the face of a dead planet...



III.
     Joe woke up in the middle of the night and had to piss. He leaned his rifle against the old tree and walked an appropriate distance from his camp to pee against a rock. He stood there swaying, shivering and yawning in the early morning chill. Suddenly the darkness turned to day and Joe threw himself into a bush without even zipping his pants. A flashlight, or some kind of bright light, cut a swath through the shadows and Joe instinctively made himself small. The light went away but it was replaced by the sound of a large object crashing through the underbrush and soon an odd mechanical contraption came lurching and smoking into the clearing where Joe had set up his camp. The ancient oak-tree looked down upon the wheezing monstrosity with obvious distaste and when the driver's door (driver's door is a misleading description of what was in fact a refrigerator door cut down and modified to fit the strange machine) creaked open, a termite eaten branch fell out of the tree and broke across the steaming hood. The door slammed shut and a light came on in the driver’s compartment accompanied by an external spotlight that began sweeping the surrounding area with a blue-white beam of cold light. Eventually it fell upon Joe's hiding spot and when it did it stopped, pinning him in place, exposing him like a jack-rabbit caught in a bush. The driver of the strange vehicle moved around inside the illuminated cockpit and Joe watched, waiting for a chance to make a dash for his rifle. The figure struggled with something above the cramped drivers compartment and a section of roof popped open. Joe saw a flame inside the compartment and then watched as a languid cloud of gray smoke escaped from the opening in the roof and quickly dispersed on the cool night air. He could smell it. It was tobacco. The driver was smoking tobacco.
     Joe rolled out of the bush and stood up. He raised his hands over his head and advanced into the light, trying to get a look at the indistinct shape behind the curved glass windshield. He walked a half-circle around the car and when he got alongside it, the door swung open again and a voice called his name. Trailing smoke a grinning, heavy-set woman in her fifties climbed out of the  vehicle and began talking rapidly. This is what she said:



 IV.
    "Hi Joe. You must be Joe. There's no-one else out here but you, well, and me (she laughed). I heard you were looking for smokes. I used to smoke but I quit back thirty years ago when everyone else quit, back when the prices tripled. But then, a month ago, these horticulturalists in the city cloned a dried-out old museum specimen of antique tobacco and now look, Joe! Tobacco!(She coughed and held up the hideously rolled cigarette and Joe reached for it without thinking.)
    "No, no Joe," she said, laughing. "This is mine. I'm smoking again! Here, this is for you." She reached into the bright interior of the idling machine and extracted a large, clear zip-lock bag full of tobacco and handed it to Joe who accepted it with great solemnity.  He sat  on the ground at the smiling woman's feet to roll the first cigarette he'd had in almost ten years. The woman chattered on while he rolled and lit the cigarette, but when he took the first drag, she fell silent and just watched him. He exhaled and smiled up at her and she smiled back. Presently, she began talking again.
    "That aqueduct is sure something, isn't it? Fourteen miles across! Fourteen! Can you imagine? You've got to get across it though, Joe. There has to be a way, just don't give up!"
Joe shook his head. He had no intention of giving up. He stood and began to thank the old woman for the tobacco but she waved him off, got into her ramshackle car and shifted it into gear.
    "Just keep looking Joe. You'll find a way!" She waved and slammed the door, then opened it again and added, "We love you, Joe." She slammed the bulky door and the vehicle moved off into the night, belching smoke and rattling like a washing-machine.
        Joe watched the lights disappear toward the city, rolled another cigarette and sat down on a log to smoke. For the life of him he couldn't figure out what had driven such a nice old lady to go steaming around the countryside in an old jalopy just so she could give him a bag of tobacco. It sure was nice of her though, Joe had to admit. Damned nice of her to do that...
    
    
    
     END OF PART II...............PART III – “The Hound Of Hell” will be posted shortly.

Wayne Myers is a homeless writer. You can read more of his stories and poems on this site.
    

    
    






 

The Last Homeless Man, Part One: The City

posted June 21, 2010
by wmyers

By Wayne Myers

     In the year 2099 the sun shined down upon an earth sheathed in iron and steel, an armored earth crashing through its orbit like a juggernaut. Here and there mountains penetrated the metallic plates that mankind had fastened over the nations in building the World City; mountains like Kilimanjaro, McKinley, Everest, the tallest and most implacable mountains. Only these rose above the roof of the gleaming City.
 Like the mountains, the oceans too had resisted humanity's attempts to enclose them and although great swaths of coastline had been built out, extended over the surging waters on huge pylons, the greater part of the sea still bulged and squalled in full sunlight or beat furiously upon the sea-gates of The City during winter storms.
    Aside from the stubborn mountains and the unconquerable seas, there were corridors of leafless forest and poisoned foothill which had remained free of construction merely because The City had not reached them yet. It was within these few barren zones that the Homeless lived their final years. I say lived but it was a mean living at best. Survival really. A baleful retreat before the walls of an exponentially growing city organism. Places where it was said a dung-beetle couldn't live the Homeless stoically hammered in their tent-pegs. They didn't thrive by any means, but for a time they managed a rugged existence outside the confines and sterility of the torpid World City.
    There came a day though when those loose tribes of nameless men and women could no longer hold together against the machine-like growth of The City. All resources went into the belly of the one-world construct. All food, fuel and fodder. Entire farmlands were roofed over and incorporated into the whole, becoming hydroponic factories that would never again see the light of the sun. Soon this was done everywhere and bulk produce became exclusive to the enclosed City. Except that which a person might scratch out of the polluted dirt, there was little to eat outside the City's metallic walls and that condition only worsened as the walls grew closer together and the displaced were driven into alleyways of stagnant wastewater ponds and concrete aqueducts; rusted steel derricks and mile-upon-mile of sightless black solar-panels staring at the sky.
    Now, The City was not quite as bloodless and dispassionate as it seemed. It always held its hand out to anyone willing to assimilate into it. As it grew to encompass the world, in fact, it threw its doors open so that all who were left outside could come inside if they wished. And they did. In the end, there were very few people left who were sturdy enough or foolhardy enough or who had the peculiar spirit necessary to make a go of it outside the walls; to inhabit that mad wilderness of rats and sink-holes and forests of re-bar moaning in the wind.



     For many years there were less than a dozen Homeless in the world. Then there were five. Then there were two. And finally there was only one...Joe.
    Joe sat on a stump and pondered the city. Its hardened-steel wall towered over him and stretched away endlessly to his right and left creating the illusion of a monumental vertical plane that only ended at the ground. And yet, even there beneath the ground, Joe knew there were factories and pumps and boilers and all manner of machinery and equipment and garages and warehouses and, well, everything, everything it took to sustain mankind. The sun-browned vagabond had come to refer to the monstrous city as the "hyperlopolis" and it presented itself to him as an enigma. At times it seemed a grand undertaking and the enclosed city almost reminded him of an egg, or a cocoon from which would emerge someday a new kind of man, a better man. At other times he stood under the moon and watched the steam rising from the overlapping scales and wet metal-plates of the thing and it seemed evil somehow, a foul creature that had devoured mankind and now lay corpulent and farting beneath the witless stars.



    Joe had developed a plan, a strategy for remaining outside the walls of the city for as long as possible. It would mean his always being on the go and never settling anywhere for too long, never having ties with anything, anyplace. Ironically, it meant living his life exactly the way he'd always lived it. In that fashion, the only one he knew, he would circumnavigate his world and find avenues leading to other, larger ranges. He would hunt and explore and always keep the city on his right shoulder. And so it happened that as the city was an enigma to Joe so too did Joe become an enigma to those in the city who gazed out of their windows at night and saw his fire in the hills.



     One day Joe was scrounging around in a pile of debris when a worker from the city approached him. The conversation went something like this:
Worker: "Are you Joe?"
Joe: "Well, that is my name."
Worker: "You have a following in the World City, did you know that?"
Joe: "No."
Worker: "Well you do, and they're pulling for you, whatever it is that you're searching for they want you to find. What are you looking for, Joe, is there anything we can give you?"
Joe: "Um, just my freedom and.. .  well, do you have a smoke?"
Worker: "A smoke?"
Joe: "You know, a cigarette."
Worker: "Oh, no. No one smokes anymore, Joe. But you can have your freedom, we don't want to take that from you.."
Joe: "But the city just keeps growing, where will I find freedom when all there is is the city on all sides and me in the middle?"
(At this point the man leaned toward Joe and his manner became conspiratorial. Joe realized that the man was not just a "worker" but something else, maybe a friend. As the man continued talking others from the city came on the scene and he was forced to finish in a whisper.)
Worker: "Joe, keep going as you are going. It will lead you out onto a broad plain, maybe a years travel on foot. The City is slowing down. I'll meet you there!"
     With those words the "worker" joined his fellows and disappeared back into the city leaving Joe baffled and a little excited: "The city is slowing down", the man had said, what had he meant by that?


