Who is the Art Bag Lady?

Who is the Art Bag Lady?.

Invisible Man by Catharine Johanna Otto

.

Catharine Johanna Otto
Freelance author
www.loomofdreams.com
 
Hi Dennis,

Thank you for sharing your blog! I enjoyed reading it and I’m glad that you’re having so much success with it. It’s wonderful for the homeless that you’re so generous with the proceeds and they are getting the benefits. I’m grateful also for your generous offer to let me use your blog for promotions. Currently I don’t have a book to promote, but I thought you might be interested in this poem I wrote about the homeless years ago. If you don’t think the message is too strong, I wouldn’t mind if you posted it on your blog.
(I’m adding it as an attachment also.)

 

Invisible Man
by Catharine Otto

Walking along 12th St.
when I was 17,
I saw a man, sitting in the middle
of boxes and boxes of possessions—
No Man’s Land,
yet his only world–
steam almost swallowing him
from the grated iron below.

Suddenly the hideous truth of it all
was freshly exposed to me–
stinging like a newborn’s first wound,
or the shock of birth–
and I shook my head,
wanting to turn it all way,
wanting to run away, wanting to cry.
I ran a few steps in vain,
then slowed down to reality,
my eyes barely dry.

That man could be dead tonight, I thought;
It would be a public execution.

.

Interview with Sue Rowland

Originally posted on Journal with Sue by Sue Rowland http://journalwithsue.wordpress.com/

A Friend to the Homeless: Interview with Dennis Cardiff

POSTED ON MAY 22, 2014

 

 

Once in a while you come across a couple of bloggers who really catch your attention. You wait eagerly for the next installment.

Today I’d like to introduce you to Dennis Cardiff, an extraordinary listener. His blog is Gotta Find A Home  and his new book by the same title: Gotta Find a Home, Conversations with Street People, is coming out soon. Check out the give-away and promos for it.

I found out how talented and modest Dennis is after he agreed to do an interview. He is also a serious artist!  Added to his art and writing, Cardiff also is a poet. His own story is one that inspires compassion and motivation.

Here is the interview:

SR: What got you started in writing?

DC: My first wife was a poet. She got me interested in writing. I wrote mostly poetry at that time. I became a voracious reader. I read Tolstoy’s War and Peace in two weeks. I’d read everywhere, even while walking down the sidewalk.

 In 1969 I attended York University, Toronto and studied Poetry and Creative writing. I was introduced to some of the best poets from Canada and around the world. My poetry professor once said to us, “If you fully understand what it is you want to say, there is only one combination of words that will thoroughly explain your viewpoint.”

 I’ve worked in art galleries most of my life and some of my duties included writing exhibition catalogs, newsletter copy and giving tours. Learning how to subdue a group of high school students, and to mollify a group of nuns, viewing the erotic sculpture of Gaston Lachaise is challenging. This experience taught me the importance of brevity and impact.

 SR: So, do you journal? What inspires you?

DC: I have journaled sporadically, but I was away from writing for a long time. Reading Bob Dylan’s book Chronicles: Volume One, gave me more understanding of his writing process, especially deconstructing the work of authors he admired. He made it sound easy.

 In 2007 I joined Writing.com where I was able to get feedback on what I had written and encouragement to explore new directions. In April of 2013, I joined WordPress.com and received even more feedback and encouragement, for which I am very thankful.

 SR:What called you to write about homeless people? We all seem to categorize people who stand on the streets with signs. We often just pass them by with urgent feelings of avoidance. Why is this?

DC: My first encounter with a panhandler was, when I moved to Toronto in 1968, to live with my older brother, Jack. Being a storyteller himself, he viewed panhandlers as follows: If they present you with an interesting, unique story of why you should give them money, that story has value and should be rewarded accordingly.

My poem The Silver Fox reflects that period of my life.

Slouching
in forgotten tap-rooms
dirty old men,
forgotten old men,
slop piss-colored beer
from, wet, dripping glasses.
The hollow din,
the retelling of “the good old days”,
echoes sadly
as life quickly passes.

“They used to call me ‘The Silver Fox’
What do you think of that?
They used to care.”

