FORT HOOD, THE REAL HALLOWEEN, AND MORE BUS ADVENTURES

Just a quick post on this, the last day of the New Year for witches like me...

The events in Fort Hood make me appreciate my ability to see the spiritual-- and spirit- side of life. No one that can see this life for the (wonderful) illusion that it is would ever take a life-- another person's or their own.

Further I think that if your religion does not uplift you, and make you feel more love and understanding for the world, and compassion for yourself when something happens that you do not like-- than you need to find another religion.
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Tonight is the "real" Halloween, Samhain. The Magickal New Year. Check out my Conjurings blog for more details.

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The current winner in the "adventures on public transportation" contest is from this Thursday in Torrance. The bus I was on was stopped at gun point by no less than four police cars. Everyone had to get off the bus with their hands in the air while the bus was searched. Two young people had gotten on the bus following a house burglarly.

Criminals are spectacularly stupid these days. The girl had bright red hair -- blood red, not red-head red-- and the boy either had a tattooed face or had drawn tatoos on his face with ballpoint or a blue sharpie. Even for some really scary gang like MS-13-- and I have seen one of their face tatooed members in 7-11 near the Van Nuys jail-- this kid seemed very young to have that many legit prison and gang tatoos, and it looked lumpy and shiny, although again that could have been sweat and ink that produced an allergic skin swelling.

I was about 25 minutes late for work.

TOODLE ON!!!

WHY PEOPLE HATE PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION

My experience with public transportation has been very intense in the last year. I have lived without a car for three years now, but a year and a half was in St. Louis. I walked to and from my job, and when I did take the train or bus it was not as crowded or as, uh, intense. Not so many homeless, crazies, and wildly disparate differences between the population, etc.

Riding public transportation in Los Angeles is an experience. It will age you. Your innocence will be taken from you. In fact, I think this is true of American cities in general. In London and Paris it-- the tube, la metro-- is celebrated.

The New York subway system is the most extreme. Chicago could be a little dicey when I lived there (back in the 1980's), but I remember it being relatively safe. I think we are just not a very civilised country. Our culture often reminds me of spoiled, selfish children always demanding to have it their way. This is very visible in the way people interact with each other in public, and especially on public transportation.

One Sunday morning awhile back I was on the 224 bus from the NoHo red line station going to a friend's house in Toluca Lake. An extremely filthy homeless man sat in the very front seat near the driver, amusing himself by pissing and shitting himself. The smell was almost unbearable.

When situations like this arise in my life, if I am not threatened or angered, I try to view the inconveniencing situation as a learning opportunity. Why would this man feel this way? Bowel movements are the most taboo function, moreso than sex. And hated for their smell and bacteria and downright lack of dignity. No human-- from Madonna the singer to her namesake--can be pristine or saintly or glamourous when taking a dump.

I surmised that people that live on the streets are forced into contact with their own lack of dignity to such a degree that any anger against society could be sated by committing this act in the presence of the landed gentry.

On that same bus line, but headed the other direction, towards the hospital, one morning a pregnant woman pee'd on her seat and neglected to inform anyone. Another woman sat down, with the resulting wet spot and faint smell. She had to go to work, was too far from home to turn around, and just shrugged it off with as much dignity as she could.

She is why I always test a seat before I sit in it. Even if it's just with my bare hand, I'd rather have someone's pee on my finger than soaked in my pants.

I've been spattered with coffee--including my own-- on the early morning 720. Apparently, there is no way to drive an express bus smoothly down Wilshire boulevard. I see men with their feet up on the seats and whenever something --dirt, debris, etc-- is on a seat I guess it is from someone's shoes.

Yesterday, after riding three buses and one train for three hours to my job, then working for six hours, and about an hour into my return trip back to Inglewood, I had a lovely public transportation moment.

As the train became more crowded, I put my purse on my lap so the seat next to me would be open. I was tired, hungry, in pain and irritable. A big, bald, prison worked-out and tatted guy sat down next to me with a box filled with vomit-looking chili-cheese fries and burger. He had a small styrofoam cup with ice and some watermelon soda, and a tall can of the opened soda.

If you wonder what is like to be "psychic", this is a good example. I almost shut down in huge crowds. It is too much of an information overload. It's like trying to smell the roses near a manure pile. I'd rather go smell the roses in the park. It's just not worth it.

(Except in what I call The Highlander Experience. That is, when another witch or psychic is in the vicinity. And sometimes, when someone I know is nearby, although I ignore that usually unless I can physically see them.)

Vomit Burger, as he shall henceforth be named, set the can on the floor and as he did I "saw" the soda on my right shoe and my wheelie bag. I was so exhausted and had been so looking forward to napping for the next thirty minutes, and the guy was so creepy, that I almost just said "f--k it."

