(Play video first to fully set the mood)

"There must be some way out of here,"
Said the joker to the thief,
"There's too much confusion,
"I can't get no relief."

"Businessmen, they drink my wine,
"plowmen dig my earth.
"None of them along the line
"know what any of it is worth."

"No reason to get excited,"
The thief, he kindly spoke,
"There are many here among us
"who feel that life is but a joke."

"But you and I, we've been through that,
"and this is not our fate.
"So let us not talk falsely now,
"the hour is getting late."

All along the watchtower,
princes kept the view.
While all the women came and went,
barefoot servants, too.

Outside in the distance
a wildcat did growl.
Two riders were approaching,
the wind began to howl.

"The Bridge", Dallas's new homeless shelter


"There must be some way out of here,"
Said the Joker to the Thief"

A homeless shelter is like any other prison. You got short-timers. long-timers, lifers, hardcore, softcore, People With Possibilities, People With No Hope - and everything in between. If you care to - if you dare to - you can observe any one person and pretty much smell their fate. All lives lay exposed in the homeless crucifixion. You're one scared motherfucker and by God your soul is on display whether you like it or not.

One thing never mentioned - but noticed by anyone with eyes - is the Death List: people who may as well have a scarlet "D" branded on them for death is their only ticket out, souls so broken a loveless society can no longer bear them. "Fixers", a.k.a. social workers and busybodys, will tell you no such list exists - it comforts them to live in that false fog. But we the inmates have no such need for pretense. We know it, we see it, we quietly acknowledge who's on it.

And no one disputed Darian's place on that List.

In WWII submarine life, after a time, life became so suffocating with the daily passing through narrow passageways and sleeping in cramped quarters, the walls stifled their way in on you, wearing your nerves to the bone - and your crewmates morphed into loathsome creatures despised to the core. Anything could cause it: the way he ate or walked or brushed his teeth or preened his hair - anything - you just hated him. If I see that one more time I'll kill him! Life in the shelter is such a pressure cooker as well.

Darian, with his trusty bag
and broken-dream walk


"There's too much confusion,
"I can't get no relief"

So if a black guy does something annoying here, you will hear mutterings of "goddam nigger", or if it's a Latino, "fucking wetback" and so on. Put some cub reporter among us and he'll breathlessly announce to the world about all the "hidden racism" going on in here, our private hell on earth. But that's because you judge us by the standards of the living, not the dying.

Just like in the sub, you're hated for anything in here - even the shape of your head. What do you call that? Head-ism? The real problem is the constant fear and dread and - worst of all - uncertainty. God, how that grinds on you with no place to go but the cold, killing waters! Achingly, you stare through your private porthole at an upscale family of urban bikers on their way to paradise - the chasm of the universe between you.

What some call selfish, we call surviving. And while there are genuine moments of human compassion shared here, after a while you settle into a holding pattern of self-preservation: no stepping outside of yourself, no picking up stray cats. Your load is maxxed out already. 99% of the time, one's troubles are one's own alone and nothing can be done even if everyone wanted to help. It's in this micro-world turned upside down that we exist, and one must understand that to understand Darian.

"Businessmen, they drink my wine
"Plowmen dig my earth"

Some Death Listers are more certain than others. Darian was a no-doubter. But I'm someone who always has to know how things got the way they are - especially when ending up on the Death List! Darian's lot was the worst of all: he was a Shadow Man, a person who'd never found himself. He was as a shadow passing through the world; merely casting the silhouette a person casts, never being the person. He'd gone from being some mother's precious baby to a number in a case worker's file.

Also, you should know that while I call him Darian the Dreamer, his nickname at the shelter was Darian the Drunk. People here are like people everywhere: they just look at you from the outside. Darian wasn't an angry or scary drunk, he drank like the shadow he was: to fade into the background, unnoticed; a black hole of energy. But I believe everyone has a vital truth to share if we just listen. So I listened.

The best way to define Darian is by his outbursts. He didn't talk much except for maybe on some bullshit topics that interested him, but nothing really revealing. He was a tough guy to get to know. But when he said something, he said something. I'm always looking for that, any crumb of truth to cling to and feed me hope. On TV I see people make millions of dollars to say nothing. In fact, they even consider it a sin to say something real. But the outbursts of Darian were as shiny jewels to me and I treasure them to this moment.