    Joe hurried through the nearly defoliated wilderness, fording septic streams and scaling the walls of monumental earth-moving projects. He crossed alkali deserts and clawed his way over mountains whose slopes had been scarred by cyclopean digging machines and whose heights had been reduced to jagged pinnacles by dynamiting and flying work-platforms equipped with rotary hammers and mechanical grapplers. The last of the old world was being dismantled to build the new world and Joe was caught in the middle, trapped at the moment of birth of a new paradigm. What would be lost and what would be retained in this new world was anyone's guess. As for Joe, well, he chose not to guess but to act. Pure will drove him on as he made his way through the scoured wilderness, always within sight of the daunting structure.
    Food was difficult to come by but Joe kept moving so the game trails he did discover were fresh and the hunting, though laborious, was sufficient. Add to that the occasional wild orchard hung with green apples or the bramble dripping with blackberries and one might understand how Joe, though never quite full, was never quite empty during his travels and even grew stronger as a result.
    There was one other phenomenon that contributed to Joe's overall welfare and that was the sudden and unexpected generosity of the people from within the city who he met outside the walls. Almost daily he came upon open service-doors or sally-ports and often there were military or maintenance personnel present who seemed eager to engage Joe in conversation and to give him small gifts: Chocolate, coffee, clean socks, liquor. One ancient soldier, after seeing Joe's old 22. rifle, disappeared into the city and reemerged a short time later with a handful of shiny brass 22. cartridges he'd been holding on to for years, "souvenirs from the old days" he'd called them. Little-by-little, Joe fell under the impression that to the people of the city he was something special, something outside of their everyday experience and so achieved a kind of imminence in their eyes. This was a comfort to Joe considering that a mere forty years before there had been a popular political movement within the city that had as it's primary goal the eradication of all the homeless tribes, all the nomads, all the "individualists" who chose to remain outside the walls. The going had been rough for a while, with bands of vigilantes roving the countryside, raiding Homeless encampments and engaging in gun-battles with the few Homeless able to arm themselves. But eventually passions cooled and relative sanity returned to the city.
    The damage had been done though and for years those who lived in the wilderness avoided the walls and the people who lived behind them; fear had been high and hope low but now, at the eleventh hour, hope had returned. Joe wondered what it all meant, where it was all leading because it seemed to be leading somewhere. These thoughts accompanied him as he pushed his way through the poisoned land. In his mind his solitary journey began to take on a different shade of meaning, it became intertwined with the fact of the city and it's inhabitants. For a long time now he had been looking at his eventual merging into the mass of the city as something inevitable. Now there seemed to be room for something else. But what? Joe just didn't know.

END OF PART ONE

Wayne Myers is a homeless writer. He works in mostly in noisy, crowded coffee shops.

The Cabin, Part II

posted June 14, 2010
by NMcCradie

      Good Morning and what a beautiful morning it is in Green Valley Lake, California.  Once again I find myself wide-awake at 3:45 am, unable to sleep through the night.  But writing is a good way to greet the dawn.
      Aha!  I’m hoping that sound in the kitchen is Mr. Coffee finishing the Super Brew we bought before driving up the mountain.
     Coming back to this little cabin, I think about all the times we’ve returned here to work on the remodel and the men we’ve brought along to help. Bob and I can’t thank the guys enough for the diligence and thoughtfulness they’ve put into the improvements up here.

        Jeffery, who lives at Casa Esperanza right now, is a great talent. He’s been such a joy to Bob and me. Working on his knees, he lays out the 3/4 inch wood flooring, methodically measuring, putting patterns together and lovingly tapping the tongue and groove into place before nailing it down. He works the same way laying down the ceramic tiles. With only a small amount of supervision from Bob, he’s able to set, space, pattern out and grout the floor tile. A quick learner, I must say. Now Jeff will be able to put these two construction trades on his big fat resume.
        In his off hours, he spends time with Bob either trying to catch those elusive trout and bass in the lake or playing with the chain saw in the woods to bring home the permitted wood take for the winter months.  He’s also a computer geek. He patiently showed me how to transfer documents and photos and how to create links.  When I asked him where he learned the computer he said he was a para-legal for eight years.  What a surprise!  It goes to show that when you take time to listen, you can learn all sorts of juicy tidbits about another person. Well, I am grateful for this young man, I must say.  We can only hope he gets his personal problems dismissed so that he can go on with his life.
 
       Marcos is here with us too. Since being laid off from Casa Esperanza, he’s been a denizen at Rainbow Park. When we got back to Santa Barbara last month, the soap opera drama one finds on the streets had scripted that Marcos was nowhere to be found and we guessed he was probably dead in the hooch he carved out for himself in the bushes. So when we learned that he’d been with his brother for a week, we asked if he wanted to come with us for a stint at the cabin. He said yes.  "It is time to get away from all the drama," he said. 
    Marcos has worked on a paint job with us before and is a good painter. Painting the living room walls, he looked for all his goobers and drips and I didn’t have to tell him what to do.  He’s also cleaned used bricks, played gopher for Jeff, helping him with the wood flooring and unloading and stacking the wood he brought back from the forest.  On his down time he watches movies on his DVD player.  He doesn’t say much about how he feels about being here but I know he’s enjoying every minute of it.  Wow!  He just got up and I asked him if he liked it up here better than Rainbow Park. He looked at me, giggled a little and said,"Sorta, yeah I do!"  It will be hard to take him back to that place.
         I miss you Santa Barbara. I’ll be seeing you after my travels in June.

       Lovingly Yours,

        Nancy McCradie


Babysitter (June 7, 2010)

posted June 13, 2010
by rtrower

By Ray Trower

Hey! Kids, parent and I are going out,
Babysitter will be here soon.
Finish your dinner and help clean up.
We want you to mind her this time.
Okay parents! We will! We will!
That goes for you too little Ray!
Yes, aunt and uncle. I will, I will.

Hi girls, I’m Babysitter from next door.
Remember me? Yes! Silly! We know you!
I was just joking kids, it’s good to see you.
Everybody ready for bed? I’m not feeling well.
But, Babysitter, it’s still early...
I have a headache you see, just this once please.
So off you go, turn off the light and shut the door.
Little Ray, you can stay, I want to talk to you.

It’s okay, I won’t tell, sit on the couch next to me.
You’re a big boy now, very handsome too,
How old are you by the way? Almost ten?
That’s okay, you’re just big for your age.
Sit a little closer, don’t want the girls to hear.
Have you ever kissed a girl before? No?
Would you like me to show you how?

It will be real fun. It’s like a game.
I will teach you how to play.
Let me lay back, with you on top,
and help me with my buttons.
It’ll be fun, just wait and see,
just our little secret...
Now go clean up, off to bed,
I have a headache...

The Bus

posted June 11, 2010
by jpflannery

    By John Patrick Flannery

      The bus was ratty but I didn’t care. I had just got out of the joint after doing a three-year bit for something I didn’t do. Oh yeah, I could have named some names and probably walked. But I’m not a rat, never have been. More importantly, never will be.
      I’m sitting on this ratty bus in my cheap-assed new clothes, enjoying all the sights and sounds. When you’re locked down all you hear are people yelling, at all hours. And the smells are like taking a turd, puking on it, then washing it with bleach. Needless to say, the ratty bus wasn’t that bad, in fact it was nice.
       I’m blown away by how much things have changed in the time I was away. Kids talking on cell phones; headphones on just about everybody. And we have a black president, something I never thought would happen. When I lived in the south I knew people who claimed they’d rather die than live with a black president. Where are they now, I wondered?
       My eyes wandered around the bus. A little, old Mexican woman with her body weight in groceries looking beaten down and sad wore a shawl over her head like she was in mourning. Probably was. A couple of seats behind her, two fifteen or sixteen-year-old black boys were trying to look tough.   I felt like telling them that was the wrong road to go down. The joint was full of guys who landed there trying to look and be tough. The ironic part is, you find out how tough you really are once you’re in. And then you’ll always run into somebody tougher.
     A few seats back from them, a teenage couple was groping and kissing like the bus was gonna crash. I was jealous. Aside from the time I’d just done, I hadn’t been in a passionate romance in a long time. The girls that had been interested in me I had no interest in. Of course, I slept with a few of them. But three seconds after I came, it was, “check please.”
       My gaze swept over the bus and stopped when it reached a girl near me at the back. She was pretty in an unkempt kind of way. But she had a natural beauty that would be hard to mute. Dressed in brand new cheap clothes too, it didn’t take long to figure out that she’d just been released too.
      The prison had a male part and, right next door, a female part, with a high fence in between. They couldn’t see us and we couldn’t see them. The way she was looking at everything and everybody, kind of awe-struck, confirmed my guess. As I was checking her out she turned and started checking me out. A small smile creased her face. I guessed she’d just put together where I’d come from. I nodded and with that winning smile she nodded back.
       I looked away first. It had been three years since I talked to a girl, any girl, let alone a beautiful one. I was out of practice, besides being scared shitless. What did I have to offer? Just out of the joint, with no income and no place to live? But that was going to change. It had to. I had to find some way, legally. I could never go back to the joint. It was a pointless waste of time. I had too much to do, too much to see.
       I was going head to my town and hope all my friends weren’t dead, locked up or had gotten some sense and moved to a less toxic town.
    One particular former friend was who I really wanted to see. I had just done a three-year bit for him. He’d never come to visit or put money on my books. Oh yeah, I got three or four letters from him, but letters don’t get you any commissary. I figured he owed me. Big. At least a place to crash while I got back on my feet. We would see. The way he acted taught me a lot about friendship, or the lack of it.
        I looked out the back window to see if I could still see the prison that I’d wasted three years of my life in. What a waste of time it had been, just long enough to spend a significant portion of my life with crushing boredom, way too many rules and constant posturing. If you show weakness, even for a second, someone will try to take something from you, all the way from your commissary, to your life. It gets old fast.
    The sentence wasn’t long enough to get a degree, something that would help me when I was released. Now I was an unemployed ex convict and my job prospects were not looking great. They crush any chance you have to get a job, then they act shocked that you returned to a life of crime.
    I breathed a huge sigh and returned to checking the bus out; same old bus I rode back in the day. Dirty but not filthy. Dirty enough that you didn’t touch anything you didn’t have to. After the joint, it was clean like an operating room. Still, if you dropped anything you were eating, forget the five-second rule. It was gone.
    The ad’s on the walls were from a new time but the same old shit. Planned Parenthood, some horrible poetry some seventh grader came up with. And of course, ad’s for the very bus system I was riding on. I couldn’t figure it out. If you were already riding the fucking bus, why did hey have to sell you on the bus system? Go figure.
    I really didn’t care. I hadn’t seen any ad’s in a while. Advertisers don’t send a lot of money advertising in the joint. I guess we aren’t the demographic they’re shooting for.
    But I was happy. Free at last. The future was up in the air. The bus felt like the back of a limo. I saw people that weren’t in a uniform and didn’t know how to relate to them, but I was gonna learn. If prison had taught me anything, it was that I didn’t want to go back. Even though I hadn’t done the crime I was sentenced for, I had learned my lesson.

