Hmmpf. I'd say that this is a poor time to try to compose a blog, yet I ought to reflect upon the fact that it is a newly endowed holiday upon the internet media masses, and I'd been huge on keeping up to date about news, lately.
On one hand, it's a bit of a difficult space for me to fulfill, as I've had personal problems laying out broad forefront stuff, of my memorable or reclaimable self and identity. Meanwhile, though, the rallies and gatherings in community that have been showing up, in front of City Hall, [DTLA], as much as I had been, for the birds - suggests that this is a time of needful reform, and of re-affiliation with what makes us, or draws us apart, from one another.
I feel people out with their present and portrayal self - I get scant scud junk, much of the time, as far as voices that persecute me, in my mind. I imagine that they've got no oversight, and no cares towards a sense of authority, and maybe they've got a simply subjective framework of identity, from their look at themselves, and they'd perhaps neglected to know what was being lost, in the eyes of others.
On some level, I saw it, myself, this morning. I'd tried to work out a standard work week, of a day's shift work, and heading home for the night. I made it through it, with well enough for showing up merits about myself, yet last night I stayed awake, in anticipation of getting my MacBook Air back from Apple Service repair. I had [then] unimaginable resource of capability offered to me on a desktop publishing platform that is the default landscape view of the widescreen - different, most certainly, from the handheld columnar profile of the mobile tablet or, in my case, my cheap Android base model phone.
In any case, I feel like I'd made some ground in attaining some unimagined knowledge and know-how, while scrumming around, on the internet, trying to get my stake and claims in, of the unemployment and worker's benefits programs, that had been distributed en masse, as well, along with developing and ongoing topics, largely of crisis and critical mass, in society. Perhaps some of the folks who are showing up in to town, recently, from elsewhere, had likewise, been disassociated from the latest in developments in what was afforded to society, as far as civil rights, which is a bit more consideration than I typically offer people, of what imaginative forms embellish themselves upon me, in life; whereas that sort of evocative muse ideation was simply a fleeting moment, for me, while in the bathtub, and I'd just got engaged, sort of celebration, type of thing.
But I leave it alone, it's been known, and reputed of me. I've (sure), I've failed at it, previously, as the formerly known of, as it was - from the talk-ups of which I could now recall, in my memory: "the lost puppy," that I was. A hopeless straggler, of some form of desperate lonesome sort, who'd been abused, in the mind, looking at others, hoping that someone would fulfill some empty facet of self, in personality, through something engaging and life-re-affirming. Something like love.
I chose what had become familiar, and I feel like I'd largely believe of myself, the same that I'd see in others, for what I'd known of people, at that stretch of time-span, that it was, up until my quaternary isolation, for a new web of "all sorts," whereas I was taken by stuff that I was in to, on the web, and that feels like it's so recently familiar for me, although it began happening to me when I turned 30 years old, 8 years ago, from this point in time. From then until now, it's still largely been a mystery, and a jumble of miscommunications, poor timings, and lots of the same ol' stuff substances-seeking behavior, going on, of what I could muster, in life, of what felt like the good life, for a long stretch of time, in my earlier young adult years, when I'd attended university, and paired off with someone.
During that time, I'd developed upon my earlier youthful culture side-loading ingestions of hip-hop, psychedelia, and black metal music had formed of me, heading in to college with a unique and adventurous optimism over social bonds that had developed quickly, suited to my deeper sense of needfulness, in affection, which was fulfilled through meeting my [then] girlfriend, whom I'd developed a relationship with, over the course of nearly 6 years, from that point.
That being said, it's a long stretch of time, in terms of young adulthood, even at my age - which is 38, at this point, of conceivable extent of relationship that lasts, and is tolerated, for the mess that we make of it; each to our own, yet, over the years, I'd learned much more significantly to acknowledge my own shortcomings, in recognizing when I was known, most certainly, by others, for what I would hide, of admission - as what would inevitably show itself playing out, in the lives of others, as I traversed around the locales of Los Angeles, as a homeless person, with no particular bond or draw on society; much - not many people much spoke to me, during those years.
Yet, through much of the fog of what young adult life turns out, in being, for whatever ills that we ingest, and take of and upon ourselves, in knowing that we'd been brought up differently, for one thing; for another thing, we'd largely failed at socialization in life, for choosing to bring others in to our web of internalized problems and fantasies. As I got older, I became much more secure with being left to myself, and then, one day, I faced a reality of that people would deny me my former autonomy, irregardless.
Even with this, in mind, I [somewhat] have a sense of that I just don't know, off hand, "who" does that to me. I figure, then I think about it, and then I remember, and it's just simply unpleasant, and I dissociate from the occurrence of ‹ some › people's images, in my mind, for what I'd believe that I know about them.
For me, though, bringing things back in to present-day relevance, I find that the person who causes those problems, for me, has rarely seemed to have been a black compatriot, that I'd known, over the course of the various distinctions and stages in which I was brought up - through my parents themselves, through the teachings of the Bible, from kids who stole me away from that stuff, and from my parents' establishment of a more stable framework, in life, to university, where I had mostly free roam over the choices I had, given responsibilities to fulfill.
The loving care towards each other, and the burdens that we, as outsiders of what is much more, (for most people of Los Angeles), to bring it into the scope of exploring and living out lifestyle-locales, such as South L.A., which is a vast expanse of territory of segregation by choice, to a large degree, based on fear that's been wrought of our minds, of cultural "others" in society.
