Going to A Coming Solution

A day WITHOUT WECare!! Yahooo!!

Well, I talked to my alcohol abuse counselor. We had a nice session. I let her know that it will probably be one of my last. She told me that WECare has this government overseen STARS program to ensure that people like me have control of their alcoholism before sending them to the job farm. I don't know what my therapist thinks. Do I have it under control or not. I think it's my therapy that keeps me somewhat in line. If I don't have to return to a piss test every week, I would be much, much worse.

Much worse.

We talk about things alcohol. It is a good session. I like talking about alcohol. I'm tired of thinking about WECare, who I'll have to be checked on by monthly. That I really don't mind. What bothers me is the damn near daily processing that goes on forever. I already have a feeling I know where this train is going to. Me jumping off of it. Let them figure that shit out when it's done. They'll be standing around wondering: 'Why the fuck??"

And that's just what I'm wondering now. Why the fuck am I doing? Or more accurately...what the fuck? I'm standing in the subway, and life is rushing by me. It's teeming in the city, boiling. It rushes past me in a blur. People going places, doing things...being things. That's the question for me. What is it that I want to be?? Do I want to be another faceless cog in the machinery? Do I really want to walk around doing menial tasks for $65.50 every two weeks? Or before that, waste good time in a job farm 'learning computers?' Or do I want to share OBSIDIAN's vision of being a beat poet? Do I even believe in that vision any longer?

I'm learning to...or re-learning ...my love of a shower and a bed. I know my distaste for the shelter system. I hated that shit, and really, I don't want to return to it. I loved the streets and the subways even less, but the scales are tipped and the weights are measured. Job farm/streets. It's very simple. The long, slow slide back into the streets, or a job working in the parks department. A job that they normally give people who break their probation, or who have committed traffic violations, such as DWI.

What will happen to my writing dreams then? What's happening to my writing dreams now??

I get off the Way and head to Madison Starbucks, my home and wait for my brother. Tonight we are going to an art show being curated by our mutual friend, Doran. When my brother arrives we head uptown to my room so that my brother can leave his bags behind. He tells me to take a few poems with me to read, because Doran would be expecting it. I choose not to. Then we take the crosstown bus over to the joint. It was a pretty lavish affair, with a wine and cheese party sunk right in the middle of a room full of photography. Come to find out that the room is filled with investment bankers.

I'm already feeling a cold dread. Doran comes upon us, all excited to see us, hugging and kissing us. He loves his openings and is bubbling over with energy. He grabs us by the wrists and whisks us away. "You HAVE to read!" He says excitedly. Shit, he must be kidding. I'm as ready as a virgin on her honeymoon night. There's no way I can get up there without anything. When Doran lets us go just feet away from the lecturn, I fall back, seeking the cover of the crowds behind me, who fade even further back from me, leaving me alone in a circle. Goddamn!!

Doran is called to the lecturn and he drags OBSIDIAN with him. I am lucky enough to be out of reach. I sigh with relief as Doran gives his speech to the raucous applause of the many. Then another person is called up to speak. I can see OBSIDIAN ordering a wine near the bar. I shake my head. I should have...I should have...then I remember....I carry poems in my book that I carry everywhere just for tight spots like these. FUCK!! I totally forgot about them. SONUVABITCH!! I look up and OBSIDIAN is at the lecturn, reciting his poetry, and the crowd goes wild. Wow. Did I really want to follow that?

Well, those are the motherfucking breaks. Doran was displeased with me, but what the Hell. I don't have anything memorized, and I'm sure that he didn't want me to walk up to the lecturn and say that I didn't have anything and walk down. That would have been worse. I rather stay out of Doran's line of sight and head over to the table full of wine, cheeses and grapes. I make myself comfortable.

OBSIDIAN is besieged upon by individuals that want to praise him for his reading. Which is good. He's rubbing shoulders. Which is what, I believe, Doran wants us to do. I am not in the mood tonight. I just don't feel the vibe. Plus, I don't feel like being the salesman that I normally feel I can be. I'm out of sorts and conflicted. Could WECare be throwing a monkey wrench into my NEED to maintain my current standard of living? Could it be that I'm losing touch of why I'm here, and what I'm doing?

I look at the photographs of the artist on the wall.

Soon, the opening is over and I find myself taking pictures of Doran, OBSIDIAN et al, once again part of the party. I have been invited back into the circle. I head off with my brother, who is besides himself. He had rubbed shoulders with some very influential investment bankers who can't see the reason why we are beat poets and not have any patrons. He gave us a few examples of investors who are looking for artists such as we to back with funding. There is no reason for us to be sleeping in the streets.

An old woman with three million dollars just for funding poets, a foundation that is looking for American poets to send to Israel and Palestine to read to their poets, and for us to teach poetry in local colleges since we do have our hands in it via the SHOUT OUT, readings in colleges and in events such as this one.

I listen to OBSIDIAN gush on and I wonder still about where am I going?

What is it that I want to do with the rest of my life. The scales are changing: Job Farm/Poet-Professor. Both held NO CERTAINTY. Well, maybe the job farm is certain that there will be a job farm there. But I'm talking about after that. A real job. DO I EVEN WANT A FUCKING REAL JOB!!!

Ugggh. I'm so fucking conflicted. I know I don't want to return to the streets. That shit almost killed me. It's been two years since I was out there. What will I do if I have to return? If I cannot find a way to stay in my SRO? I've left for the streets once in my life. TWICE is asking too much of a man. No? Tomorrow I have another appoint- ment with WECare. It will be the final intake appoint- ment. Here, they will tell me if my future is in the job farm or not. Here I will find out if it's here or the streets. Some choice, huh? It should be easy. The Job Farm, stupid!

IT's not THAT easy.

I go home thinking all this and say good night to my brother, taking all of these thoughts with me to bed.

My dreams will not be pleasant.

Hobobob