Dirt Po'

Not to be mistaken for the polluted Po River in China. Dirt Po' is a state of being so without funds you can't afford to buy a handful of dirt. A tiresome and worrisome state. Unable to enjoy a city like Austin, Texas--full of entertainment and fun places to go and things to do. Unfortunately most cost money. So I either succumb to the depression which shadows the condition or I make my own fun and entertainment. Like making a blog page to share my misery with the world--as if anyone gave a "flying fuck."



Sharing experiences with friends and "followers" might be a distraction but tonight I'm going to share photos of places I go when the shit get too deep to take anymore. I cant always go there physically but I can always shut my eyes and transcend that. I simply close my eyes and fly over mountains, plains, and vallies to a quiet spot where all you can hear is the trickle of a slow moving creek in the dead of a snowy winter or stand in awe before the roar of a most inspiring waterfall or sit atop the peak of a cloud shrouded mountain letting ice rime my beard.


Once there the fluff 'n'stuff of the real world doesn't matter. I can lose myself totally in the moment. Listen to the stream as it dodges in and out of it's icy hidy-holes. Lavish in the unique crystals of water like time is for me in that place. I can stand before a mighty waterfall and get a good grip on my own size in this world and how little my petty money problems really mean. Afterall I know in my heart that as bad as I feel about my finances there are so many people in this world so much worse off than I, it's like standing in front of the waterfall. My problems are small. I an sit atop my snowy, wind blown peak and let my problems whirled away in a gale of ice and air to wherever the wind choses to take them--just away.

I can stay in one of these retreats for seconds or hours, i don't really know but I feel cleansed, grounded and at peace with my situation in life. Afterall I have survived worse. Once back in the "real world", I can think more clearly and function more competently. Solve my own problems. And go off to find new places to fly off to.

Strangers Talk to Me

Much to the chagrin of my family and for no apparent reason I can discern, utter strangers quite often come up to me and start conversations: in stores, on the street, in parks. Just about anywhere you can imagine. Now these aren't "hi, how are you doing?" kinds of conversations. These are let me unload my life's story on you and you tell me what you think. It usually starts with a mundane comment they make (bread didn't cost this much when I was your age) to which I innocently respond. They then proceed to unload in graphic detail things like problems at home, work, illnesses, problems with the world today.

Complete strangers. They don't seem to be particularly unbalanced or schizophrenic (although there have been a few of those also.) Often times they are homeless people in the outdoor arenas but not so the women and men in department or grocery stores. I think most folk would consider this unnerving but I rather enjoy it. It is almost always educational in some way. I have met folks from all walks of life, many nationalities and cultures during these interactions.

LOL's (little old ladies) start in on the way it was when they were my age and I get a micro-history lesson. Little old men who almost seem lost as they shop for only themselves because they were widowed ten years ago. I get the kind of personal view of the world forty, fifty, or more years ago that you can't really get from books. Not with the emotion and fervor with which these people converse.

A little boy (Hilberto) kind of startled me while I was fishing one day. When I fish I almost completely zone out. He had walked up very quietly behind me and was watching me fish. He asked me in a very thick accent what I was doing and how could he learn to do it too. I always carry a second pole so I rigged it up for him to use and cast the bait into the river--all the while Hilberto chatted away about his family--mom, grandma and grandpa, brother, sisters, cousins the whole lineage. I caught a fish while we were hard at it. And he had to touch it, know what kind it was and where it came from and if it had a family like he did. We sat and he asked a million questions and told me about school and his life, as little ones are want to do. Until his grandfather showed up looking for him. Grandpa was very angry that he had wandered away and very apologetic that his grandson was being an annoyance--all in an even thicker accent than Hilberto's. He offered to pay me for my trouble and I adamantly refused and gave Hilberto the catch of the day : one twelve inch small mouth bass. He was all teeth and excitement then. He left--grandpa and fish in tow and I went home having made a new friend of sorts.

Most often my outdoor encounters with homeless folk begins with bumming a smoke. Some say "thanks" and walk off. Others unload the history of their present predicament. Disabled Vets not served well by the government. Construction workers injured badly on the job. Sometimes they bring their dogs along sometimes their spouses. I give up a couple of smokes and get more education. I'm always offered a swig of some mystery brew in a brown paper bag-which I graciously decline so as not to deprive them of the full experience. Once a man and wife team offered me a dinner of beans and toast--I gave them my catch of the day too. But always interesting yet sad stories of how they went from someone like me to living under a large shrub near a freeway entrance and making a living collecting bottles and cans to recycle. I never once felt threatened or afraid. Most often I felt sad and mad that the system would just let these folks fall through the cracks and not give a damn.

My family thinks I just have one of those faces. Like someone who gives a shit. They also think I look like a homeless person when I go fishing and that's why I attract homeless people. Personally, I think it's the look of boredom I have while shopping or the smell of cigarette smoke when I'm fishing. I wouldn't recommend this stuff to just anyone especially those faint of heart when comes to new and different aromas. But I think of these experiences as anthropological exercises. Views from the soft underbelly of the great American beast.

Lost and Unfound

I regularly find single earrings-in parking lots, on sidewalks, in parks. I gives pause. Who is it that lost their earring? Earrings are very personal statement items. Are they sad that they lost them? Are they nice people? Could I have a worthwhile conversation with them? An in depth conversation--likes, dislikes, political or religious views, kids older/younger, favorite things? I wonder if finding the loser of such things would be worth the time it might take. It may seem trivial as I'm sure it happens more often than I'll ever know--not being an earring kind of guy. But I could I make a friend. Those I always need. Just a passing ponder........