Black people have the kind of devoted and loving kindness towards others, whereas people draw fearful notions of them gathering in large groups - of the sort that sometimes brings tears to my eyes, of a truthful and genuine sort. For me, they carry that kind of needed facet of togetherness, in society, whereas I feel like I can relate, not for my own distinct "otherness," of my various stages of upbringing, but of what black people had, here and there, adopted, of me, for what I could offer, for them, of various things, or for things I was good at, sort of thing. I somewhat largely felt like a tourist, sometimes.
But one thing I never do is disrespect a man for what's good, or better, about him, for what he could portray of himself, whereas I somewhat walk a thin line, it might seem - yet I'm woefully offered consideration, for publishing stuff, in timely-enough documentation, given that people are - out here, constantly pushing for the ends of structured society, for the types of things that I just don't care to remember, or reiterate. Yet I feel like some people would care to impose upon youth, yet again, the mistakes and transgressions, upon God's word, in the Bible, which some people simply seem to have altogether none of it, whatsoever, when I encounter them, out in the wild.
These types of things matter. Cock don't matter, color don't matter, it don't matter, much, what some people say - in certain sorts of frames of mind, yet these are still common faulty beliefs of much of society, in to the youthful adults that come shored up, out in California. We get it out of them, in casual inferences, or moreso as unwitting slips of the slight, that comes to transpire, of what people seem to simply feel is themselves, whereas I'd be like, "nah... you just can't... you can't be that, anymore, sort of thing. You'd have to leave town, or something." [sort of thing].
The golden era of that sort of dissonant self, in expressing identity - comes to a concrete slab, of patient Christian identity, which, for whatever reason, for what, or whatever, I feel that the Christian identity is also, likewise, strongly represented in the black people, and they'd support a kick to the curb of a person on their way out of town. It goes deep, sometimes, out in Skid Row. It gets of on poo poo moments out in the open, yet people are not quite brought in, for arrest, for having to pare down to their bare and most human self, circus that it might be, aside from all that.
Then, the pigeons-carnival of that which is the rest of downtown, is a large mix of so many other people. I don't know much of some other cultures I observe, yet I try to keep it upscale, and classy, after leaving Skid Row. But, as I'd offer, in affording someone new, some perspective in, on local culture - take in all of Los Angeles, with an open mind, when you meet me as a local guide, but some people... they're just trying to get out and rob me, for my devices, and stuff. But I feel like it would establish enough controversy, over time, for people to simply know better. Maybe it's my mind, that they rob me of, but some people love me, here and there, and some people seem to just be afraid of affectionate love, from another, whereas the device simply seems to show out, as the more compelling form of moment to gain, whereas the person is largely not there; for what truthfully could establish itself as compelling study in social media account portrayals of one's self. Some people are that blatant, in not otherwise being professional, of an established certification of rational and ethical merit, in life. Once therapy meets them, I'd have hoped that they could have been the fixie that fixed it - I'd done of their self, in identity; or maybe that it was lost, in the words that transpired, yet I'd feel that I'd done it to them - most surely, of spinning their mind some appropriations, in words: words that truthfully have meaning, and the lean, from the meat - or ‹ something › like that. I don't always say everything right. But usually I'm just tryna' take drugs and go feed the pigeons and sparrows, sort of thing.
That's what some people game out, as a huge stretch of my own, as well as their own, of their life, that they make of my self. I don't know. Black people don't really treat me like that. They seem to understand, as long as I know how to act, and be friendly, and stuff. It's pretty standard not all that scary, yet I feel like some people really develop this alternate self, whereas for me, I've got to show up every day - for the birds, and birds live on rational schedules; they're nature-bound creatures, by all means of God's goodness. On that note, some people simply choose to be evil, for the moment, and it's a rare shame that it happens to a vested local of so many years of Skid Row, in showing up, but if a person simply never starts doing it, then it's not quite simply like I'd believe that they're sober and drug abstinent, to a disturbing degree. Some people could admit it, for others... they're truly disgusted by the rampant drug abuse and humanitarian crisis that comes with the casual neglect of fwaunching identity out in the Skids, shittin' porta-of-potty, of on, and come back when they ass-wipe next time, for that baby doo-doo shitsicle stint, sort of thing, if it ‹ might be ›. Some people would just have none of it, whatsoever, and they end up bloody and filthy as a wrinkled old one, by the time they make it out, in being honest, in life.
Beyond that, there's so much of the arts, and of culture, that's been forcefully taken from me... sorts of faceted, deep-seated stuff, and some people just would have none of it, whatsoever, which I could somewhat understand, I'd not yet brought a friend out to Skid Row, with me, although I'd like to... I feel like they could pass, perhaps, and it wouldn't be an all-out slaughter of them, (over some reason). Yet on a day like this, I try to remain fairly grounded, and in truth, I'm doing this Scientology thing; here and there, somewhat, and it's vastly simply unfamiliar to many people, and some people just don't care - but to be worse than just "good enough, or better," was never quite, of most-latest, of tech, n' stuf, and then - that's what I've got in my backpack, and my sling bag - that's for my man-purse necessities. Then I'm collecting recyclables, and stuff.
Pretty tough to wrangle up support against me, for my backpack, and stuff, and then, even walking up to me? Pretty scarce, that they'd last very long, or really like me, for what I could offer to them.
But the bums, of today? They're somewhat not bums of just anywhere, they're showing up of on casting call basis, of scheduling, for being a stark one ‹ pigeon ›, which I do, which is okay. I'm kind of here, for bums, to walk up and try that on me, sort of thing. Sometimes, though, I just couldn't much have done any better for them, and it just ended like that. At some point - I just leave, somewhat... [in some other configurations of life, going on, sort of thing]. It gets problematic, and then, beyond entertainment - there's collecting recyclables and smoking cigarettes, yet, for the endless transcriptionist - an of on fwopp-mode bwopp, then I'm done.