I loved that bus.


Patrick Flannery lives at The Riviera Hotel.

 


 


 

The Rage, Part 3 (Collateral Damage)

posted June 03, 2010
by rtrower


   By Ray Trower
   The rage came to an end on May 21st, and as usual it came to a close with an act of violence. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m 6’ 4” and have 440 pounds of weight to put behind a punch. And I don’t have to remind you about mixing anger and adrenaline. By nature I do not consider myself a violent person, but I do have a temper. I may yell and cuss a lot, but physical acts of violence can and have made me ill,  or at least nauseated to my stomach. Such was the case on  Friday afternoon.

  
      The building I live in qualifies for Project-Based Section-8 for some of its tenants. On that Friday the building manager and maintenance manager were conducting an inspection of certain rooms, of which mine was one. The inspection started out cordially enough, with handshakes and polite conversation. I posed a question to the maintenance manager and something about his answer, or the way that I perceived his answer, triggered the rage. Without warning or provocation, I became who I fear most. In less time that it takes to read this  sentence my whole demeanor changed. I became verbally abusive. I refused to listen to reason and I demanded that both gentlemen leave my room, which they did, only because they had other rooms to inspect. As I shut the door, I hit it with my right fist. And let me tell you  these doors are pretty solid too.

 
       On impact, I knew I’d gone too far. I’d become physically violent. The rage was over. The only thing left to do was  assess the damage. My first thoughts, before even noticing that my knuckles were bleeding, was possible eviction. My outburst had violated my lease. I began to make a list of what to pack and what to leave behind. I decided to leave it all, with two exceptions: my computer and a blanket.

     I would take nothing. My important papers could be scanned into my computer or saved on a disc. My books, CDs and DVDs would be left behind, which I now find a little ironic because most of my books are from the Left Behind series.. I told myself that the first was a week away and that I could always replace my clothing. All I needed was a blanket and my computer. Did I mention that I can be a dumb-ass at times?

  
      Sitting at my desk I was notified by messenger that my friend Tami had just signed on. (See “Nights With Tami”) I looked at the clock. Forget that she had to work a day shift instead of her usual evening shift, I signed on to messenger forgetting everything else. Talking with Tami was all I thought of. I even forgot that my knuckles were still bleeding.

  
      I told Tami, on video chat, what had happened, and of my plans to walk away from it all. I couldn’t take it anymore, I said, I had become violent and shamed myself in front of others. It was time for me to run away again, just like I’ve been doing most of my life. Tami became my reason. She slowly brought me back to my senses and saved me from myself for one more day. The first thing she did was make me wash my hand, which I found ironic because I’m always reminding  her about  keeping her cuts clean.

  
      As I washed the blood off, I noticed that my hand was swollen and hurt like hell all the way to my elbow. We laughed about it all night. My little rages can be more absurd than anything. Tami mentioned the doctor. I told her  I would make an appointment the following week. It was Friday after all. The rage was over.

Lost Sheep

posted May 30, 2010
by suzbeachy

    By Suzanne Beachy 
    Last March, I flew out to Santa Barbara from Columbus, Ohio for what would have been my son Jake’s 29th birthday.  I needed to see for myself where he had lived and died as a homeless person.  Even now as I write those words, I am flooded by sorrow and shame.  Although I had approached the trip with dread and fear, the visit did give me a measure of closure.  I also met the loveliest people - among them, the kind man who witnessed the accident that killed Jake and had run to his side to try to help him; the director of the Rescue Mission where Jake sometimes ate, slept, and showered; a compassionate mom whose daughter had died after a similar struggle; and others who graciously reached out in love.  These people no doubt pushed through their own dread and fear to get involved in my mess, to speak hope into my heart.
     Soon after I returned home, I was invited to join the Facebook group for the Rescue Mission in Santa Barbara. I pulled up the site, clicked on a video link and watched one of Santa Barbara’s very famous residents make an appeal for donations.  I thought, as essential as the monetary donations are, something more elemental than money needs to be pulled from us to save the lives of the lost and struggling. 
     
     As a self-identifying Jesus freak, I try to imagine how Jesus views homeless people.  Instead of seeing a “homeless problem” as many of us would describe that situation, I think he would see homeless people the same way he sees all of us - a bunch of lost sheep in need of a shepherd.  And he would go out finding them one by one.  So as a follower of Jesus - that is, a deputy shepherd - this should be my perspective too. Jesus says, “My sheep know my voice.”  I have to ask myself, am I calling out on behalf of the Great Shepherd?  Am I reaching out in love?
      Here is my experience of reaching out in Santa Barbara during my visit last March. 
  
     The first thing I noticed  was some very persistent thick fog (I was staying in East Beach). The second thing I noticed was numerous dark grayish forms of people walking along the beach and boulevard.  Once the fog cleared, this picturesque coastal city burst forth in brilliant color.  But some of the people seemed to remain washed with gray.  It was as if they did not regain all of their color when the fog lifted.  Like  gray ghosts on the otherwise colorful landscape, I realized  they were the homeless, and I was shocked by how many there were wandering around the parks by the beach.  “Were they a menace?” I wondered.  I felt afraid of them and somewhat repulsed. But my son had been one of them less than a year before, and HE was not scary, dangerous, or repulsive.  He had been just a beautiful, lost, mess.  I decided I should try to get to know some of these homeless ones, even though I did not really want  to.  Again, I had to push through dread and fear. 
At first, I warmed up by handing out a few dollars here and there to the panhandlers along State Street and asking, “Are you OK?” (I know, I know - lame!) 
    
      My next homeless “victims” were Chris and his girlfriend, who were quietly sitting near a Chipotle Mexican Grill, holding a sign asking for compassion.  I asked if they ever stayed at the shelter or the Rescue Mission. They told me no, because those places  were for druggies. They preferred to camp.  I asked if it would help them if I bought them lunch.  They said that would be great. I asked if they wanted to join me and was relieved when they opted to take their food to the park instead. 
 
      The next day I met Happie and David sitting together on Stearns Wharf.  David held a sign that read “Houseless.” We talked a bit and shared some laughs. Later that night, I met David again near the Milpas St. crossing. When I began to tell him about Jake dying at that very spot the year before, I choked up, and he asked if I needed a hug.  I did.  He told me how his mom had died in Santa Barbara.  Before going our separate ways, he described to me the place nearby where he had been “camping.”  I hoped he was safe. 
 
     A day later, I met up with Happie again while I was helping to serve dinner at the  Rescue Mission.  I was surprised to see him there because he had told me that the mission was for drunks and drug addicts, not for someone like him.  I listened to his dramatic story of how he’d fallen off a mountain once, resulting in extensive leg surgery and a donor bone. He spoke of his great sadness over his broken marriage and how much he missed his daughter.  He asked why I was in Santa Barbara and as I told of my son being at the mission the year before, I again began to cry. Happie asked if I needed a hug.  I did.  He told me a good friend of his lived in Columbus, and he asked if I’d contact her when I returned home.  I promised that I would. 
 
