I started this blog with the intent to show the invisible people, the ones living on the streets, under the overpass, huddled by the highway exits surviving tooth and nail in a city that does not see them.
I’m a creator and the challenge as such is to stay on track and not fall in to the trap of continual conception with not enough time to follow trough.
The blog is back on, morphed in to yet another version of the original but I have no intention to join the hordes sporting blinders.
I often run in to people falling between the cracks, I try help where I can, which isn’t much but the very least I can do is bring home made hot meals on the nights when the chill eats trough every layer of clothing and no windbreaker will cut the cold knawing away at the bones.
I myself live on a construction site going on my 3rd winter without heat, I’m doing so by choice, perhaps ill adviced, my choice all the same.
Some days are harder than others but I know a thing or two about enduring cold, have the gear for it and also happen to be fairly knuckle headed.
The people on the street have no thermal clothing, no walls to shield, no food and no way to escape the damp that kills.
The burgeoning shanty town a few miles down the road is populated by individuals who are slipping right amongst us.
Another camp further west of me is largely Hispanic, male and undocumented, living and sleeping in the mud flanking the Metra tracks.
To the south of me the homeless aging Polish non English speaking laborers drink their way to oblivion.
I kept an eye on a older homeless gent who fought his way north out of deep southside ghetto only to run out of steam as middle age, lack of education, prejudice and mental illness encroached.
Last time I saw him the strings he ties tightly wound around his fingers as a means of distraction from the crippling anxiety had eaten in to his flesh and caused infection.
He was in a good mood despite of the seeping wounds on his hands as it provided a guaranteed spot in a shelter.
I haven’t seen him since and I wish for him to find a pocket of safety where he can remain.
I can’t do anything for these people.
I have no money to give, no magic ticket to a clean bed.
A bowl of soup only lasts for a few hours and anyone on the street knows the anxiety wondering where the next will present itself never leaves.
Next, next, next..
The shelters are overflowing with displaced people from all walks of life knees buckling under the weight of being alive.
I met runaways who thinks the rough and tumble life of the street is better than the oppression of their homelife.
It’s all here, on the street, in plain view.
You brush past it everyday on your commute between work and safety of four walls.
Even if you do not want to get involved, the smallest act of solidarity will galvanize these dehumanized individuals,
100 times out of 100 when I explain I have no cash to spare but I can run back home to make a sandwich the answer is Yes.
Pack a extra apple, if you leave the restaurant with a doggy bag give it to the guy sitting on the sidewalk and by all means, buy a extra cup of coffee on your daily routine and give it away. You dont have to get involved, instead of bringing your old coats to the resale shop, give it to the beggar on the corner who sleeps in a doorway, the gesture requires minimal effort.