But then the thought of the long express bus ride that came after the train, and then the last bus or the mile walk, with that sickly sweet smell on me and my stuff...

"Dude, seriously, that can on the floor," I said to him. "Let me change seats."

He looks at me and I see that he is high. Probably stoned but could be decent pharmaceuticals. His pupils are dilated and his eyes are glassy in a pot or dulling, barbituate way. He's got a lot of nasty, angry spirits around him and later I will wonder about a disturbing image among a bunch of images from his mind--mostly the burger and drink and the satisfaction of eating it, how hungry he is, waiting in the line for the food and then rushing to the train and being able to sit and eat.

Among the mundane and most recent, is a long metal piece being run into someone's throat. I think it is this guy's throat, but I can't tell. Later I will guess the image is in a prison, and will be soon, or is somewhat recent, if it was something he witnessed.

I stand up to move, and he juggles his food and drink, and I juggle my purse and wheelie. For some reason I will never understand, Vomit Burger puts the can on the floor in the middle of the aisle, right in my way. My wheelie knocks it over. My sense of humour laughs at this coincidence, and later I will wonder if the laughter leaked out of me, spurring his wrath.

Vomit Burger roars in anger. I say I'm sorry, but it does no good. It just angers him more. He follows me with his can of soda and comes over to where I am about to be seated-- next to a guy who is so stoned and reeking he can hardly keep his eyes open, but hops up toot sweet when Vomit Burger tosses the rest of his watermelon soda on me (my right shoe, hem and wheelie bag) and on the subway seat.

Since we like to pretend that apathy is civility, no one even blinks an eye. A few curious glances, but even after a minute the stoner dude sits back down. On the soggy watermelon soda seat. He lifts his ass as he realises this, and then makes a Peace sign at me, to show me that all is well and his peace of mind is not disturbed.

Later, I will interpret this as a dream, and decide Stoner Dude is a reminder that you can always choose what Universe to inhabit among the multiverse around you.

(I have not satisfactorily found a single response to what Vomit Burger represented in this incident. Although one thing I think is clear is that as I evolve and I am less shaped by my interactions with men like this, my insulation from them decreases as well. I have witnessed this with the police lately, too. I have had several boyfriends that were just amazed at what amounted to almost complete protection from interactions with the police. One boyfriend attributed this to the amount of "cop cum" I had on my hypothetical aura. In the last year I have had several interaction with the police as well, most notably jaywalking tickets.)

I stand, and after Vomit Burger finishes eating his namesake, he turns around in his seat, his head swiveled like a crazed cholo owl, and glares at me menacingly. I move around so that I don't have to see him. He keeps moving so that he can continue to glare at me.

This is a man who loves watermelon soda more than anything else on earth, including his own peace of mind, or public peace.

When the train becomes so crowded there is very little standing room, he muscles his way through the crowd (I note that no one is sitting next to him). People clear away from him as much as they can. He is very scary when enraged. He reminds me of the men I knew as a teenager; as a runaway.

He curls an arm around the pole in between the doors. He leans as close to me as he can, like a snake about to strike.

I am glad that I am a woman, because if I were a man he would follow me and beat me up, I know it.

"I know you did that on purpose, and I just want to let you know that I NEVER forget a face!"

In a minute or two I will want to cry, but right now I am full of adrenaline and my own anger. I wish I had to guts to really shout at him, but this is one step from a public incident, and I don't want that.

I am furious, though. I am sick of people spilling crap on me. I am sick of spitting men that put their feet on the seats and bring open cans that YOU KNOW are going to spill onto moving trains.

I am sick of being surrounded by so many humans. I am tired of eating furtive bagels and snacks on the bus or train, or eating at bus stops. I am sick of constantly being in such close proximity to assholes like Vomit Burger.

All I manage is a heartfelt, "I didn't do it on purpose!"

"Sure is coincidental!" He sneers at me. "I won't forget you." He turns and wobbles to his seat.

"You are going to terrorize a woman? Great!" I shout feebly, to his retreating back. He has shut me out. Nothing I say matters to him. I am the enemy.

A kid with a tough look on his face, listening to an iPod, looks at me in alarm, his face filled with honest fear, then moves to another location.

I want to cry. I am so worn out. And worse, here is another instance where my "gift" is against me. I see very clearly and suddenly the skeins of exhaustion, hunger, poverty, and loss of self-centreing that made my "tone" the same as his. Even his anger is similar to mine.

The world is frustrating both of us. I wanted a peaceful quiet companion. I was looking forward to sleeping. He wanted a seat to eat his munchies. While I do not respond violently anymore, I am certain my temper is as bad as Vomit Burger's.

