The Homeless Writer

A short narrative detailing the life of a homeless writer

Food is never a problem. It's everywhere, literally. If you know where to look. Fresh steamed fish from the corner delicatessen for breakfast. Pulled from the trash bin, wrapped in foil, it's still warm. For lunch, there's half a pizza, and a small container of French fries. These are pulled from the trash bin seconds after the original owner discards them. There's no time for contamination, putrefaction, or spoilage. It's wholesome, nutritious food at it's best, and it's absolutely free. Often times, with the correct knowledge, and know how, ample food can be procured from nature. Wild onion tubers, mesquite pod meal, pecans, wild grapes, they're all available if you know where to look.

In the afternoons I lounge on the library steps, a book in one hand, coffee in the other. Reading supplies me with the necessary knowledge to survive. It also inspires me to work, or rather write. Most days I write for two to three hours. If I manage to sell a piece of my writing I treat myself to a nice dinner, fresh tobacco, or even new clothes. I write on my small netbook, plucking away at the small keys with my grubby fingers.

In a nameless, hidden corner of the city I hunker down in my cubby hole of a room underneath a major overpass. I say cubbyhole, but it's actually the size of a very small room. The ceiling is mere inches from my head and I can barely touch both of the walls with my finger tips if I stand in the middle of the room with my arms outstretched. I seal off the doorway with an old wool army blanket. Several rusty pipes run through the room in one corner. In the winter they emit steam. My small wooden table and chair occupy most of the room. My sleeping bag is spread out on the ground. Several dozen newspapers are piled up throughout the room. They come in handy as make-shift paper towels and toilet paper.

Reading and writing informs me, both physically and mentally, of what is most important in each moment. Often times this sensation is too abstract to classify or describe using words. There seems to be an underlying essence to just about everything that can be tapped into if you are adequately informed and pay attention to what is happening. For instance, this morning on the subway, I was reading this hard-boiled detective novel, gritty, intense, and sometimes unbearably boring and cliche. I was struggling with my boredom and was quickly losing interest in the novel when all of a sudden the subway car lights went out for several seconds and the car rumbled violently over a rough section of track. When the subway lights suddenly came back on I immediately noticed that my interest in the novel had intensified. It was almost as if the gritty, bleak world of the novel itself had momentarily come alive inside the subway car when the lights went out and the car lurched from side to side. In that one moment the essence of the novel, and how it related to my world had been made clear. I stayed on the subway for several more hours until I had finished the entire novel. I spend many days in this reverential mode of attention and exploration, both in the universe of books and in my every day life. It's the lifestyle I have chosen to live, and it allows me to follow my passions, reading and writing.

There are five separate branches of the library throughout the city, all of which I visit regularly. I know many of the librarians, and I often ask for their assistance in editing and revising my writing. There are also many book stores I frequent, although I seldom have enough money to purchase books. In my room, tucked away inside a large brown paper bag are the seven books I currently own, these are my most highly cherished possessions.

At night I sit at my desk and either write or read, depending on which is pulling me with a greater force of gravitation at the given moment. In the winter it is cold enough to see my breath, so I wrap my sleeping bag around my body and continue reading and writing. Winters inside of my room provoke a strong desire within me for Victorian literature. At these times my writing itself is spiced with a Victorian twang that is very pleasing. I also find myself reading large amounts of eastern European and Russian literature in the winter. Something about the intense chill of winter points me towards all of those wonderful books that have originated from cooler regions of the world. In this way I learn to appreciate the cold. It becomes a part of my existence, so I read about it, and I write about it.

There's a certain elusive luxury that exists in coming to know a very large city on an intimate level. I'm not talking about the restaurants or movie theaters or popular night life spots. I'm talking about the odd, smelly emissions coming from the metal grates in the side walks, whether it be steam, sewage, air, or an unidentified odor, sometimes nice, sometimes revolting. The city breathes, and speaks a language all it's own. I know all of the smells, sights, sounds, and emotions by memory. The city has me in her grasp, and she talks to me. I don't always understand, but sometimes things come together and I realize the city has revealed something precious to me. One time I was sitting on a bench on the waters edge, on one of the long piers overshooting the harbor. It was dawn and the sun was just about to come up and everything was a light shade of blue, but still deeply shadowed. I had been writing all night and was exhausted, and feeling somewhat defeated. I was hungry, cold, and lonely. A strong breeze came off the harbor carrying mist from the sea. The cool seawater pulled me from my depression. One of the boats let loose a loud trill from it's horn and I suddenly realized the city was talking to me. I listened carefully, not just with my ears but with everything I had. The morning blossomed into orange and red hues as the sun rose above the water and the city made it clear that I was her child. I remember feeling warm and peaceful in that moment. Everything was pure and just and I was compelled to read, so I pulled a book from my coat pocket and began to read.

Author's Note

All comments are welcome. Thank you for reading my story!

Reviews

[Marie]

THis writer is not homeless, but seems to have found a very special home. Reading and writing, and food just lying around...