An empty glass crashes
to the muddy floor.

“I guess I’ll be hitting the street tonight.
Sleep in an alley tonight.
Nobody cares.”

Slouching
in forgotten tap-rooms
dirty old men,
forgotten old men,
slop piss-colored beer.
Nobody cares….

 Cardiff continues:

In 2010, I noticed a woman seated cross-legged on the sidewalk with her back against a building wall. A snow-covered Buddha, wrapped in a sleeping bag, shivering in the below freezing temperature. I guessed her to be in her forties. Everything about her seemed round. She had the most angelic face, sparkling blue eyes and a beautiful smile. A cap was upturned in front of her. I thought, There but for the grace of God go I. Her smile and blue eyes haunted me all day.

I have always been told not to give money to panhandlers because they’ll just spend it on booze. I thought to myself, What should I do, if anything? What would you do? I asked for advice from a friend who has worked with homeless people. She said, ‘The woman is probably hungry. Why don’t you ask her if she’d like a breakfast sandwich and maybe a coffee?’  This has become a morning routine for the past four years. The woman (I’ll call Joy) and I have become friends. Often I’ll sit with her on the sidewalk. We sometimes meet her companions in the park. They have become my closest friends. I think of them as angels. My life has become much richer for the experience.

I have asked homeless people what could be done to improve their situation. The most eloquent response came from Bearded Bruce.

“I get a welfare check now, seven hundred and thirty-two dollars a month. I’ve never taken welfare before, but I had to in order to qualify for my apartment. It’s a program they started me on in prison. Before that I was content to sleep behind the dumpsters, but after I was crammed in with a bunch of guys for three months, with no privacy, no freedom and I got to talk to my worker in a spacious, quiet interview room… what she was saying sounded pretty good.  They pay my landlord directly. It’s subsidized, so that leaves me with about two fifty. A person can’t live on two fifty a month, so I pan when the weather’s decent. There’s a restaurant that gives me their leftover food. When I cook I use a big pot. I have Tupperware containers; one for Shakes, one for Little Jake, one for Chuck. I have to take care of my boys.

“If I wasn’t on this program, the least expensive room, that’s ROOM, mind you, would cost five hundred and thirty a month. It would be in a rooming house crawling with cockroaches, infested with bed bugs, crackheads. Guys running up and down the stairs all night. I’d rather sleep on the street. If the city wants to cure homelessness they need to provide affordable, clean housing.”

SR: It’s amazing how much compassion you have for people, and how your writing and art bring the world alive to the reader, and to the viewer. Where do you find the passion for this kind of work?

DC: What has influenced my life the most was being diagnosed with polio at the age of eighteen months and six major surgeries, one hundred and fifty stitches, over a period of sixty-seven years.

The following poem, The Lost Boys, is biographical.

I was a young boy with a withered leg,
abandoned, in a cold hospital bed.
Faceless attendants wore gloves, masks and gowns.
No parents for cuddles, kisses or love.

Alone were the Lost Boys with polio,
the silent, unpredictable killer.
Quarantined, isolated like lepers,
our only strength came from one another.

Expected to die, we boys joined forces.
We supported each other, forming a bond.
After lights were turned out we would whisper
together, “Shush, the Sisters are coming.”

Older patients had access to wheelchairs.
Sometimes they’d transport me to other wards —
to meet other boys was high adventure.
An empty bed usually meant a death.

Six decades since, in the still of the night,
after lights are out, I can sometimes hear
that haunting refrain I heard as a child,
whispered, “Shush, the Sisters are coming.”

I don’t feel sorry for myself. In fact, I am grateful for polio, it made me what I am today. We all have scars, it’s what we do to overcome those scars is what’s important. It seems that for most of my life I have been recovering from one operation or another or fighting arthritis. I lift weights and train at a gym three nights a week. I’m in better shape than most men half my age. I identify with the marginalized because I, too, have been marginalized.

When I sit on the sidewalk with my homeless friends, I see the looks of disgust, the averted eyes, sometimes hear the rude comments. Most people don’t realize that they may be only a couple of paychecks away from being homeless. They don’t realize how quickly the bank will take your house if you lose your employment and can’t make the mortgage payments. They fear that, and don’t want to be reminded of it by panhandlers or the visibly homeless.