This is the most exhausting part of my personality. Even when I am badly hurt by someone else, I see their perspective, and feel their feelings. I believe this is why I had so many bad experiences when I was younger. And why I attracted so many violent and rapacious men.

And the presence of Karma is suffocating. This is time for me that is rich with Karma. And whatever has just happened is tied heavily to my past with men like this, to the greater spiritual reasons that I am homeless, underemployed, and without a car right now.

The skeins and threads intertwine other people on the train, but I do not rationally know why. I am used to this. I know that after I die and leave this life I will be able to follow every interaction with every single person in every single moment of my life all the way to its' orgin, and to the end of its' effect. So I mostly don't worry about it.

Except now I am concerned about this guy.

Thankfully he gets off at MacArthur Park, one stop before mine. I breathe with relief, but then the fear unblocks and I want to cry. I wish there was someone to hug me and let me cry. But I am dangerously close to missing the express bus, and it is a one hour wait if I do.

I hurry down to the bus stop. I question a lady at the bus stop, but she doesn't know if the bus came by. I am four minutes early, but on this bus the drivers don't seem to care. In fact, this particular driver is always very rude, very intentionally jerky with the brakes, and very fast and often early.

No bus should ever be early. Late is hassle enough, but early! Stop and wait. It should be grounds for suspension or something. A fee. Too tardy is bad, but early is the worst, especially on these lines where there is only one bus on the route.

The bus arrives after a minute, three minutes early...

To be continued...*

TOODLE ON!!!

*I don't have time to write anymore! Or edit! Sorry for any typos!!!

CROWS, SQUIRRELS, AND THE LIZARD

The most difficult thing about being homeless- even when all of your wonderful friends let you sleep on their couches or spare beds- is that you are never alone. You never have space, except while sleeping, where you are not being observed, or are not in public.

It would be easier if I had a car. Not only would I be able to stay anywhere in the city, including at homes up in the hills, or the canyons, where there are no buses or sidewalks, but I could just sleep in my car.

But there are some things that this "crisis" has clarified. I see many things in my life that were draining me. They are not what I thought they were. It does not drain me to safekeep my mother and my grandmother's things. Even though it is those bills that have landed me here...or perhaps "un"-landed me, I should say.

What drains me is that I cannot do a better job at being the guardian of my family's history and growth.

It am invigorated by being necessary in the lives of other people, even when their needs override my own. But I am drained by my own generosity in overlooking the weaknesses of others. This is always so that I can either be "stronger" or in hopes that my own weakness will be overlooked. It is not rational or evolved. It is created from my own lack of self-esteem. And it creates unstable relationships that foster and promote weakness.

Being homeless is like being in a room full of mirrors. You can see yourself and your behaviours and motivations from every angle. You can also see very clearly the parameters of your relationships with others.

Since autumn of 1981 the point of reference for many of my transformations has been my friend the Lizard. Being on public transportation makes it very difficult to get down to see him in the South Bay, but I always know that if I need a place to stay I can make the trek.

Since I last visited (on our mutual birthday back in January), the Lizard has become the Squirrel King. They wait for him. They come right up to the door to get peanuts and hazelnuts and grapes (only a few cultured palates enjoy the last).

The crows know him, too. He doesn't like the crows because they steal peanuts from the squirrels.

I like the crows. I know that they are mean to other birds, but I still care for them. They are my friends in this world and the next. They are messengers to and from the other world, and often when I see them they are thus employed. So I enjoy the opportunity to observe them in their mundane existence.

The peanuts are put out on the fence and also on the ladder near the door. A young raven appears in the branches above the fence. Swiftly, two large fish crows land in a tall birch or pear tree nearby.

The squirrels do not fear the peanut gods, and come right up to the door. They will take nuts from the Lizard's hand. The crows continue their unholy observance-- dark lords peering down from above, waiting for opportunity to appear.

One of the fish crows flies away to a nearby telephone pole and caw-caw-caws. I cannot tell if he is looking for other options, or trying to call his posse. Crows work in gangs. They go in as a team with the idea that some will be defending and fighting, but some will obtain food. It is worth the risk. This time you may not get a peanut, but next time you will.

Eventually the crows give up. The squirrels are out in force and fighting each other. In attempt to prevent the squirrels from burying the peanuts (the possum and racoons dig them up), the Lizard shells the peanuts.

I am comforted by the steadiness of nature and animals. The consistent presence of my decades old friendship. I have gone from worm to cocoon to butterfly and back this year, but my friend and his quiet world remain constant.

The sky is blue, the ocean breeze is cool, the squirrels are healthy and well-fed, and my life continues on.

I am certain of myself once more.