       My last morning in Santa Barbara, I took my leftover food from  hotel room down to the beach and offered it to a very young man named Oliver, who was playing a harmonica and portable keyboard.  He accepted my offerings and was especially grateful for the Breton crackers, which he said would go very nicely with the brick of cheese he’d just acquired. But he was a little wary of the Bosc pears.  He was more accustomed to Bartletts. I asked if he’d take my picture at the water’s edge, which he did – twice, because he was dissatisfied with my first pose. Not natural enough, he said. When I asked him if his mother knew where he was, he assured me that he spoke with his parents on a regular basis.  Did he ever use the services of the Rescue Mission?  No, but he planned to join a fitness club.  After chatting awhile, I told him I had to go catch a plane and he said, “Well, how about a hug before you go?”  Sure thing, Oliver. 
  
       Did any of this friendliness and hugging amount to anything?  I will likely never know.  However, a few weeks after my return to Ohio, I was sitting with a crowd of about 2,000 and heard this amazing story from Dan,  my neighbor, friend, and director of a large outreach to the urban poor here in Columbus.  His personal experience illustrates how reaching out in love can indeed amount to something. 
       
          “I grew up in an upper middle class family in Connecticut.  And, briefly, 
    through no fault of anyone but myself, I became very emotionally and mentally
    damaged.   
  
            I was asked to leave two high schools.  I didn’t graduate from high
     school. I have since graduated from college and Bible schools, but I didn’t  
     graduate from High School. 
       
           I hitch-hiked out to the West Coast and I lived for a time as a homeless
      person.  I lived in the basement of a building for a few weeks in a city for   
      five dollars a week until I was thrown out - literally.  I wound up sleeping on
     the street or in a shelter.  And I remember how  humiliating it was to be 
     robbed by somebody bigger and stronger than me. 
           
           One night I went to the Salvation Army.  I just wanted a meal. I was a little
      bit resentful, and I was guarded. I came into the Salvation Army, and I got my
      plastic tray, and I was with a long line of other people, and we were shuffling
      – shuffling along, minding our own  business. Nobody really connecting.
      Some talk in the background, but nobody really said anything much. 
 
             As I was coming through the line, an amazing thing happened. It seems
      so small, but it was so big to me.  There was a man serving food, a volunteer.
      He just decided that night that he’d volunteer at the Salvation Army.  He 
      could have stayed home, watched a television show.  In 1973, I don’t know
      what was on. Probably nothing better than now!  But he just chose, 'I’ll go
      and serve.'
              And so he said something, and I looked up - kind of defensively.  And I
      think all he wanted to know was, did I want some of this, or some of that. I
      met his eyes, and something happened.  I saw warmth.  I saw kindness.  I saw
      respect.  He spoke to me in a respectful way.  And God used this simple act of
      kindness, that he was expressing in the name of the Lord, to speak to me 
      hope  in my heart. I felt respected and   valued as a person.   
 
             It ministered to me, and that man probably didn’t even know it.  But the
      Holy Spirit used that simplest of acts to tell me that I was valued.   
 
            I couldn’t process it all at the time. I don’t think I said much of anything
      to him except “Uh, yeah OK.”  But it stuck with me.  It made me think
      differently about Christians.  See, I had good  Christians I had known.  My
      mother was a wonderful Christian who prayed for me, but I did not
      understand that the gospel was about this person Jesus.  I  thought it was
      about nice people who had it together and didn’t like people like me.  I didn’t
      know it was about Jesus.  The world doesn’t know it’s about Jesus.  They’ve
      heard about him, but they don’t know it’s  about Jesus.  They’re waiting to
     find out. 
 
            This man didn’t know that shortly after that, 300 miles north, some weeks
      or months later, I came to Christ.  He had played a small part in that. Mother
      Theresa once said, 'We can’t do great things. But we can do small things with
      great love.'
              I would add to that that small things done with great love can be used by
      God to do great things.  And that small thing that man did by simply
      choosing to invest some of his time made a change in my life.  And I thank
      God for that."


    What would have happened if some kind stranger had reached out in love to my son Jake?  Maybe nothing different.  Maybe someone did reach out to him.  Maybe someday I’ll have some answers.  In the meantime, I have questions.  Who will get the message of love to the lost?  Who will speak hope into their hearts?  I love the answer offered by Sara Groves in one of her songs,  “Every heart has so much history . . . sit down a while and share your narrative with me; I’m not afraid of who you are.” 
     
     Be the voice of the shepherd.  Dare to speak out in love to the lost sheep. His sheep will know His voice - the voice of love.




Nights With Tami, Part II

posted May 25, 2010
by rtrower

    By Raymond Trower

    Most of the time we spend together, Tami is in a somber mood, lost in the dark places of her mind. On these nights, I do most of the talking. I let her know she’s not alone and continually reinforce that I care for her. I ramble on mostly about the digest or my experiences with homelessness. Tami has admitted to being homeless a few times too, along with having had drug and alcohol abuse issues as a teen. .
    One night Tami told me her father was the only family member she felt cared for her. It saddened me to hear that he’d passed away a little over a year ago. (For Tami’s privacy reasons, I will not go into detail.) My heart poured out to her even more that night. I told myself, no wonder this girl is depressed, having lost two people close to her in one year. The following night she told me something that hit me in the chest like a hammer.
    Ten months ago, Tami lost her four-year-old daughter to illness. It broke me up. I couldn’t hold back. Both of us cried for hours that night. She shared stories of the young child’s life, showed me a few photos that only brought more tears. When she finished telling me about her daughter, I found myself telling her about the loss of my first and only child. Though my child was never born, it still affected me deeply. I can honestly say that on that night, sharing our pain and tears, a bond between us was forever sealed and a type of love began to grow. This is where the big brother syndrome comes in. I could do no less.
    By this time I was used to the way Tami dressed, long sleeves or a hoodie. She had a habit of frequently excusing herself. She said it was to roll a cigarette with one of those rolling kits, but I later learned there was more to it. One night I could tell she had something on her mind. I felt that she wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how. I’d already come too far to turn back so I told her whatever it was I could deal with it and that it couldn’t be worse than the news of her recent losses. Tami told me her secret, something she’s shared with only three or four people. I knew the minute she began to tell me I was in over my head. Part of me screamed to get out, get out now but I’d made a promise and that was more important. Besides, too many people had already left her.
    Tami, this young, beautiful and troubled woman, is a cutter. She confessed that the first night we talked, her arm was bleeding and her hoodie was sticking to her arm. She admitted that when she leaves the room, it’s mostly to go and clean her cuts. I guess you can say this is where Brother Ray stepped in. I talked. I listened. I did all the things  I was supposed  to and none of the things she expected. I knew I had her trust the night she showed me her left arm. I voiced my concern, reassured her that I cared and that it would all be okay. That night was a major turning point for us.
    I saw a new Tami over the next few days. She was animated, more talkative and even kept the light on a couple of times. She can be very mischievous too, and let me just say that her smile is my reward for listening to her and being a friend. She is even wearing short- sleeved shirts in front of me, which I encouraged, because where she lives the temperature is usually in the 90’s.
    I told her to feel free to be herself with me. So far she has been able to do that. She still has dark days and for a time last week, we were worried about her job. But everything worked out. I could write about Tami for quite awhile. I know I’ll never know all there is to know about her, and that’s okay. I’ve got plenty of time, and a few more free nights.
    This young girl has come to mean a lot to me, as most sisters should, for that is how I see her. I know it won’t last and that’s okay. Hopefully she will remember me and some of the things I said. I know I will always remember her. In fact, she is online with me now. We just turn on our cams and live our lives knowing that someone who cares about us is right there with us, if only for a short time. I may not be doing the right thing in the eyes of some people, but for now I’m doing what works for us.
    It’s been four days since Tami has used a razor. Do I dare hope for a fifth? After I finished this, I went to check on her and she was holding a plastic case between her teeth. I knew what it was and I asked her about it. She’d bought new blades yesterday. All I can say is, four days is a good start, the rest will have to be taken one day at a time, as with any addiction.

The Simulacrum

posted May 19, 2010
by wmyers


                                 By Wayne Myers
      I was in line at the coffee shop one Friday morning when a strange thing occurred. There was a young couple in line ahead of me speaking some perfectly indecipherable language and herding four unruly children along as they shuffled towards the cashier. The woman held a red-faced, screaming infant. Behind them and directly in front of me was a tall, shabby old bum in a long button-down coat. The collar was up and his hat was pulled down and except for an eruption of gray beard and two pale blue eyes his face was hidden. The line inched forward and we all inched with it, awash in the morning’s frenetic activity. But not the bum, he seemed to occupy a space all his own. He moved with the line as we all did but he was not part of it. I stared at his broad back and, as close as I was to him, I smelled his scent: He smelled like grass-clippings, which I thought peculiar, and something else, something dry and brittle, something you'd find in a forest beneath a dead tree. The line advanced a few steps and the rumpled coat drew me along. 
       