                                               *************************

Thank you, Dennis! I’m honored to be highlighting your work. My husband is a polio survivor and also an artist–a woodcarver. Your poem about being a little boy in the hospital resonated deeply.  It just goes to show how much people can do when they set their minds to the task.

I encourage readers to buy Gotta Find A Home and to sign up for the blog.  Through your writing I feel all your people, from Joy, to Bearded Bruce, Weasel, Shakes, and all the others, especially their pets.  Even though the stories of the street people are intense, we are all touched by the true grit of their lives.

 

Pumas – 9 November 2013

.

.

9 November 2013

When I walked past the park today a police car had pulled up and two officers were talking to the guys sitting on the curb. Jacques waved at me. I waved back. Andre said to me, “I told them I’m just waiting for my worker. This is where she told me to wait for her.

“Dennis, could you do me a big favor. They made me pour out all my liquor. I need a bottle.”

“I’m on my way to an appointment, so I can’t go on a liquor run.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“I don’t carry any cash, but I’ll see what I can do.” I stopped in at the Transit Office to pick up my bus pass, then went looking for a liquor store. There was one in the Rideau Mall, but they didn’t sell Canadian Sherry. I walked a few blocks down Rideau Street to another liquor store and was able to find a bottle of Imperial Sherry. I brought it back, but Emile had already left with his worker.

I said to Little Jake, “Andre asked me to pick this up for him, could you see he gets it? I know he’d want to share so, could you also see that Shakes gets a drink?”

Some people would think that what I did was unethical, but an alcoholic needs some alcohol in their system or they can’t function. They also feel very sick.

 

10 October 2012

This morning was even colder than yesterday. I gave a picture of Silver, from the funeral home, to Metro. He would have seen him every morning for nearly eleven years. Joy was wrapped in her blanket, rubbing her legs. “I wore the wrong shoes today. These Pumas, given to me by Wolf, are worth about a hundred and fifty bucks. People look at me and they figure, Why are you panhandling if you can afford shoes like that? I try to hide them, but I have to straighten my legs out to rub them every once in a while. They’re really bad today.”

“How are you and Chester getting along these days?”

“He got really drunk last night. I gave him some money and asked him to buy a bottle for me. He used my money to buy himself more beer. He went through an eighteen pack yesterday. Usually, after six he’ll be asleep.

“He was saying to me, ‘Joy, I love you. I wont mind if you stay after Christmas. Then he touched my leg. He hasn’t done that for a while.”

“I said to him, ‘Chester, you don’t like to be touched. I feel the same way, so keep your hands to yourself.’

“Later, he was banging around in the kitchen stark naked. He said, ‘What’s for supper?’ I told him, ‘I’m having this box of Kraft Dinner. I don’t know what you’re having. When are you going to buy some groceries?’ I’ve really spent a lot this month supplying him with cigarettes — and he chain smokes, one right after another. I’ve bought all the food. He hasn’t bought any.

“Well, I don’t think I’m going to be making any more money this morning. I had a good day yesterday.”

“I’ll see you later, Mo. Stella will be bringing pumpkin tarts.”

“I’ll give mine to Chester. I can’t stand pumpkin. I don’t mind the seeds, but that’s all.”

…

Later, at 10:00, I went to the park. Stella and her husband Tim were there. Stella loves to walk Weasel’s dog, Blackie. She’s known him since he was a pup — at that time he was owned by Andre (a different Andre), who has since passed away. Stella had brought pumpkin tarts, with whipped cream, for everybody. She also brought me a package of photos and a photocopy of a newspaper article entitled, ‘Street Sister.’

Joy said, “Jenna, my worker, is meeting me here to take me to my Elizabeth Fry appointment.” She poured some wine in her water bottle, added water and placed it in her bag. “Jake,” she said, “can you roll me a joint?”

Jenna arrived and said hello to the people she knew. Andre asked, “We’re meeting tomorrow, right? You’re coming here?”

“That’s right Andre.”

