I Was As Sick As A Dog

I had been taking my health for granted.

A week and a day ago, on a Sunday, I was making plans to stuff my backpack with a couple changes of clothing, along with sundries out of a certain closet that I basically use to keep the remnants of my past life as a homeless guy, in. 

Not wanting to throw away perfectly good things, this broom closet has cloistered away mosquito repellent, an 'emergency blanket" a tent which rolls up into a size not much bigger than a loaf of bread, along with nylon rope, plastic ties, battery powered AM/FM radio, alarm clock, flashlight etc., and a rain proof "poncho" big enough to accommodate a body, a backpack, and a guitar in a case on a back..
 

The idea was for me to go down to the Quarter laden with this gear and then to busk for a while to raise X amount of dollars, which would then allow me to traipse over to the Greyhound/Amtrack station with the means to purchase a ticket for a some destination in the general direction of New England. The plan being to see family and friends for the first time in 17 years.

The bulk of research into this would be conducted through talking to the "old timey" groups of musicians (like "Yes, Ma'am")

who play during the daylight hours on Royal Street. There are some that I've seen perennially the past 12 years or so that would only show up at certain times of year -certainly for as long as a month during Mardi Gras, but then they would go off to places where they had found the getting to be good, depending upon the calendar.

You can make a killing in Anchorage, Alaska but only in August, type of thing. The same for Denver or Golden or Colorado Springs, Colorado. 

Nashville, Ashville, Savannah and even Toronto, Canada all host music festivals, at times spread apart so as to not be in direct competition with each other, so that the traveling busker (troubadour, if you will) can go from one thriving economy to the next, seeing the country and being able to afford a better than average lifestyle; staying in hotels, if not additionally eating in restaurants.

I learned a lot about this from talking to those who don't try to make a living year round in New Orleans. 

July and August can be brutally slow and yield 12 dollar nights of busking for 3 hours, as I am well aware. A lot of places close down because of the lack of tourists, while tourists generally stay away because everything is closed, anyways. The ones who do show up are the frugal to a fault types, taking advantage of some super discounted "off season" vacation package; and they arrive here well aware that nothing will undo their plot to experience NOLA on "28 Dollars A Day," like throwing a 20 dollar bill in a busker's hat.

As I started to formulate plans to finally make a trip up the coast, busking my way from city to city, there were certain loose ends I needed to tie up.

I found a person (Elizabet from Building C) who agreed to watch over Harold for up to a month. I got confirmation from the Sacred Heart management that they wouldn't throw all the contents of my apartment in the dumpster and clean it out in preparation of renting it to someone else, should I disappear for more than X amount of days (and, as a matter of fact, since my rent and utility payments are directly deposited into their coffers each month, they would allow me to be gone for up to 6 months any given year).

There is the matter of getting a new battery for my phone so I can chronicle the journey on this blog, as well as check in with Elizabet, be able to call 911 in any potential emergency, etc....

That would just require me to submit to the "new donors" program at the Octapharma Plasma place in Gretna, where I could come up with something like $400 in a couple weeks and be able to set off with at least a financial cushion of sorts -so that if disaster were to strike, I might at least be able to make it back home; or if that disaster comes in the form of being thrown in jail by some municipality that views me as just one more indigent panhandler with no means of recourse against a corrupt system that stands to profit by keeping me incarcerated; I would at least have cash enough on me in order to buy stamped envelopes and a pad and pen, to maintain contact with the outside world (and to avoid incurring the lengthened sentence that inmates who never receive a visit or a letter are prone to be punished with...nobody seems to care about this guy, why should we? type of thing...).

I've blogged extensively on matters pertaining to the criminal justice system before (see August, 2011, the time I was arrested in Baton Rouge).

An Unplanned, Forced Rehab 

As I was weighing the pros and cons of making such a journey; I knew that, in addition to there not being much going on here in August the time was also right, in order to take advantage of the weather -October can be too late in the year to go to New England without having to pack an extra jacket.
One thing that I had been taking for granted was the good state of health I was in. I should have added to the "pros" column the fact that I was in good health and had an abundance of energy.

I came down with some kind of respiratory virus exactly a week ago. I have spent the past week alternately laying down on the bed in a 88 degree room, wrapped in a heavy quilt, sweating into it until it became heavy with moisture, then drinking as much spring water as my stomach could hold, while washing down 4 Ibuprofen pills; then repeating the process.

There were a couple times when the fever seemed to have broken; but then came back with a vengeance as night fell.

It was a whole week away from drugs and alcohol, kratom and cigarettes, weed and even food; as I opted to "starve a fever."

The tumultuous dreams and mental static were like kindling thrown onto the fire of the 103.5 fever, and I ultimately and fortunately came through it feeling like a new person.

There were times when I lay there hating just about every thing I could think of. When a movie played in my mind which jumped from one stupid and/or embarrassing scene from my past, to the next.

I kept fighting to breathe deeply and be in the present moment; and I believe it was only the fasting which eventually insulated me from the power of thought; and I was able to avoid breaking down and calling my mom to ask her to wire me money so I could buy Nyquil; or going to the hospital, which would have belied almost every belief I have and been an admission of defeat, in some sense.

I knew that, by continually smoking unfinished cigarettes off the sidewalks of New Orleans, I was potentially exposing myself to any disease from anywhere in the world, but I guess I thought my otherwise healthy lifestyle plus all the n.a.t.u_r_a_l im.m_u_n_i.t.y I had garnered from all those cigarette butts, had made me bullet proof.

I'm OK now, one week later. I just have some loose mucous in my lungs, which hot showers seem to be helping me get rid of; and I'm, once again, thinking about the journey to New England.

And, another issue about said trip as been addressed. It has to do with the question of whether or not I was going to use the liquid encouragement of drinking in order to propel me forward along the way. Would a 50 dollar tip from some well wisher in Savannah wind up funding a bottle of scotch which would have me passed out under some bush as the bus to Athens, that I have a ticket for in my pocket, leaves the station? In that case it would be better if the well wisher just threw the money in a wishing well, instead...

At least as it stands now, after having come through an unplanned, forced week-long rehab, I don't smoke, drink nor do drugs. And that might be "the" way to busk one's way from city to city to see family and friends for the first time in 17 years...