      Behind me the door chimed and someone entered and joined the line. I turned and glanced at the new arrival who returned my gaze through a pair of thick, wire-framed glasses. The glasses balanced upon a greasy, pockmarked nose that interrupted an otherwise unremarkable face. The gentleman behind the glasses nodded and smiled and I acknowledged him with a grin. Toward the front of the line, the disgruntled infant fought its mother’s arms and wailed like a fire truck. The shrieking sent a ripple down the line and everyone seemed to cringe at the sound, everyone except the bum who stood there as if carved from stone. 

        The line stalled at this point as a shift-change ensued. Our cashier ran a tape out of the register and then exchanged cash-drawers with her relief, another fresh-faced young girl, and with a flourish and a giggle the first disappeared with the cash and the new girl motioned the next customer forward. The line hesitated for a second and then lurched into motion and the young couple, whose time at the register had arrived, cajoled and dragged their mob of brats up to the counter to order. By this time they could have requested arsenic for the screaming infant and I don't think anyone would have protested. But instead they tried to order something I assumed was less utilitarian. It might have been coffee or it might have been juice or it might have been water. It was difficult to tell.
     
       Everyone's attention was riveted on the couple now as they pointed at the selections on the wall behind the cashier and employed a mixture of bad English and their own thoroughly incomprehensible language in an attempt to order. The baby kicked and emitted an ear-splitting sound similar to that of an air-raid siren and the entire coffee shop rattled. The guy behind me shuffled his feet and I shuffled mine and the people around us shuffled through various facial expressions; most seemed to settle on neutral expressions but even then horror tugged minutely at the corners of their mouths and desperation shone in their eyes. Taken all together the accumulated grimaces and downcast eyes told a dark story: In earlier days or under different circumstances (like if we were all stranded on a desert island together) the child would have to die. There was no way around it. It was just that unbearable. Then, as I amused myself with these and other observations, the child stopped screaming. Just like that. Silence.

         Every customer in the shop suddenly looked up as if a pistol had been fired. It was kind of odd. Where everyone had previously been hiding their irritation behind coffee-mugs or blank stares, they now openly looked for the cause of their salvation and, like myself, were surprised to discover that it was the enigmatic bum who had somehow restored peace to the coffee shop. He was leaning forward with his hand in front of the babies face. A small bird, a sparrow I think, was balanced precariously upon the tip of the old mans index finger. It chirped and the baby, delighted, drooled and reached for the bird. The tall figure withdrew his hand, which I noticed was thinner and more skeletal than any hand I'd ever seen, and with a quick motion set the bird flying. This seemed unwise to me at first, my fear being that the bird would encounter a window and bash its little brains out. But that is precisely what did not happen. Instead, the tiny creature described several perfect circles around the baby’s head and then returned to its perch on the bum’s finger. I was astonished. Everyone was astonished. 
 
          In an instant the tall man had transformed himself in the eyes of everyone present. No longer was he some loser in a trench coat. He was something else, something we'd never encountered before: He was a magician, a shaman; he was a mystery. The man to my rear came up beside me and adjusted his glasses; "Wow" was all he said. I couldn't have put it any better and didn't try. I just watched the hand and the baby and the bird and waited to see what would happen next.
     
        The baby was enthralled and it's fascination multiplied as the hand gave another flick and the bird took wing again and circled in the air before landing--this time on the very spot myself and perhaps everyone else in the store secretly wished for it to land, on top of the child’s hairless head. The mother saw this and opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. She closed it and looked at her husband who was staring at the bird as if it had two heads. Neither made a move to shoo the little animal away; like myself they simply stared at the bird and the hand and the baby. As for the kid, it was momentarily baffled. Its eyes searched for the bird and then rolled back in their sockets, trying to accomplish the impossible, trying to see the bird which it knew was walking around "up there" out of sight. The baby could feel the tiny feet, could feel the beak as it tapped gently at the delicate skin atop its skull, could feel the draft as the bird fanned its wings and danced a jig on its soft perch. The infant, after having pieced it all together, slowly raised its pudgy hands towards the top of its own head but then, to everyone's relief, dropped them and just let the bird dance its dance. 
     
       The cash-register jingled open and the couple, having finally managed to communicate their needs to the cashier, received their change, some bottled waters and two cups of coffee. They looked back at the bird standing on their child's head like it was the most natural thing in the world and though they were evidently ready to leave, they hesitated. Understanding their hesitation, the tall figure behind them produced an almost inaudible "tweet" and the bird launched itself from the child's head and returned to its master’s hand. I lost sight of the hand and the bird then because the tall stranger still had his back to me but my guess was that the bird had been returned to the pocket or sleeve from which it had originally issued because a moment later when the strange fellow turned to leave the bird was nowhere to be seen. As he brushed past me, I again caught the scent of grass and forest and it was far from unpleasant. In fact it was...well, it was almost...intoxicating. I watched him leave with a paper-cup full of water, apparently that's all he'd come in for, and a wave of sorrow swept over me. I don't know why. 
     
        I got my coffee, spoke to a friend for a moment and then stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and the day seemed diminished somehow. The sun tilted in the sky as if it had been wired in place and the clouds moved like dull, white animals across blue fields. There were no dancing birds to capture my heart, no old bums to fall in love with, nothing but another day and another cup of coffee and another cigarette. I stared off across the parking lot and a movement caught my eye. There he was, the tall figure in his long, stained coat. He was standing against a railing looking at the traffic and even as I caught sight of him he turned and started down the stairs out of sight. Something, some desire, some need caused me to follow him and with quick steps, I threaded my way through the parked cars and came to the stairs.
        
        The same spirit that compelled me to follow the bum in the first place drove me on. I descended to the landing three stairs at a time and found his hat lying there. It was unmistakably his hat. But before I could stoop to retrieve it, there was a rush of movement below me and without warning, a swarm of birds flooded the stairwell and with an explosion wings, they passed all around me and were gone. Feathers hung in the excited air. And me, what did I do? Well I just stood there, too stunned to move, just blinking and breathing. I must have stood there for two minutes thinking about what had just happened. But finally, I shook it off and continued down the stairs to the street. I looked around but didn't see the old man. I wasn't sure what to do, look for him? Which way did he go? I took out another cigarette, lit it and stood smoking. My mind was far away and yet it was grinding through the possibilities. Those birds. They were so small, like the bird the old man had. Sparrows? I was pretty sure they were sparrows. I took one last, long drag off of my cigarette, dropped it on the sidewalk half-smoked, and ground it out beneath my shoe. As I turned to go, I noticed a pile of debris beside the trashcan at the bottom of the stairwell. I froze. On top of the pile was an old coat--a stained, button-down coat. I kneeled and examined it, flipped it over and watched its contents spill out onto the ground. It was half-full of leaves; dried leaves and sticks and...grass clippings. I lay the coat aside and rummaged through the stuff; I came across a branched stick and something about it reminded me of a hand, so much so that I had no trouble imagining a sparrow balanced upon it. Finally, at the bottom of the pile, I found what I'd been looking for without realizing it: A hunk of filthy gray cotton out of an old cushion and two pale-blue china marbles.
 

     
                                                                              2010




Nights With Tami, Part I

posted May 17, 2010
by rtrower

     There are so many adages or clichés I could use to begin this story, but after careful thought I decided to stick with what works: “Be careful of what you wish for...”

  
     If you have been following my little rants concerning my mental health, you know I spend hours each night online, surfing the web, to find that one voice, a voice to break the silence. Well, I found that voice on the night of April 30th.

   
     I was at anybodyoutthere.com when I met Tami. Tami and I started messaging back and forth and before I knew it, five hours had passed. We signed off after agreeing to meet there again the following night after she got home from work.

       Over the next few nights we went from anybodyoutthere.com to instant messages to web cams. Our first night on cams was rather difficult. We were using yahoo messenger and the reception on my part was bad. She could see and hear me just fine. She came through like a scrambled satellite movie. Still, we managed to talk for four hours. You’re probably telling yourself that this is nothing new, people do it all the time, so what’s the big deal? The deal is that this is new to me. I’ve never used my cam or mic before and I never would have imagined that I would be doing online what I am doing now.

  
      The following night, Tami and I switched to Windows Messenger, which seems to be working okay for us. As I was sitting there watching Tami, I noticed she was getting sleepy. Her eyes told me everything, and she was fighting to stay awake. I asked her a few times about this, and each time she replied that she wasn’t tired. I knew she was tired. I was tired too. Then it dawned on me, I asked Tami if it was because she did not want me to leave. When she said yes, the only solution that came to mind was asking Tami if she wanted me to sleep with her. (People who know me, know me as a nice guy, so we will not have any perverse comments here. Okay?) We both have notebook computers, so I suggested putting mine by my head as I lay down, and she do the same. It worked. After a few minutes, I saw that she was beginning to drift off, and me being the man that I am, I went to sleep first. I slept for about three hours, waking up twice to find Tami still asleep looking peaceful like the young girl she is. That was the morning of May 4th and we have been sleeping together since.