Joy asked, “How many busses do we have to take, and how far do we have to walk?”

“We can just walk down to Metcalfe and take an 85. That will take us right there.”

Joy asked, “Can you just wait until I finish this joint? Then I’ll be ready to go.”

“Sure, we have time.”

Joy hoisted her heavy backpack onto her shoulders and they walked down the sidewalk towards the bus stop.

I said hello to everybody I knew. Shakes introduced me to Weldon.

He said, “So, you’re Dennis the Menace! I’m Downtown Charlie Brown. I’ve been on the street for the past few days. Before that I was in a recovery program. I’m native Algonquin. I was born, on the Madawaska River, near Algonquin Park. I have a deep history. My grandfather was a guide for the Group of Seven, from 1920 to 1933, when they painted in the park. Phil Fontaine is my uncle. He served three terms as National Chief of the Assembly of First Nations. I’m also related to James  Wallenda, President of the Odawa Native Friendship Center. My father is a millionaire, but he wont even answer the phone to me. He wont give me fifty bucks; won’t even give the price for a bottle. My sister is the same, she has a great big house; I sleep on the street. She says, ‘You got yourself this way, you get yourself out.'”

I said, “I’m really interested in learning about native culture. Is the Odawa Center a good place to go?”

“The best place is the Aboriginal Drop-In Center, at 510 Rideau. Every Wednesday the native women host a meal, storytelling, chanting and drumming. You’ll get to see Shakes dance, sing and play guitar.”

“Shakes,” I said. “I didn’t know you sang and played guitar.”

Weldon said, “Shakes and I used to sing in the park, He taught me some boxcar Willie and other blues songs.”

Boxcar’s my home, railroad my friend
It’s been that way since I don’t know when
I’m here today, tomorrow I’m gone
Where I hang my hat is where I call home

Stars at night my roof over head
The ground below where I make my bed
Horizons you see, well that is my walls
When the sun comes up my hobo blood calls.

“I love Boxcar Willie, and all the old blues singers.” I said.

Weldon said, “When I think of native culture I get so angry. In school the nuns forced us to speak English. They called what we spoke, ‘the devil’s language’. If we were ever caught speaking Algonquin or any other native language we would be beaten with the edge of a ruler or a leather strap. Can you imagine if something like that happened today, especially to the children of white people. The nuns would be arrested.

“All this land we’re on was given to the Algonquin by treaty, even the land where the Parliament buildings stand. The government decided that it was a good military site, so they just took it. The Rideau canal was built mostly with native labor. They were paid starvation wages, most of them had families to feed, so they’d feed their families first. Many were worked to death. There isn’t even a plaque to commemorate the natives who died.

“Most native people would rather sleep outside, than in one of the shelters. Last night the guy in the bunk on my right kept saying, ‘six, six, six, six, six…’ all night long. He never stopped. The guy on my left was a crackhead. Every twenty minutes he’d get up and walk around. I didn’t trust him, so I was trying to sleep with one eye open. Whenever he got up, or went back to bed, I woke up.”

Cobweb City – 13 September 2013

.

.

It was cool this morning with a forecast of rain. The patrol car with its red and blue flashing lights was at the corner, again.  Joy was huddled up with her sweater pulled over her knees.

“How are you feeling, Joy”

“I’m really freaked man. I’m tweaked. I’ve got to get back on my meds. I didn’t sleep at all last night. See my hand, it’s shaking. I was watching BTN (Black Television Network) last night an Steve Harvey was on. I was laughing so hard I said to myself, I’ve got to tape this.

“I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up in some kind of nightmare. Really scary shit, anyway, I was awake for the rest of the night.”

I asked, “Since you don’t have your health card, what if you went to the emergency department of one of the hospitals? Wouldn’t they give you your meds?”

“They’d get me juiced up on Delantin. That really screws up my brain and when I take it I’m not supposed to drink. My doctor gave me a prescription for a lower  dose of the pills, that I’m supposed to take on a regular basis. I haven’t seen him for years. He’s across town. When I moved in with Chuck, I decided to go to his doctor since he was close by. He was really creepy, so I stopped going to him. Then, I went to another doctor, but he’s the same nationality as my landlord. I don’t get along with them.

