Tired eyes

Words alone cannot properly convey the surreal feeling of being thrust back into reality after a relaxing vacation.  The carefree feeling of basking in the sun fades away, replaced by a sense of URGENCY!!! and DEADLINES!!!!  Slowly, the memories of the weekend drift away like a child’s balloon aloft in the springtime breeze.  Further and further away the balloon sails, slowly replaced by the weight of the real world.  For every single rose that blooms, there are many weeds to pull. 

 

As the light chill of the morning air set the stage for my stroll through Santa Ana, the mesh of homes, businesses, and construction projects played out the drama of city living.  The concentration of activity typifies life in an urban setting.  The sound of traffic, leaf blowers, construction, and snippets of multi-lingual conversations merge together in a veritable Jackson Pollack portrait of metropolitan chaos.

 

Passing by one of the local fast-food places, I noticed the faces of some of the sadder residents of the city – the homeless.  Since this is the county seat, and the local home to many social programs, the city streets are home to many a desolate resident.  On the one hand, I am not particularly sympathetic to individuals who simply do not want to have to be responsible.  That whole hippy-artiste-whiner-bohemian mentality, a la the cast of Rent, needs a good swift kick in the rump and a job!  But these aren’t the people that I am talking about.  I am talking about those who, as a result of some cruel twist of fate, found themselves in this limbo form of life.  They have managed to successfully live off of the fringes of society for years – an accomplishment indeed.  Some faces I have seen repeatedly.  There is the dark-skinned woman who, like clockwork, rifles through the trashcans out in front of the house on Monday mornings.  There is the curly white-haired woman who pushes her overloaded shopping cart around civic center plaza throughout the afternoon, taking a break now and again to read a discarded paperback or listen to a book on tape on her beat up old tape player outside of Paul’s church.  There is the very old woman who reminds me of a stereotypical immigrant Russian grandmother.  Methodically, she pushes her luggage cart up and down the sidewalks, looking as if she could fall over at any moment – only to trudge on day after day, her face always looking the same.  There is the withered older man in long beard and flight suit.  He looks calm, tan, lean, but always, always tired.  They all share several things in common.  They have an innate sense of survival, and a determination to keep going.

 

What happened to these people to lead to this fate?  We’re not talking about the up-n-coming movie star who falls to drugs and alcohol only to end up beat up, bruised, and on the street to die a quick and tragic death.  We’re not talking about the stupid twink strung out on crystal meth.  Not once have I seen any of them with a bottle or a syringe.  Not once have I seen any of them approach anyone for a handout.  We’re talking about people who have perfected the skills of survival.  Their withered faces each carry a sense of longing – longing for memories of a life lost?  Longing for an end to the daily struggle of survival?  Longing for what? 

 

I cannot but feel a sense of pain for these people.  Every day, I walk by them dressed for work with my briefcase in hand.  We could not appear more different.  I appear professional and educated, whereas they appear filthy and fatigued.  Yet, who is really more educated?  These faces have probably seen more of reality than I could possibly even imagine.  They have perfected the skills of survival, whereas I ride the conveyor-belt of organized society.  If some natural disaster hit the state, who would be better prepared?

 

As I neared my office, I noticed another face to add to the faces of the homeless.  Hanging from her cart, a clean and whole shopping bag from “The Alley” hung proudly, holding who knows what.  I had to chuckle, realizing that there was a very good possibility that that bag had come from the trashcans outside our house.  Far better use for it than ending up in a landfill, I figure.

 

With one little stroke of fate, any one of us could become any one of them.  Tired, withered, tanned faces.  Tired eyes that have seen sadness, and taken delight at the simplest things that many of us take for granted. 

 

May their pillows of stone be soft tonight on their tired heads.

Me n' my big fat mouth!

 ARGH!!!!!!

Why, oh why, oh WHY is my social filter always 2-seconds slow?

My boss and I both went on vacation at the same time.  I went to Palm Springs, and he took a cruise to Cabo.  He got back today, and we began comparing tans.

"I'm darker than you," he said.

"No, you're not." I retored.

"Dude, just look at my color.  I am way tanner than you."

"Pfft!" I retorted.  "Who cares if you think you're darker.  Mine goes all the way down."

SILENCE

I just wanna die now.