__________________________

The Bridge has been open less than two years. When it did it was a landmark in Dallas' care for the homeless, creating a coagulation of souls like never before. For some, like Darian, it was their first time to have a place for "centering" and a sense of community. I silently adopted him, seeing much of myself in him. The difference between me and most others here is I know how to lie better. But Darian verbalized words I learned not to say, so I studied him, hoping to learn something of myself.

"None of them along the line
"know what any of it is worth."

"Nothin' means nothin'!"

One refreshing thing about the shelter is the higher count than normal of perceptive souls who see politics for what it is: a byproduct of who we are - not a determiner. I trust people like that, means they are committed to fixing their own lives. But during the last Presidential cycle, things got very heated here just like everywhere else. Even I got sucked in to a degree, desperate for an Obama win (not believing he brought change, but just as a statement).

But every dogmatic dictate of our debates struck a blow in Darian, riling him as a cattle prod even through his alcholic haze. I saw him getting annoyed over there in the corner but not really thinking much of it. We're all annoyed here. First, I could tell he hated the whole emphatic tone of our talk (I was observing, not participating) and how vital it was for our survival for a "correct" outcome for the election. And in this extreme contentiousness the molten lava volcano of Darian had no choice but to explode.

He came out of his corner onto center stage, shaking with rage and desperation. "Nothin means nothin'!" he interrupted, all eyes fixed on him, his own eyes daring anyone to contradict him - and feeling it, said it again. "Nothin' mean's nothin'! Ain't nothin' gonna change! Just gonna keep bein' the same way it always been! It just gonna go on and on and all ya'll know it! This be dangerous times if you wanna be living, that much I can tell ya!"

At that point he got self-conscious but I was laughing my ass off inside. He'd cleared the air of the hateful speech and put the dutiful debaters in their place. Of course, everyone thought he was just speaking about his own life and fate - not realizing they were doing the same.

"No reason to get excited,"
The thief, he kindly spoke.

"Back when I had my illusions"

Darian protected his dreams by calling them illusions - meat to sate the hungry savages. And he used the phrase above as cover from criticism. I don't know where his life went wrong or if even his dreams were truly real. Only God in Heaven can answer that question. But here on earth, one is guilty of laziness or selfishness until your dreams prove you innocent.

One thing Darian always kept with him was his sketch pad, where his dreams manifested to life in this world. I'd peek on occasion - there was an unspoken trust between us - and I'd silently see complete alien worlds drawn up with characters to match. Was he channeling our inner selves onto his paper? Was that how he saw us? Fascinating.

One clue I got was when a documentary on set design for films came on the TV. For about half an hour, Darian was mesmerized. So mesmerized I was in fact looking around the room to see if anyone noticed him. I was like, "Hey, look! Darian is coming out his shell for this! This means something!" But I was alone in my excitement. Then something snapped in Darian, he stood up, left the room and didn't come back for two days (no one leaves permanently before their sentence is served, the icy waters too cold to bear).

He also did portraits. Wicked portraits I only got glances of. One day, he came up to me unexpectedly and handed me mine with the single word, "Here." Abruptly he left, unable to bear witness to my reaction - and I equally couldn't bear for him to see my fear. As I unfolded it, my heart pounded. Are those really my eyes, so deep and searching? He found kindness in my lips yet tinged in pain. This is me? I found a corner and cried my guts out. Who knew I had anything to offer?

You literally couldn't trade me a winning lottery ticket for that portrait.

"There are many here among us
"who feel that life is but a joke."

"But you're not even trying!"

The dreamless have no comprehension of dreamers. I felt a bit guilty about it, but I could not miss eavesdropping on Darian's time with the job placement counselor. Don't get me wrong, for some people it's great, any job will do and they are ecstatic. But there's a blind cult of work in our culture, a de facto litmus test of your value as a person. But that kind of outlook uses up a dreamer and leaves him empty. Darian was at that point. Cindy, the counselor, knew only the job god and saw it as the end all and be all.

Darian was shaking his head. "I don't wanna be around them people." I knew what he meant, the worker drones who had no need for dreams, who'd suffocate Darian on the menial labor job she offered.

"Darian, you don't even know those people. I'm sure they're all very nice." Cindy had a hint of exasperation in her voice. Man, have I heard that before!

"I don't wanna do that no more. That ain't my life."

"But you need a job to get a life. You need to take that first step."

"That ain't no step." Darian was closing down, shutting off the pain of fruitless communication.

"Can you tell me what you do want to do? You don't have any skills listed on your resume, there's not much I can work with." Cindy was reaching her Stern Mode.

