If I were to land in Canada today, I would land penniless and owing someone for the flight. Without a residence I doubt I would qualify for Welfare or any assistance until I go that sorted. I do not believe a homeless shelter counts as a residence. So I am not sure what I would do but my actual realistic best-case scenario is Welfare.
That’s a long drop from being an entrepreneur. Poland is a polite culture but not friendly. Sure they’ll toss me a crust of bread that cost more than the ticket home but I won’t actually get the ticket home. There is a very different thought process that goes on here and it makes me feel trapped, disempowered and even worse on the days I thoughtfully look over my dulled safety razor.
You have a different perspective that should help you write a fine memoir and the wry, even sardonic sense that could make an interesting read. I will be watching the Thailand situation.
I had to laugh at my friends at dinner last night who told me they thought martial law being imposed on everyone was, "a good idea." I just grinned and chuckled at them. "It's a good idea", is something people say when they really have no choice in the matter. It makes them feel better about themselves. I said, "Good idea? Bad idea? What choice do you have? You have cheerful thoughts and desperate hopes or no hopes at all for the future -- while they have machine guns, tanks, bombs, convoys full of soldiers, and and endless supply of ammunition. The place is starting to look a lot like America. In America, they can't use the military on the population, so they worked their way around that, simplified everything, and militarized the police force instead." They frowned, their eyes widened, and they said no more.
I could keep my mouth shut, but tolerance is condescending. I sure don't want to condescend my lovable friends who are so good to me.
The times they are a changin'. No kiddin', eh? Has there ever been a time when the times haven't been a changin'? That is the very stuff, the very essence, the very nature of life: change. Every moment you breathe changes you. There is absolutely no hope of holding on to any one or any thing in this life. I still wonder why people try so hard. I mean, what are you thinking? You planning on living forever? You'd be the first. Good luck with that.
'Yes, there's life after death
'And how we know this to be true
'Is that when you're gone the world goes on
'Living without you
-- Blackfish
You sound like a good candidate for busking. My part-time gig in Las Vegas was busking. I absolutely loved every minute of it. I am a guitar player and played the Strip and Downtown in my spare time for years. Made a shit-ton of money. All cash. Try your hand at busking. You might like it. If you don't play music, you can read poems or create some kind of little gig for yourself. It really is a blast. I'm quite the ambivert, so it came easy for me. I can get on well with the people and make a good time of it. I gave directions, played happy birthday to party goers, took requests, did whatever to make people who were far away from home feel right at home. They paid me well for it. Always look your best and play upscale. Don't play the crappy parts of town. The tips are shit and too many hassles. Say what you want about rich people. They are almost always better behaved than poor folk.
You're right about Poland. It is the same for me, here in Thailand, thought I am not affected by it as much as other foreigners because I live in a rural area with my girl's family. But the truth is, there is no level playing field for you there and there never will be. Just as there is none for me here and never will be. But I don't need to work or be concerned about too much at all, so I could care less.
Being penniless is out of the question for me. I despise it. I have a nice chunk of cash in the bank and in hand everywhere I go in the world, plus a plane ticket back to the United States and solid connections when I arrive there. Money is good. Work is good. Take everything you can get.
When I graduated high school in 1983, I had a crappy little apartment and worked a bunch of boring, stupid jobs to pay my way. At that time, I had been reading a lot of Jack London. I was intrigued by the fact that he left behind his entire fortune to go to London, England and live among the street people there. He had read the slums there were some of the worst and notorious in the world. He spent two years there, bumming. Then came back to the States and wrote about it and made all of his fortune back and then some. That story had a profound effect on me.
In late fall 1984, I put my Kawasaki KZ750 in storage, threw pretty much everything else I had away, and pulled a Jack London of my own. I didn't go to London, but to the Twin Cities and surrounding areas in my home state of Minnesota. I bummed around that whole winter; hitchhiking, sleeping in doorways and abandoned houses and buildings, doing odd jobs for food money, etc.
I didn't take to the whole experience too well. I didn't find anything particularly exciting about it. In fact, I found it all quite boring, for the most part. I spent my days in public libraries, reading and studying, until I was sick and tired of reading and studying. I spent my nights looking for places to sleep and picking up odd jobs. I didn't like the idea of asking people for money. I would rather earn it. And you can go a long way on a little money when you have no financial obligations, no rent to pay, no car, no fuel bill, no power bill, no children to support, and so on. I spent my money on rugged outdoor clothing, gear, and food. that's about it. No one really even suspected that I was just a wanderer.
People like to talk about the homeless and how tough they have it. I don't agree. I was homeless for a Minnesota autumn, winter, and spring, which can be quite brutal. I didn't find anything tough about it. It's not that tough. If you use your brains and a little elbow grease even part time, a guy can accomplish just about whatever he likes. I just thought of it as, 'urban camping.' Lol. Nothing to it.
The truth is, most of the time I looked better than I did when I was living at home with my parents and going to high school. For richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, I was finally in that position in life where I could make my own decisions. And I looked forward to that. I love Freedom. I loved it then. I love it now. Wouldn't trade it for the world. At home, as a pre-teen, I had to wear what my father wanted me to wear, which was his old black leather work shoes he had abandoned. They were two sizes too big for me. He was too cheap to buy me fashionable, appropriate shoes and teach me how to wear clothes. Shirts and pants were whatever garbage he could get out of whatever the cheapest bargain bins were offering. Nothing matched, nothing fit. Of course, the children at school all made fun. In my teenage years however, I took jobs and bought my own clothes and shoes. If I couldn't find any job and didn't have any money, I stole them. I had my own car, my own motorcycle, and I did whatever I wanted. I ended up going out with one of the best looking and sexiest girls in the school for about a year. All the guys wanted her, but she was all mine. Then they were all jealous of me. I kept it simple. Solid, sturdy new shoes that fit, jeans, T-shirts, a jacket, and all the girlfriend goods I could get. "I need love to keep me happy! Baby, won't you keep me, happy!" -- Stones
I always forget that I am wry and sardonic. It comes second-nature to me. I seem to do it naturally. I had a lot of personal problems when I was younger. Especially in my twenties and thirties. I was angry all the time. I was an angry person. It took its toll on me, and left me wry, sardonic, and sometimes just downright mean and unkind. I've always hated small-talk, phoniness, and nonsense. It irritates the hell out of me. And since that is the stuff that makes up most people, well, that really put me in a bind. I didn't know how to handle it. I am doing much better these days. These were some of the things I had to conquer in order to be able to start writing my memoir.
I am still in that pouring out stage. Still gushing onto the computer screen all the little stories and crap I want to recall. My files are being built bit-by-bit.
I realize by now that editing is impossible. I can only do so much. I's still love to find an editor who perhaps has done something like this before, who I can rely on to get the job done and maybe even give me some direction. This is my first project and I haven't got a clue what I am doing.
Meantime the stories are getting written, wryly, sardonically, one piece at a time.
And I am just lovin' every minute of it, to tell the truth.