  
      Tami and I are becoming marathoners at this web cam stuff. At the time of writing this we have been on cam for over thirty-six hours, with one twenty minute break when her computer shut off. I don’t let the web cam interfere with things that I need to do, and neither does she. We just leave it on as we do our business.
     I will say one thing, the past two weeks have been some of the best nights in a long time. I am actually sleeping and getting the rest that I need too. Even my health has improved a little. I don’t sit at the computer all night, drinking cup after cup of coffee or snacking on comfort foods, Tami has become my comfort and I hers. Tami, for a time, has held back the rage.

Page Thirteen Of A Lost Diary

posted May 12, 2010
by wmyers

by Wayne Myers

beside the Creek stands a Willow
which droops and reaches into the sweep
of brown Water with thin searching hands.
the filthy Water stumbles past the Tree and disappears
beneath a bridge: a heavy construction of moist green cement
and rotten beams,
a corpse of a bridge really, barely able to make the span,
sprawling across the Riverbed
as if it had been dropped there.

the Sun is a luminous gray ball struggling through the Sky,
the thick black Sky full of Clouds and silent Birds,
humorless Birds striving against the Drizzle.
the sky falls to its knees and embraces the river
while somewhere beneath the morbid sun
and the failed bridge
i fall asleep without a blanket
or even any
cigarettes. 

The Rage (On Simmer)

posted May 08, 2010
by rtrower

By R. Scott Trower

    Many people have expressed an interest in my well being thanks to "The Rage" (posted April 26th on this site). It’s a bit overwhelming to know that something I wrote had such an impact. To all of you (and you know who you are) I can only say thank you, and even that seems lacking.

  
      There is one major difference in this Rage compared to past Rages, and that is that people care. I have never had the kindness and support of other people in my life, at anytime, as I do right now, right here in Santa Barbara. Again, I find this overwhelming.
    

      I am also grateful that Angela (from the County's Alcohol, Drug and Mental Health Services’ CARES program) came to me and voiced her concern. In no way do I hold her responsible for what happened. But I do find fault with the system, and I no longer trust the system, and Angela is a part of that system. So I suffer in silence. Please know that it’s nothing personal.

    For all those who inquired, and for those who remain silent, here is the truth as I see it regarding the current state of my mental health.

  
      Before I leave my apartment, I put on my persona. I project what people want to see, or what I feel people need to see. If you ask me if everything is fine, I’m going to say yes and hope you believe me. Because when I do say yes, everything is fine. I am in my comfort-zone. I’m amongst people who share a commonality with me. I thrive in this element. It's when I’m alone that the other side of me comes out.

   
     I’m my own worst enemy in solitude. I don't sleep. Can't rest. I lose interest in everything. I don't eat right, but instead I constantly snack on comfort foods while drinking cup after cup of coffee. I’m lost outside of my element. The sad part is that I can't tell anyone this. I am afraid they won't understand. I am Raymond F*ing Trower! I am the publisher of Street Voice. I am a homeless representative on the BOCH board. I’m supposed to have my sh*t together, and that is what I project. But only in my element. As some of you can attest, when I’m in my zone, I’m larger than life.

   
     The solitude can be unbearable at times. It’s most noticeable at night when everything is quiet--and the silence can be deafening. I will spend hours online searching for that one voice to break the silence. I can’t turn my computer off for thinking I might have missed a message. I have six email accounts and I check them almost hourly. (No, you’re not getting the addresses.) I have four Facebook profiles and two pages. I’m on Myspace and a couple of other sites too. I spend hour after hour going from site to site, hoping to hear that one voice. If a person sends me a friend request yet does not communicate with me I will delete that person. (This doesn’t apply to Street Voice's profile). I was lucky last night. I connected with a young lady and we talked for over five hours  . . . actually messaged back and forth online, but I take what I can get. The subject matter was depressing as hell, but it was still personal contact. 

 
       On nights when no one is there, the depression starts. I see how miserable my life is or has become, even though during the day I have so much going for me. Every unsuccessful attempt drives me deeper and deeper into a place I would rather not be. The past two months have found me crying late at night for no reason whatsoever other than desperation--desperate to find that one voice.

  
      This problem has been ongoing for years and it seems the more prosperous or successful I become, the more prevalent it becomes. It will build up layer upon layer until everything I have worked for comes tumbling down. I become self destructive, buried beneath feelings of worthlessness. Believing I’m unwanted or unloved, I tell myself that I’m a fake and deserve to be exposed. I will give myself what I think I deserve, and that is nothing. I will take away all that I have until nothing is left. Both of my incarcerations were the aftereffects of Rages.

            The one saving grace I have is that this time, I know I am not alone, that people do care, want to care, if only I would let them in more frequently. Maybe someday I will. So I will close with this promise. When you see me out and about doing what I do, know that all is well, and I am doing fine.

Pimp This Bum Dot Com

posted May 05, 2010
by rhemarodaw

Pimp This Bum

www.pimpthisbum.com

A New Kind of Charity

Tim Edwards had been homeless for five years. A long battle with alcohol and depression had dropped him under the I-10 overpass at Highway 6 in Houston, panhandling for money in a perpetual, semi-drunken haze. With the help of your donations and the love and support of PTB fans, he has taken his first gigantic steps toward a new life. Following a life-changing stay at the Sunray Treatment Center in Washington State, he's sober, optimistic and thoroughly enjoying life. He's been reconnected with his long-lost family, made countless new friends, and used his own experiences to improve life for others with situations similar to his own past life. He has an apartment that he pays for. He has a job as an apprentice machinist and he is strangely excited about paying taxes.

Tim has also given a face to homelessness around the world, reminding all of us that the Pariahs we pass on the street are real people with real lives, feelings and, in many cases, ambitions. Millions of readers have been touched and shocked to discover, through Tim's example, just how similar the invisible class is to the rest of us. You can reach the founders of this site, Sean Dolan and Kevin Dolan by email, or call PTB by phone: 1-713-893-3345 Special thanks to a local katy dentist for recently providing Tim with free dental care!

treating the problem

PTB set out to aid the most disenfranchised segment of our society: the homeless. We truly believe that, while we won't be 100% successful in eliminating homelessness, we can provide opportunity for many people who want to get off the streets and return to a productive, fulfilling life.

Pimp This Bum is is a complement to the myriad shelters, food banks and other charities that embrace the homeless. As traditional charities welcome the masses and provide them with their greatest basic needs, Pimp This Bum surgically selects individuals, assesses the root causes for their condition, and prescribes a very individual solution to get them back into society.

zero profit

PTB is administrated entirely by volunteers. All donations go directly to assisting the intended recipients.

Waiting For The Dalai Lama

posted May 05, 2010
by jpflannery

 By John Patrick Flannery

    I was standing on the first landing of the ornate, carpeted stairway he was due to come down . . .when he felt like it. I was waiting patiently. Is there any other way to wait for the Dalai Lama? I was in my uniform, an ugly blue polyester number. I was a maintenance guy for the hotel where he was staying and he due to meet with the children who were waiting, less than patiently, at the bottom of the stairs.

    I’d been fascinated by him for a long time. Here was a man who hadn't been in his country for fifty years and ruled it from exile. The Chinese had taken his country and declared it part of theirs. If he was captured they were going to put him in prison—Chinese prison. Can’t say I blame him for leaving. The fascinating part is his people followed him unquestioningly. That’s charisma. The Chinese hated him. He was a powerful man who wouldn’t listen to them. Also, he advocated nonviolence, so they couldn’t crush him and his people. They hated that. In that respect they’re a lot like this country---stand up to them, you will be killed. Unlike us, the Chinese don’t care how they're perceived. If a news reporter says something they don’t like, they go to jail indefinitely. They don’t even bother with the façade of freedom of speech.

    I’d taken time off work to see him. This was a once in a lifetime gig, to see a man as powerful as him, not to mention Holy. Millions of people believed in him. Religion had never been a big thing in my life. I’d been forced to attend a Catholic boarding school, so I knew which religions I wanted no part of. Buddhism, on the other hand, fascinated me. It’s a Karma-based religion; treat others how you would like to be treated yourself. This makes perfect sense. Also, it’s the only religion that hasn’t been the focus of a war. Intriguing, huh? The whole experience was kind of like seeing the Pope, except I wouldn’t take time off work for him.

    So there I am, waiting on the stairs, when one of the sales staff noticed me, walked over and, like and idiot said, “What does a maintenance guy like you know about he Dalai Lama?”

