it's the Thought that counts

I've been down in the dumps lately because I feel that my writing is getting nowhere, not being read, not affecting or inspiring anyone. I leathered my spirits and shrugged it all off; what does it even matter? I always fall back on existential views for comfort.

And so I stopped writing. Which, if any one of you dear, darling readers knows or feels, is like suppressing the need to cough or scream or cry. It is physically painful to not write.

I woke up to this morning to an email from the editor of Thought Catalog. It's just a little literary website where anyone can submit a piece, list, journal entry, etc. But the email was so touching. Lance, the editor, said that the article (a list of why being homeless was the best thing to happen to me) I submitted "was a great piece, you have an incredible story to tell, and you tell it quite well." 

My heart shook a little.

Coming from a completely stranger, this was one of the most encouraging things I've heard. In the past, whenever I tell or explain to someone (friend, lover, teacher) about my life it usually ends up being used against me as criticism or they judge my family and our experience. I guess it's not too shocking to then say that I usually lie about my childhood, and it has only been this past year that I have been able to come to terms with it and look back at those times with a smile rather than a shrug. 

This truly reinstalled my faith in kindness, something I'm always trying to spread. Even the comments below my piece on Thought Catalog were genuine compliments, no judgment, no criticism, just appreciation. People were thanking me for opening their eyes to my experience, which has always been my goal as a writer. I only know one side of the world, and that side is something not many have experienced and hopefully, to a certain extent, never will.

You can see the article in all its glory here: Thought Catalog Homeless Piece

Granted, the article is right up there with "7 Pokemon on being in a Pokeball" but the fact that a handful of people took the time to read, respond, and react to something so raw a personal is a true gift. 

I am forever thankful of kindness

- The Diligent Gypsy   



   

Money Makes the World Fall Down

Money doesn't mean anything. Not even to a homeless man. 

There is a large, organic grocery store in the heart of Silver Lake. You can’t buy anything there for fewer than five dollars. It takes bourgeois food to the next level. Whenever I go there to buy groceries for my boss, I see at least one “celebrity” or someone trying to imitate that lifestyle. Welcome to Los Angeles.

Outside of this haven of gluten-free-all-natural-organic-fair-trade wonderland, is a homeless man and his shopping cart. He is there every day, limping from one side of the parking lot to the other, and back, dragging his trash bags and plastic bottles along in his rickety cart. He mumbles to himself, toothless, and tugs at his straggly beard that is surely infested with some kind of insect.

All in all, it is more than apparent that the man is not mentally and physically well. He doesn’t speak to people or ask for anything, he just yells random words at whoever casts a shadow upon him. I smile and say “Hi,” or “Good Morning,” but always receive the empty answer of a growl, or cheery days, a chuckle. Eventually, an employee will tell him to leave and he shuffles along to the other side of the road to loiter at the gas station.

On this particular day, he lingered by the trash bin playing with the cigarette butts in the ashtray atop. He flicked them and giggled, bemused by the sand flying into the air. A woman crept up to him, clutching her purse to her plump side, and toyed with a scrunched up dollar bill in her hand. She stood within arms length of the homeless man and waved the dollar bill to catch his attention. He stared at her for a moment, as if threatened, or ashamed, but then plucked the dollar bill from her hand.

After that, he pushed the dollar bill into his mouth and ate it.  

   

- The Diligent Gypsy