San Diego Reader

Driving over to Harrah’s Spa to use a gift certificate for a deep tissue massage, I ponder Scott Stapp’s Hide lyrics blaring over my speakers. They’ve touched my soul often over the last decade and this time was no different.

"What are you going to do with your gift dear child? Give life, give love, give soul? Divided is the one who dances For the soul is so exposed So exposed

Let's leave...oh let's get away Get lost in time Where there's no reason left to hide"

Give life, give love, give soul. That's it, isn't it? Giving. That's a key message that keeps coming back to me, over and over again. I may be starved in so many ways, but its the giving that sustains me, of my life, of my love, of my treasured psychedelic soul.

I’ve heard it said that we often have to hit the bottom of the barrel before we can see where our decisions have landed us; before we long for the fresh air at the top and begin making different choices that will enable us to get back up there. But, until we find ourselves there at the bottom, we haven’t a clue as to what the rise may entail. Doesn't seem to stop us from presuming though, does it, on what we think others should do to fix what we perceive as their problems?

“Falling apart was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to us,” said Creed guitarist Mark Tremonti about their recent reunion and the individual growth and maturity they had experienced during the hiatus. I thought to myself, isn’t that the truth.

As I sang along with Stapp on the back roads of San Diego County, I thought of our vulnerability as humans, and of how holier than thou we can be, how apathetic and proprietorial. I thought that it doesn’t matter what religious medallions we wear around our necks or what political banners we wave come November; our assumptions often get the better of us. It's shameful, but true. And yet, I've little doubt that most of us have been on both sides of that fence; we've judged as we've been judged.

As the massage therapist worked my muscles expertly, I remembered something my mother used to say to me, that I made my bed and now I’d have to sleep in it. I remembered, too, why I’m repelled by platitudes.

I am all for owning one’s actions as I believe that we are ultimately responsible for all that we do and don’t do, for all that we say or don’t say. I’ve eaten my fill of humble pie over the years, let me assure you. Odd then that I feel that I can never feel humble enough.

Perhaps for that reason, I’m a diehard believer that my conscience is the only one with which I ought to concern myself and that my particular path isn’t meant for everyone. Although I’m not a religious person, I have a good soul and aim for serenity through divinity. Don’t we all?

I know I’m not alone in my quest to be a better more selfless person. We all do our share, what we feel we can, for the benefit of others. We ladle food onto plates at community food pantries on holidays and we tithe away a percentage of our incomes as the good pastors suggest we do. Maybe, just maybe, we even toss some coinage at the homeless beggar on the street without cynicism. We may even find it in our hearts to slow down and listen to someone with a story to share, despite the fact that they may reek of urine and not be playing with a full deck. And this is good, because from what I’m seeing, there are lots of them out there—stories in need of hearing.

We all have one, every single one of us. We all ride the roller coaster of life’s highs and lows, some certainly more smoothly and efficiently than others. And, from Wall Street to Skid Row, the Common Joe has the same human needs and desires. On top of food, water and shelter, we all want to live in a world where we matter. Where we are safe, free, and respected if not also honored. I certainly do. I want that for myself and I want it for you as well.

Yet, wanting something doesn’t always make it so. Discrimination and –isms persist. Prejudices and assumptions still mar our thought processes and dictate our reactions to given situations (distinguished from responses). It’s really a damn shame that this evolution process is so excruciatingly slow. The constant trudging can be tedious, but it is what life seems to be all about regardless of my impatience.

I have an unemployed friend living on the streets, but not to worry because he’s in good company. On any given night, there are an estimated 600,000 people seeking shelter on American curbs and public benches, 40% of which are under the age of 18. Just shy of 10,000 homeless roam San Diego County, a county the size of the State of Connecticut. He’s but one of them.

This is all new to him and within a week he found himself in the police station with a slue of others who had curled up under a bridge overpass for the night. He was fined $80 for “Encampment on Public Property” and released back onto the streets.

Although there’s a plethora of reasons why people find themselves homeless, the rising joblessness rate only exacerbates the situation. The U.S. Interagency Council on Homelessness claims that supportive housing programs save states money, yet there aren’t enough beds, particularly for men. None-the-less, he’s learning fast and from those half his age.

Homeless youth, being minors and often runaways, fall between the bureaucratic cracks. But these Net Gen kids are hardly helpless having devised a particular set of survival skills that includes the covert Bum’s Bible identifying bum-friendly eateries, overpasses, and travel routes, including the age old train hopping hobo approach to long distance traveling. The cleaner more creative storytellers of the bunch effectively manage to tap into the current couch surfing craze as well.

With eyes closed, I inhale deeply through my nose as I hear the steam kick on in the sauna and feel the swirls of hot fog misting around my sweating body. I relax, smelling the scent of the cedar boards on which I’m sitting and the lemon slices floating in my iced water. I find myself humming Stapp’s Don’t Stop Dancing, the song that had last played before shutting off my engine. “Am I hiding in the Shadows? Forget the pain and forget the sorrows.”

My friend’s situation has definitely got me thinking about my assumptions and perceptions and the stigmas and judgments and conditions and platitudes that go along with them. What more can I be doing, I find myself asking. What more?

Once dressed again, I wave “Toodles” over my shoulder to the girls at the Spa’s front desk and whisk myself out the frosted glass doors. I saunter back through the casino past thousands of people jamming coins into row after row after row of slot machines. I know they’ll be there for hours and will write off their losses on next year’s tax returns. As I walk through the parking lot towards my car, I imagine how many mouths that money could feed, how many more beds it could provide and again ask myself, what more can I myself do?

As I drive back towards the coast to check in with my friend, I insert Creed’s second album aptly entitled Human Clay. Seems only fitting given how fragile I feel in my helplessness, how fragile he must feel in his vulnerability. I hit replay to hear Faceless Man a second time, the words rooting in my soul.

"Now I saw a face on the water
It looked humble but willing to fight
I saw the will of a warrior
His yoke is easy and His burden is light

He looked me right in the eyes
Direct and concise to remind me
To always do what's right
He looked me right in the eyes
Direct and concise to remind me
To always do what's right"

What more can I do? Anything and everything.