“I really hate doctors and hospitals. A couple of years ago I was in and they told me that I had an ovarian cyst. They tested it and it was benign. That means it won’t hurt you, right? The next time I went in they checked it again and said that it had grown. I said, ‘Cut the sucker out. Give me a hysterectomy.  It’s cobweb city down there — I can’t have any more kids, my period has to stop sometime. I won’t miss that. I’m not with a man so I won’t be losing out there.  While I’m here anyway, just scrape it clean! Get rid of that junk!’ He said in a deep voice, all proper like, ‘I’ve never heard it described in those terms, but you understand the situation. We can’t operate because it isn’t causing any secondary complications. If that changes, then we’ll consider a hysterectomy.’

I suggested, “If you were happy with your first doctor, why don’t you go back to him?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think I could go back?”

“Phone him. I’ve gone back to a doctor I had twenty years ago.”

Michelle stopped by with a paper cup and a bag from Tim Horton’s.

“Hi Michelle,” I said.

“Hi, Dennis. I have your tea, Joy, one cream and three sugar just as you like it. Since I got a large, I asked them to put the cream and sugar on the side, so you can mix it as you like. I also got you a cranberry lemon muffin.”

“Thanks,” Joy replied.”

Michelle left. Joy asked, “Is that what her name is, Michelle?”

“Yeah, she was by yesterday while you were in the restaurant. I think you passed her on the sidewalk.”

“Gee, I wasn’t expecting a frickin large. It’s nice to keep my hands warm though. Do you want this muffin. The thought of cranberries and lemon makes me gag.”

Chuck’s dad came by in his wheel chair.  Joy introduced us. I said, “I think I’ve met you in front of Tim Horton’s.”

Joy said, “Can you give me a ride on that? Does it have enough energy?”

“Sure, sit on my lap. You’ll see I’ve got lots of energy. I was parked on the corner when a pretty young lady rode by. She was wearing a rucksack, but instead of having it on her back, she had it on her front. I said, ‘That’s it honey, keep those breasts nice and warm for me.’ She didn’t answer.”

He went on his way. I asked, “How do you get along with him?”

“He’s alright, but he’s a dirty old man.”

I replied, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The garbage man (I forget his name) came by. Joy said, “Hi, handsome! do you have any plans for the weekend?”

“Just hanging with my girlfriend.”

“Can you spare some time for me? I was thinking maybe we could go an a vacation together.”

“Sorry, we are planning a vacation though, maybe the Caribbean.”

“Do you have your passport?”

“I’ve got three of them. I have citizenship from the States, France and Canada. If one causes problems, I just give them one of the other two.”

Joy said, “Since you’ve got your truck here, maybe you could turn around and pick up that patrol car.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea. We’re trying to get the military contract.”

“Did you say you’re joining the military? Like, to go fight in wars?”

“I’d like to, but my boss won’t give me the time off to take basic training. I’d join the reserves. I probably wouldn’t see combat.”

He left. Joy said, “I saw Marissa and Teddy last night. He was gunning at me. She’s a big girl, must be five foot ten at least.  All her weight is on top, she’s got skinny legs, skinnier than mine. One kick I could break her leg like a twig. She wasn’t even wearing a bra. Her jugs were hanging around her waist. That’s disgusting. I don’t have much, but gravity takes its toll. At least I keep mine packaged. I can imagine her with Andre. It would be like Chewbacca with one of the Ewoks. ”

It was time for me to go, “Will I see you at the park, Joy?”

“No, rain is forecast for this afternoon. I’m going straight home. I’m feeling really happy now. Even if my check doesn’t come today, I’ll still be happy”

I said, “I’ll see you next week then.”

21 April 2013 – My Friends

21 April 2013

Today is Sunday, which means that I won’t be seeing my friends until tomorrow. Following  are some word portraits, so you can get to know them:

Joy and Me

Love is amazing —
when we give it freely
it doesn’t diminish,
it enriches our souls.

Joy, is a panhandler
(incapable of anything else),
she is also my friend.
Each morning
(on my way to work)
I eagerly anticipate
her greeting and warm smile.

