u/Brilliant_Shine2247

Hey everyone. I hope everyone's day is going according to plan.

Anyway, I have a question. A friend of mine owns a little piece of land that has a stream running through it. It's a stream that has been around forever. She also finds a lot of quartz on her property.

It seems I read about gold and quartz go hand in hand. Is this true?

Hey everyone! I'm new here from North Carolina.

During COVID I started to become interested in prospecting. Then I found out that NC is a major gold producing state, so of course I'm more than just interested now.

Had anyone got any tips on good places a beginner can learn to pan? I really appreciate any advice.

A lot of people told me that I was being paranoid or dramatic when I said we were heading in this direction.

I've been out here on the homeless trail for over nine years due to a brain injury that has kept me from being able to navigate the processes. Not because of drugs or alcohol. In fact, I celebrated 26 years of sobriety just yesterday.

I fully expect these laws to become normalized in the coming months and years. People who have no idea what it's like to be homeless will offer their two cents and support for these draconian laws. They feel they are experts because they saw a homeless person one day.

The nuances of homelessness are endless. There is very little solidarity for us. Republicans may be leading the charge but I assure you that the Democrats are right there cheering it on.

When one segment of the population loses their voice then every single person in this country is in danger of losing theirs as well. If they haven't already and just don't realize it.

Edit: And just to add to the misery my prescription to help out with my brain injury just got denied coverage by Medicaid. Nice. It seems that today I'm a capitalist wet dream.

Raleigh is celebrating a championship win today. And rightfully so. The Stanley Cup is a huge deal.

     Streets are packed with seemingly endless waves of people proudly adorned in red and black. The color of the Canes.

     There is a festive nature in the air all the way over to the homeless shelter. People are practically lining up to dole out some small measure of comfort to the displaced, disenfranchised and often disturbed population of the Oak City.

     People out here are going from one good Samaritan to the other. Everyone seems to be wearing the small red knapsacks that earlier were filled with snacks, water bottles, deodorant, soap, cans of Vienna sausages and dental hygiene tools.

     Some have five or six bags. Always get while the getting is good. In a couple of days the teat will be dry.

     Some of the crowd will eat until they vomit. Food in abundance is such a foreign concept to their bodies.

     The city is alive today. Separate from the parade there is an abundance of Juneteenth celebrations kicking off. Once again, rightfully so.

     There's nothing that should be celebrated more than when people are freed.

     I'm opting out of the parade, mostly due to brain injury reasons but also a little bit because I feel  that I don't belong there. Many might tell me otherwise. They haven't spent as many homeless years as I have tho.

    I decided this morning that I would go out to find a Juneteenth celebration somewhere. As white as I am I never feel uncomfortable in a crowd of black folks. I don't feel as judged I guess.

     It's not until I get to the Moore Square station that I find out that I have either missed or will have to miss the Juneteenth parties. It seems that they are not the all day get togethers that I just assumed they'd be.

     So I just gave up my quest for a Juneteenth celebration and headed back to the shelter in hopes that I wouldn't be too late for dinner. It's not like I can just go to the fridge and heat up a plate of leftovers. Those days are long gone for me now.

     On the weekends at Oak City Cares they serve three meals a day. Church groups and others come by with enough food to feed an army. It's common knowledge on the streets that when the bikers show up then we'll be eating like kings. Royalty for a couple hours.

     There's a festive mood in the air. More than just being fed it's also a time to check in with the community. A family reunion of sorts.

     Everyone gets the latest gossip. Of course Rose is there to show off her newest outfits. "Look at me!" she silently screams before adding, "Can I get a ciggy from you baby."

     The helicopters filming the parade bring a sense of dread to many of the people out here. The paranoid schizophrenics are positive that the copters are police in disguise. That they are there for the sole function of watching them.

      They move with urgency from one spot to another where they feel safe. Unseen. Comfortable.

     I keep getting a feeling that something is off about the whole thing. I just can't put my finger on it.

     The line for dinner starts to take shape. I'm always fascinated by the vast assortment of people. Every size, color and shape you can imagine. All brought here with the commonality of hunger. No one claims to be better than anyone else on these common grounds.

     The #21 bus pulls up, opens its doors as the 'wait till the last minute' crowd spills out like soldiers from a landing craft intent on storming the beaches for a bite to eat.

     That gnawing feeling in my stomach is still there.

     Five minutes before feeding time and the line starts to tighten up. People start to gravitate towards the center of the outdoors eating area. What those in the "real world" call "patio dining".

     Except this is on concrete. It severely lacks the ambience wafting from the cedar wood deck, or the forestry feel of the potted corn plants.

     Then it suddenly hits me. The gnawing feeling.

     I just for the life of me can't understand how a sports championship brings out more solidarity and life than the celebration of a people's freedom in this country.

     Even if it's just on paper.

Have I finally been beat? Has the system I've railed against since I can remember finally corralled me? Brought me in from the wild?