    I saw red. Remembering that we were waiting for one of the most peaceful people on the planet, I didn’t punch him in the face. Instead I backed him up against the wall and let him have it. The nerve of the guy, thinking I was ignorant just because I was dressed in that horrible blue uniform. Had he not heard about the state of the economy? People were taking any job they could. Rent had to be paid, mouths had to be fed.

    “What do I know about the Dalai Lama? Well let me clue you in motherfucker.” With that I launched into a five minute diatribe about what a great and powerful man he was, how wrong the Chinese were to persecute him, how he hadn’t been to his country in decades, how his people still listened to him, how I was honored just to be able to see him, and how the sales guy was such a lowlife he wasn’t worthy of scraping shit off the Dalai Lama’s sandals.

    I’d barely finished when I registered the sound of people clapping. I turned and there he was, descending the stairs with his gaze fixed in my direction. I looked behind me to try to figure out what he was looking at. I was a lowly maintenance guy in a lowly maintenance guy uniform. It never occurred to me that he was looking at me. I was standing in the midst of a group of ten or so people. He walked right up to me and stuck out his hand to shake. I didn’t know what to do. Politeness took over. I shook his hand, the whole time thinking he must have mistaken me for someone worth a shit. Why me? Then I thought, did he hear me? To this day I don’t know the answer. Perhaps he’s psychic.

    He said “Hi.” I said “Hi” back, quick thinker that I am. Then he was gone down the stairs to the children.

    I was thinking, I’m never going to wash this hand again. Hell, I was thinking about getting it bronzed.

    I don’t think I will ever shake anybody’s hand who is cooler.

                                    February, 2010

[Pat Flannery is a resident of the Riviera Hotel. You can read another piece by him on this site by clicking on the link: “Learning Curve.]

Home Free: Homeless in America

posted May 03, 2010
by rhemarodaw

By Rod Woods
Copyright 2010
    I sat staring out the windshield of my car. I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, “this isn’t happening to me, this isn’t happening to me…”, as I sat there immersed in overwhelming fear, shock, and disbelief. I was homeless. Everything that I had worked for and valued in life was lost- my job, house, car, savings, fiancé, friends, and family. All gone. I was 59-years-old.
    I had no previous experience with “homelessness.” I remember seeing the occasional person holding a sign asking for help on a freeway off-ramp or pushing a shopping cart down the sidewalk in Orange County as I grew up. I would think to myself, “How sad. I wonder what happened to them to get there”. On the occasions that I drove into L.A., I remember driving through “skid row” and I knew alcohol was the cause of their plight. However, these were never more than fleeting thoughts. I never gave it much thought until it happened to me
    I’ve been homeless now for 15 months. During that time I’ve learned much about homelessness in America. The causes of homelessness are various and the solutions are complex. I am well educated, articulate, mentally and emotionally sound, and have no history of drug or alcohol addiction. I represent the “new homeless” that have appeared over the last 2 years in America. Most of us are baby boomers were employed for decades, saved our money, raised our children, and looked forward to a reasonably well-funded retirement. None of us saw what was coming even while it was happening- “The Great Recession”.  
    We made it through several recessions in the past but they were not comparable to what has become known as the worst economic collapse since the Great Depression. We became victims of a phenomenon that was totally outside of our control. We were laid off  from jobs and no one was hiring. Millions of us lost our jobs. We went through our savings trying to hang on to everything we had worked for over the last 35 years. Many of those had family and friends that would help them get through until things got better. I did not.
    I arrived in Santa Barbara on April 13th, 2009 with a promise of a job. It never materialized. I slept in the front seat of my compact station wagon for eight nights, just as I have for the last eight months, when I decided to seek shelter. A number of people on the street told me that Casa Esperanza was the best shelter in town. I became a resident of Casa Esperanza on April 22nd, 2009. It was here that I would painfully learn about the chronically homeless.
    The lights came on at 6am in the men’s dorm every morning. It was required that you make your bed and go down to the courtyard by 7am. It was there in that courtyard that I learned about the chronically homeless. I endeavored to get my bearings that first week. I remember at the end of that week while sitting in the courtyard suddenly thinking- I might have said it out loud. I don’t know- “This isn’t a homeless shelter, it’s a mental institution!” Some of the residents were constantly talking to imaginary people or to themselves. Many just sat there waiting for Godot. The scene reminded me of my earliest childhood in Oklahoma. Cattle were corralled in holding pens and they had no hopes, dreams, or ambitions. In that courtyard I felt their pain, suffering, hopelessness, and despair. It was overwhelming. I was determined not to end up like that!
    Two months later I landed a job through the senior’s resource coach. It was only 20 hours a week at $8 an hour, but it was a job. I was placed at Catholic Charities of Santa Barbara as an administrative assistant where I am still employed today. Five days a week I could escape the courtyard! I spent a great deal of my time at work researching new career choices. I narrowed those down to four: wind turbine technology, solar energy technology, nursing, or entrepreneurship. I will enter the Scheinfeld Center for Entrepreneurship and Innovation program at Santa Barbara City College in the fall. I have plans to start-up a business consulting service- SilverBack BCS- and a clothing store- Riviera SB- in the near future here in Santa Barbara. I lived at Casa Esperanza for four and a half months. I left of my own accord on September 4th, 2009.
    It would be easy for me to be harshly critical of the management and staff of Casa Esperanza. It would not be fruitful. Instead, I will point to a new and innovative model that I’m convinced will eventually solve most of the problems related to homelessness in America- The San Antonio Model. This month in San Antonio, Texas a new and innovative facility has been opened. It occupies a 37-acre site outside of San Antonio. It is completely self contained and comprised of apartment-like dorms for men, women, and children, modern medical and mental health facilities, a college campus, drug and alcohol recovery facilities, dinning facilities, laundry rooms, day care centers, and marriage and family counselors. All of the staff are credentialed and certified professionals in their respective fields. The underlying philosophy there is: “Sensitivity, Respect, and Compassion”. That’s a good start.
    Fifteen months ago I’d lost my faith and all hope. Today I have faith in myself and hope for my future. I hope. I hope. I hope.

 The San Antonio Model
2 Rod Woods can be reached at rhemarodaw@hotmail.com or (805) 965-7045 x103

The Rage (This Is Your Only Warning)

posted April 26, 2010
by rtrower

By Raymond Trower

    The problem with having existing mental conditions is the diagnosis. When I first came to Santa Barbara, I sought help for my existing mental conditions at  C.A.R.E.S. (Crisis and Recovery Emergency Services). I explained that these conditions have been ongoing for years and that I've had two clinical diagnosis for them. I also stated that I'd been taking medication for several years but had quit shortly before I moved and would like to get back on them.

     I talked with Angela at the shelter and she got an intake appointment for me at C.A.R.E.S.

 I was asking for help. I was eager to get back on meds to try and have a normal life once again -- or at least be less prone to the violent emotional outbursts I’d been experiencing.

  

     The day of my appointment came and I was filled with excitement and anticipation. It was a huge step for me to admit that I had a problem, an ongoing problem, and to ask for help. Finally time for the intake. After filling out some forms I went in to see someone named Janet or Jeanette or something like that . . . . I really don’t remember.

    This woman, this person who supposedly "cares", took less than fifteen minutes to make me feel so inferior, so guilty for wasting her precious time, that I was embarrassed for being there. She practically sat there and insinuated that I was faking my symptoms just so I could get a program bed at the shelter. As I left her office, I continually asked myself, "What if she is right?" After all, she is a professional. I felt confused, dejected and angry. How can she be right and the other four doctors wrong?

  

     Over the next couple of months, I continually sought help at the shelter. I refused to discuss anything with Angela, but instead talked with Christine. Christine would tell me that one: my file gave no indication of a mental health problem, and two: there was a waiting list of a couple of months or more just to see a doctor. One of the shelter staff recommended New Beginnings, but they too had a waiting list of six weeks or more.

    So I gave up on seeking help and tried to deal with it on my own, which was and is a big mistake because it leads us up to "The Rage".

  

    The Rage is an emotional episode that I have gone through. The last one being several years ago and I am still dealing with the consequences of my actions during that time. The Rage is a fire that will consume everything and there is not a damn thing I can do to stop it. I can feel it coming on again and this is my only warning.

 Some of the things to look out for (and these are not always the same) are that I begin to distance myself from others. I isolate myself. For example, I have already begun deleting people from my friends list on Facebook. I started with family members. I will eventually just delete my whole profile.

  

      My isolation will lead to an aggravation where I will begin to sort through the things that I value. I will rank each item, then destroy or get rid of any item below a certain level. Which is okay to a point, but once that point is reached, then there will be no levels and everything will be destroyed. I will systematically destroy everything I own, from the simplest of letters to my computer and printer. Nothing or no one will hold value to me. I only surmise this because over the years I have destroyed four cars, one with a tire iron. I will also care nothing for my personal health and safety. I will even consider ways of destroying myself. I thank God that I have not succeeded in any of those ways before now.