I sit with her
on the sidewalk,
as witness
to her blackened eyes.
I listen to her stories
of beatings and abuse,
give comfort
when she cries.
“Tears are a sign of weakness”
her father used to say.

I bring her tea
(cream and three sugars),
a bagel with cream cheese,
on mornings when frost
is on the ground,
and on the hearts,
of most passers by.

She gives to me
her hand to hold,
an attentive ear
to my daily problems,
and a hug
(when a hug is needed).

With her love,
Joy has enriched my soul
and filled my heart with tenderness.
She has given me so much
that I didn’t know existed —
I am deeply in her debt.

Antonio

My friend, Antonio,
greets me
with a salute and a bow
(it’s his way).
I am very glad to see him
and very honored.

I don’t see him very often,
he has his own schedule,
not necessarily
corresponding with mine.
He is a free spirit.

Through dark glasses
he sees the world
(so not to offend).
He is very conscious
that his appearance
may cause concern.
He wears a beard,
his clothes are ragged,
all his belongings
follow him
in a shopping cart.

He feels uncomfortable
in enclosed spaces,
so he sleeps outdoors,
summer and winter,
on a park bench
(with his friends
the squirrels),
when temperatures
are well below freezing.

He is not immune
from assault,
beatings
(having his teeth kicked out),
not because of what he does,
but what he is,
how he appears.

I usually see him
in front of the library,
one of his favorite places.
He likes to look at books
and see pictures
of kings and other people
he has studied
in school.

Occasionally,
he joins me for coffee.
He tells me
the most wondrous stories.
Sometimes,
I think he makes them up
for my benefit.
In any case
I am honored.

Through Shaded Eyes

A breathless beauty,
enchanting and fanciful,
where castles of ice abound —
if we didn’t know just where to look
they never would be found.

A wonderland of mystery
in a public park downtown.
The squirrels know what life’s about —
in Antonio’s sleeping bag
they tunnel in and out.

They scamper
over drifts of snow,
no boots upon their feet.
When he awakes, he’ll feed them
the little he has to eat.

Through shaded eyes
he views, the world passing by.
With gentleness and thoughts of kings
he tells me of his precious dreams.
A shopping cart, holds all his worldly things.

Andre

So, I’m panning
in my usual spot.
This suit walks by —
in passing he says,
“Get a job!”
“Hire me!” I say.
“Take a shower,” he says.
“I may sleep outside,
that doesn’t mean
I don’t wash —
I wash all over.”

“Hey,” I say,
“if you’re so successful,
why do you look
so unhappy?

“I’ve made the price
of my bottle.
I’ve got some smokes,
a little pot.

“Me, I’m the happiest guy alive.”

Shakes

it’s nice
waking up
in the morning.

If I don’t,
I know
something’s
wrong.

I don’t know
where I am,
or how I got here,
but, I’m here.

I got some wine,
some cigarettes
and some ‘mary jane’ —
I start walking,

ain’t looking
for trouble, but
it finds me.

how am I?
I’ll be doing fine
soon as I get
this drunk on.

Alphonse

I look into your eyes,
grey with tears and sorrow
from the Arctic Ocean.

I feel your hurt deep inside,
hear your thunder,
see your rain.

With your fist at your chest
you open your heart,
tell me of hardship,
betrayal and pain.

I listen
with my heart
as one who has been there.

With my arm around your shoulder,
as a brother,
I urge you, to act with patience
and with love —
to be Love.

A Lost Brave

a lost brave
leans against a building
(tho he is unwelcome)
beside a busy walk.
everything he owns
fills a pack
upon his back

he is far
from his fishing boat,
an ocean teeming with fish,
from the majestic forest,
from his children,
his clan

his eyes reveal
a story of hurt and pain –
the uncertainty of the city.
a sidewalk for a bed,
charity of strangers
his only grace

a challenge
every day –
a new beginning.
beyond the fire
that tames his demons
the only plan that matters
is to survive

far from home
he can scarce remember.
a lost brave, fighting back tears,
pride in the knowledge
of his ancestry,
his place –
his blood