I’m now officially homeless (again), and it’s kind of a mixed bag. On the one hand, the sensation of freedom is exhilarating, and unloading some of the emotional baggage associated with my apartment doesn’t hurt, either. It’s also nice knowing my “no fixed street address” status is only going to be for a week, until I upgrade to “no fixed country” status for a few months.
On the other hand, I still remember the immense feelings of relief and proud ownership when I moved back into my own place a few years ago. After living with the putrid squalor of my old roommates in Sacramento — there has been mention on here of toilet seats adorned with freshly trimmed pubes, which was their work, as was the unflushed, plugged toilet on the first day of the lease; somehow the fact that they were girls makes it worse — having a private space to call my own was extraordinarily gratifying.
So even now, I’m kind of thinking forward to having that again, and whether or not I’m going to try to make it something more permanent, finally.
Amusingly, now that I am essentially out on my ass in the street, what’s inside my car is worth quite a lot more than the car itself, both materially and psychologically. There’s maybe a couple thousand in photography equipment, another couple thousand in camping equipment, not to mention clothes, bedding, hardware, miscellaneous electronics, and so on. Compare that to the estimated $2500 Blue Book on my car, and I’m left draping old towels over my expensive shit to make it look as much like a hobo’s car as possible.
This does not, I should mention, make driving past the regulars at my coffeeshop an ego-boosting experience. They already know I spend way too much time sitting in the coffeeshop; now they all think I live in my car, too.
Granted, I’d be a reasonably dressed hobo with a staggering amount of high-end electronics who doesn’t smell like he slept in his own urine, but in this economy, I’m thinking there are plenty of those hanging about.
Case in point, a couple weeks ago I saw a photo spread of some of those tent slums in California. To my dismay, trumping even my natural feelings of sympathy for these nouveau pauvre was a deep appreciation for their tent selection. They had some seriously nice gear out there.
So, say hello to the new me: high-tech vagrant.