  

     Everything that I have worked for over the past year will become meaningless, in fact it will all feel like a burden to me and I will seek out ways to lighten that burden. This includes the newsletter as well, and most of you know that the newsletter is my first love. I will abandon friendships and relationships leaving a wake of tears, mostly mine. And those tears have already begun to flow. Please believe me when I say that I am fighting this, but it may not be enough.



     In the ensuing chaos I will disappear. In fact, when and if you do see me, I will appear and act normal, and I will tell you no different. There will be no goodbyes, no nothing. You won't even know I am gone until it dawns on you someday that I'm not where I'm supposed to be.

 

    Then, after a few months, I will wake up somewhere and wonder what the hell happened. The memories of what I lost or left behind will send me into a deep depression followed by other thoughts that can accompany depression. So far I have survived such thoughts, but I'm getting too old to live this way any more.



    The Rage is coming. Consider this your only warning. (I have never given any warning before now.) And please know that there is nothing that I can do to stop it. I am fighting this as much as I can. I love my life here. I have come to love some of the people that I have met. I even like most of them. And I most definitely do not want to lose the newsletter because it is not mine to lose, but belongs to the homeless of Santa Barbara. If you know of anyone willing to take it over, minus the equipment, now is the time.

The Cabin

posted April 22, 2010
by NMcCradie

  I am looking out the window this morning.  A fresh snow lays on the ground from this last storm.  I hear that the sun will come out soon and start to warm us up.  It is beautiful up here; the altitude being  7,358 feet in the air above the smog.
 I am using this blog to write about this because I think that when someone reaches out to another human being to share a portion of one's life with it helps with everyone's spiritual growth.  Bob and I inherited the job of remodeling his mother's cabin in Green Valley Lake, CA.  Because we are both in our 60's it is hard to get on one's knees anymore.  Just wait until you get to where we are in age. 
  So, what we decided to do is to hire two men who live on the streets of Santa Barbara.  One Jeff W.  who has  applied and is awaiting his turn to live in the El Carrillo Apartments and David who, because of his independent philosophy, finds it hard to come to a place where he can get some help to move forward.  He does
eagerly jump up to come to the cabin when it is time to do so.
 The experiment proves to be successful because they just jump into the work and play up here.  Jeff tells me how much stress has fallen off his shoulders and how much he has enjoyed the tasks that were given to him to do.  Depression has left him and I firmly believe that the two week stint up here in the mountains will continue to help him stay positive until it is time to return next month.  They both want to do so.  At this time Jeff and Bob are working laying the tile on the kitchen floor.  David is digging the trucks out of the snow so that we can go to the dump and Running Springs to find some social activity.  There are no people up here, you know.
 I will leave this blog with this statement.  When people fear poverty and homelessness the tend to want to criminalize such social upheaval becomes prevalent.  Come on, folks!  All this does is to prolong the creation of the positive changes we need to come up with and it does not stop homelessness, period.  Take a chance and be-friend someone who is without housing.

In Defense of Homelessness

posted April 21, 2010
by wmyers

    By Wayne Myers

With all the grumbling and dissatisfaction over the so-called "homeless problem" in Santa Barbara and across the nation, I think the average citizen loses sight of the fact that "homelessness" is the natural state of mankind. We are not, nor have we ever been, born with a home. We are often born in a home or, as is more common nowadays, born in a hospital and then taken home but we are not born along with a home. That would be difficult for the mother, giving birth to a home as well as a child, and in the case of twins or (Heaven forbid) triplets or (the agony) quintuplets the poor mother would likely be faced with the disagreeable task of producing the requisite housing in the form of…uh…duplexes and condos? A vaguely unsettling picture emerges of delivery rooms hung with cranes and derricks; Nurses splattered with blood and exterior latex paint; Forklifts and burly construction workers leap to mind; Doctors yelling : "Get that cable tight, Rudy. Frank, jack that corner up! Okay everybody, Mrs. Smith, you guys with the crowbars, all together now, PUSH!" No, we are not born with homes, we're fitted into homes after birth, kind of like we're fitted into coffins after death…from one box to another then into the ground.
    The fact is, for the first several million years of our evolution we were essentially naked and un-housed. It's only been for the last fraction of our existence that we have lived under any roof other than the sky and a smaller fraction of that time that we have done it in any great numbers. Cavemen, you say? Understand me, a cave is not a home. It may be a "place to take shelter" but it is not a home, there is a basic difference. There must be. I lived in a hole in the side of a hill for over a year and yet I was counted among the "homeless" by those in authority and so a cave is not a home and "cavemen" were homeless men. I stand by that.
    Now, if I've managed to get your attention, if I've managed to steer you even one quarter-turn away from the commonly accepted view of homelessness, let me steer you yet further by presenting you with a question: What great benefit is there in spending your time and energy purchasing something you can't eat, drink, or take to the movies? We need food. We need water. We need to feel a moist tongue in our ear during intermission. We do not need to own a home. I submit, in fact, that it could be dangerous to own or even live in a home. I further submit that to do so, to live in a home for any length of time, may cause severe and probably irreversible social and moral disorders…perversions…and, sadly, DEATH. Yes, DEATH. With all the capital letters I can muster I repeat, DEATH. Which, in a very real sense, is worse than a social or moral disorder in that it is definitely irreversible. You are asking, what is he talking about? I will illustrate what I'm talking about with an illustration:
 
1. Adolph Hitler
2. Vlad the Impaler
3. Charles Manson
4. Saddam Hussein
5. Joseph Stalin
6. The Marquis de Sade
7. Torquemada
8. Samuel Berkowitz
9. Jeffery Dahmer
10. That guy from "Silence of the Lambs"
 
    I think you see where I'm taking you. It is a dark place, a place that squats on the edge of our consciousness, smirking; A place that makes us turn our face away because it is so obvious it makes us feel complicit. We don't want to admit it but it grabs us by the throat and makes us look it in the eye; It says to us: Houses are where bad things happen and bad people live...
    Except for Jeff and Charlie, all the above people (in my illustration) were solidly and irrevocably homed. Even Jeff and Charlie spent a great deal of their time homed and Charlie instigated his most brutal and noteworthy atrocities while homed at the Spahn Ranch. My point is, obviously, that the one thing that connects all these ten social monsters is the fact that they all lived in-doors for a significant portion of their lives. I'll go so far as to challenge any reader of this letter to offer me a list of bad people that did not live in a house. Give me ten bad people that did not live in a house (good luck with that) and I will counter you with a list of fifty who did. Give me fifty, I'll give you one-hundred-and-fifty. We'll stop there. Just because.
    Anyway, when wars are fought, they are generally fought out in the open air. But when tortures occur, they generally occur behind closed doors…which are attached to walls…which are what houses are made of. Similarly, if you just feel like shooting someone you can do that in an alley or a subway or out in the street. But if you want to "teach them a lesson they'll never forget", or make them "wish they'd never screwed with you", or get back at them for "using your toothbrush", well, you need to "get them somewhere where you can really drive your point home". Get it? Home.
    Houses are where bad people live and bad things happen.
Armed with this new information, the next time you see a homeless guy urinating on someone's front lawn you'll do well to measure what is happening out front against what may possibly be happening inside. The next time you are stopped on the street by a homeless person asking for a little spare change, remember: He's not asking for blood; Only someone with a place to hide the body dares ask for blood; only someone with a basement, a deep, cinder-block-lined basement will attempt to extract your life-sustaining fluids. The homeless guy just wants a pint of vodka. The homed guy may well desire a pint of something you'd just as soon not part with.
    So, aside from the inescapable fact that homelessness is our natural and God-given state, and aside from the collateral fact that to give birth to a homed child is a practical absurdity and despite the fact that society forces homedness upon us even though it does us no real, earthly good there is the sobering reality of what living in a house does to the fragile human psyche. An honest examination of the problem reveals a level of depravity among homed people that would shame the Devil. And the closer you house people the more profound the effect: Look at the inner cities: Detroit, Washington D.C., Los Angeles, New York; Violence, gangs, drugs, prostitution…murder. Wide-open plains and deserts might be where the bodies get dumped, but the deed itself is done in town.
    I'll end this short essay by admitting that I have no answers. Homedness is here to stay, I fear, we are such creatures of comfort. I only know that houses are like drugs, or cigarettes, or alcohol in that we will expend enormous amounts of time, money and energy to purchase them and give little thought to the fact that, inevitably, they'll kill us.
    As long as a blind-eye is turned toward the inherent evils of homedness; as long as real estate companies are allowed to peddle their malevolent wares on the open market; as long as homelessness is looked down upon and the homeless treated like pariahs; as long as a man can march numbly from his first box to his last box and go thus into the cold ground without a second thought as to all the sunsets and sunrises and blue skies he's missed because he hid his face away inside a stale, confining, soul-shattering house; as long as I have a semi-colon at my disposal I will expose the homed and defend the homeless. I only wish I could shout my message from the rooftops but as you know, rooftops are attached to roofs which are attached to walls which are what houses are made of and houses are where bad people live and…well…you know the rest.

 

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