"I just want to be left alone." Darian was defenseless and his eyes stared out the window.

"I'm sorry. That's not really helpful. I need you to be more specific." Stern Mode had set in at full tilt.

Fully strangled, Darian spit out his last few words. "I just want to live."

"But, Darian, you're not even trying!"

His eyes shot back to her in confusion. Of course he was trying, he was resisting idle work which would steal his soul. He knew he risked life and limb in that pursuit but that was the power of his dream to him: there's no life without it. In Darian's mind, he was trying harder than anyone else and it was she who was not trying - she didn't try to see his dreams at all.

"But you and I, we've been through that,
"and this is not our fate.
"So let us not talk falsely now,
"the hour is getting late."

"I like you!"

Sometimes it's not the storms in life that are our undoing, but the gifts. Cassie was such a gift, an angel on earth. All she had to do was stand beside you for you to feel better. She didn't even have to do anything. Her sandy blonde hair flowed to her shoulders, framing the glow of her face. Cassie was positively infectious!

Most social workers are dedicated - have to be to do the job. But angels like Cassie are truly transcendent, a beacon of light in our dark hole of existence. And she completely smashed wide open the shell of Darian. I remember watching - with a bit of shock - as he eagerly pulled out his drawings for her and how her genuine words of praise took years off his life, straightening his entire body - which was both good and bad.

For while she clearly saw all of his talent, she saw none of his impotence.

Darian took on new life, forsaking his despised drink and attaching himself to Cassie's side. She'd given him the kiss of life but he had nothing to hang his hat on and was helpless to be with her, even to the point of just sitting on the floor of her office while she worked.

And then the news came: Cassie's husband was to be transferred to Houston.

Slowly, Darian turned on her, crushed and panicked with thought of her departure. For the first time, I saw him grow mean and petty. With the taste of life once more in his mouth, perhaps he came to fully realize how truly desperate his plight was. Had not Darian himself spoken of the dangers of wanting to live? But could he even go back to his old ways of dying?

Darian left the shelter for a week, his body returning but not his spirit. I don't know what his eyes had seen but maybe "fear in the headlights" is a good description of his new look. His drawing was listless, his body more bent than ever. He was a far, far cry from the man who boldly put his hands on Cassie's desk, looking her directly in the eye and saying just for the heck of it, "I like you!"

All along the watchtower,
princes kept the view.
While all the women came and went,
barefoot servants, too.

"How do you fix the night?"

I'm a night owl and it's not unusual for me to be watching TV at 2 AM in the break room. At 1:33 on a Wednesday morning, Darian comes drifting in, shaken and broken with eyes lost and clueless - and sober. His eyes were open but saw nothing. I assumed he knew I was there but his voice spoke to the walls. But before he even spoke, one thing I knew for sure: this was serious.

"How do you fix the night?" he asked - and I shuddered with words I'd asked myself a thousand times but never dare utter aloud. The man was dying right before my very eyes. What do you do? "My soul is in a hole..." I remember now gripping the sides of the chair, a hurricane of emotions swirling inside me. On the muted TV set, an upscale couple were cooing over the benefits of Viagra. My heart pounded and I even thought of screaming for help. But how to explain a heart dying but not the body?

I started crying then and I'm crying now from the remembrance of it. For whatever reason, I was made witness to this moment of human history, of his being declared unprecious in all the world. The light was leaving Darian and to me at that moment, it seemed as great as any national emergency. But I don't know where the hospital is for fixing lost dreams. We just sort of accept this kind of tragedy as part of the human condition - if not human survival. "I'm so tired," he expired, shuffling away. A few weeks later, he disappeared for good.

Outside in the distance
a wildcat did growl.
Two riders were approaching,
the wind began to howl.

EPILOGUE: I scan the Metro section of the paper every day, looking for the story of an anonymous death. I read about a firefighter who'd lost his job, family and home due to drug addiction but who was now on his way back. But Darian had no such reference points of success. I picture him floating on a raft in the middle of the universe, not knowing which way to go. Cassie had forced him to open his eyes - that's a bad thing?

But as I look at this world around me, with its clenched teeth of frantic exhortations, and dreams of war and poverty and greed, and more and more souls sucked into the drain of despair I smirk at all our efforts to "save" ourselves. Darian had it right all along, he just didn't finish the thought:

"Nothin' means nothin' - unless everyone means something."