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thin; blonde

Cut the fence this morning; someone has. It was a section in the chain link where we'd had to open it—to get access. We had it tied with rope and some nylon straps. Anyway, they cut the rope.

There’s tent next to it—the fence—that wasn’t there yesterday. A homeless woman came on foot a little later (I hadn’t seen her leave). She went inside the tent. I don’t know if she stayed.

The workers suspect that whoever it was, they came in to use the porta-potty.

That’s who’s up at 5:30 am (besides people driving to work) is the homeless; up, wandering. They’re everywhere up and down the boulevard.

The woman, not sure if I’ve seen her before… There was a couple one time; same spot behind the garage.

I wonder about that—the couples. There’s a lot of women out there. The stuff that must go on: the violence, rape.

Yesterday, as I was driving home in traffic, a woman was walking down the street hollering, visibly upset. She went right past me. She was in tears, going on about how she doesn’t have any fucking money—every time she gets money you (who?) steal it. She kept repeating that. She looked like that one actress on Orange is the New Black, the one with the short blonde hair who is all into yoga. She actually looked better than her, prettier, and not as gaunt. I couldn’t help but feel bad. I didn’t like how desperate and upset she sounded, or the tearstreaks—like I wanted to give her some money, ten bucks or something.

I know there are services. They offer all kinds of things… but these people are so sketchy—they leave their stuff out where it gets stolen or put in the trash. Everywhere they go they leave things—clothing, camping gear, water bottles… not to mention the trash. Trash everywhere. I figure they’re sort of born that way—can’t help it. Add to that all the negative stuff—the trash; the thefts, the getting wasted, public drunk; yelling at people, acting out…

And the smell, days or months of layered B.O. ; urine often…

This morning there was this other woman—thirties, maybe early forties, also blonde—and she was walking in circles. From a distance she looked all right, even attractive; like Dido haircut and stuff—but up close she was going on and on about who knows what, this sort of frantic dialog all by herself.

And it was weird because right there on the corner, like in front of the alley behind but still in plain sight of—is this work-out place, this one where everyone is like out and can be seen from passer-bys, cars, what have you—I guess that’s the style: where you pump iron and whatever so everyone can see—anyway… a lot of the patrons at that time are women. They’re all buffed-out, kind of large (not fat) from pumping iron and doing all sorts of strength training; ropes, and flipping big tires—like if any of them were juiced they’d be huge.

So there’s these women lifting weights at 7 in the morning, probably paid a lot for this—in their work-out gear, looking all healthy, rugged or whatever; and then there’s this homeless woman—right around the same age as them—she’s wearing these hip-hugger jeans and boots, like retro biker boots with the metal ring on the side from the seventies; which is current, even fashionable, but it’s all a bit too ragged upon closer inspection— and she’s wandering in circles right there on the other side of the wrought iron bars, her face is too tan; sun burnt, and her eyes are too red while she babbles away, circling aimlessly…

I see all this as I’m waiting to turn there, waiting to cross the heavy traffic, wondering if she even knows a car will be coming as she circles in the street, while all the other people, the drivers—are going to work like I’m going to work, only my work is right there, right down this little dead end side street that ends at the golf course.

Soon the sprinklers will shut off for the day, and the people will be playing a round while I’m working. I don’t know what that woman does; any of them do, all day; in the night. I will go home to my house, with my roof and permanent walls thirty miles away. I will take a shower and later, I will have dinner with my family…


Kevin what city do you live near?

So very different from where I live, rural small town America, where everyone knows your name and you know theirs. Your story makes me appreciate where I live.
Plasticweld;bt4289 said:
Kevin what city do you live near?

So very different from where I live, rural small town America, where everyone knows your name and you know theirs. Your story makes me appreciate where I live.
I live in an 'unincorporated' (un-taxed by any city) part of L.A. County. I commute to Venice which is part of L.A.
As i've got old i've tried not to.
Seeing, hearing, feeling, it gnaws y'know? And i just can't carry that weight.
And to think of all the people who pass them and say or do nothing day-in, day-out. Or worse still, harass.
Re: Passers-by,

doesn't mean they don't care Smith. Responding can create, and leave, such an awful mess. Personally, i've got enough baggage of my own.

Of course, I understand that. People have their own lives, and the responsibilities and baggage that come with them. Not everybody has the time or ability to help.

But all it takes is one person out of the thousands, one time out of 365 times a year, to make a difference. That's the point I was trying to make. I doubt giving them old clothes or some lunch or a little money could create more of a mess than that of which they're already in. ^_^

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