    

Please excuse me if I go for too long but I am a writer by my very nature.

    

The last decade had been a wild ride. I officially became homeless on Oct. 30th, 2017. That was the night I was assaulted and was supposed to die. I was lucky that I only came away with a life changing brain injury. Yeah. Fucking weeee.

    

I found myself on the streets still leaking fluid from my skull when my insurance company decided that it was no longer responsible for my healthcare.

    

Our nation is about to crown the first trillionaire in history as I sit at the soup kitchen next to a family with three young kids. Unlike the kids of Musk, these will be cleaning their plates. They already know food later is not a given. The urge to cry sweeps over me some tsunami of emotions.

    

I fish a few cough drops out of my pocket and look at their dad who gives me his nod of approval. The kids react like I'm holding all the riches of the world. They each take two. They immediately devour one and decide to save the other for later. For a better time I guess.

    

I've seen about everything there is to see out here. The finest of humanity to the lowest dregs. One of the only things for certain right now is that I will never be the same as I was in my previous incarnation. I don't think I even want to be.

    

Over the years I've written about my experiences and I've tried my damnest to tell the stories of those who have lost their voices. The people that we warn our children not to listen to. I can only hope I've done them justice. I don't really feel that I ever could.

    

I've been told by many that I have an important voice that needs to be heard. It's been through the kindness and generosity of strangers that I've been able to carry that voice this far, that I've been able to have the basics of life with the occasional luxury item. Like a good bar of soap, or a meal of my choice. I appreciate every single person who has helped me along this trail.

    

But now I'm at an impasse. I can't continue the way I have been. I now have to take my place among the very society that has gone thru great pains to let me know that I'm not welcome over the last decade.

    

Not because of any physical limitations. Although, to be honest, I'm not getting any younger. But because the new laws are being passed at breakneck speeds all across the county against people like me.

    

It's come down to "getting with the program" or ending up in jail for coloring outside the lines or stuck in a labor style reeducation camp. Those who think I'm being histrionic aren't paying attention.

    

So I've decided to take an early retirement. More than the monthly check I'll get in a few months, hopefully, it will open housing benefits.

    

Maybe I'll get me a boarding room somewhere and just write until they find my bones draped over a desk or kitchen table. That will be alright by me.

    

The words of Charles Bukowski come to mind almost like a harbinger, "No one who ever wrote worth a damn ever wrote in peace." I hope he's wrong.

    

I feel beat. My spirit feels like it's been defeated. I've railed against capitalism since even before I knew what it was. Arguing with my father so long ago that healthcare wasn't a benefit, but a right for all people.

    

Before he passed he was beginning to see my point, although I don't think he ever understood just how strongly I felt.

    

I know he would have never understood that I have felt more alive since being homeless than I can ever remember being before. The less capitalism says I'm worth the more worthy I've felt I am.

    

I've helped people who were being trafficked to find a way home. I've helped people to anchor themselves to the homeless way of life. My writings haven't made me much money but my works have touched people.

    

I've gotten messages from people who claim that they found solice in my words. A certain comradery. Solidarity.

    

Some have even said I saved a life. So, no matter where my writing goes I'll always have the ultimate satisfaction in what I do.

    

Despite the teachings of this leaking antiquated system we grind under, not everything that counts has to have a bar code. That's probably the main lesson this last decade has drilled home for me.

    

Maybe I'll take the cat that I've been feeding that lives behind the homeless shelter with me when I ascend. Could there be a more appropriate companion?

    

The kids beside me have decided to give up waiting and are now eagerly devouring their last cough drops.

    

Fuck Elon Musk.

    

    Life in a homeless shelter. The place where the castaways are sent when they can no longer hold their own in a hostile society. When their balance is permanently off.

    

The one I'm in right now is a mixture of a senior facility, mental institution, prison halfway house and holding pen for men whose bodies are mutilated for a variety of reasons.

    

Most of the latter are in a holding pattern with the courts to decide if losing a couple legs is really a disability. This is where the poor go to simply eat and stay out of the rain. Especially after their tents were rounded up to be destroyed. What an eyesore they are.

    

There are special plugins about the shelter for ankle bracelet batteries. I would estimate at least 30% of the population here is fresh out of prison.

Homicides, armed robbery and even crimes against children land here. I guess the worst of the worst. Doesn't seem that way to me. Very few of them instill fear in me, once you get past the looks that twenty or thirty years behind bars impose upon a person.

     The front lobby of the building always has a parole officer waiting to see someone. Some days they seem like packs of vultures. They wait to find any little thing they use against someone. Then they'll turn him into a carrion and pick the meat from his bones. They always look hungry.

     Of course there is an extensive geriatric crowd meeting in the corner of the smoking area, or "the yard". They circle their wheelchairs and walkers to discuss old movie stars, fix the world's problems and diagnose the younger generations.

     Most of their stories start out, "Well, when my wife died." Sometimes that's as far as they can get without stopping to choke back the tears of remembrance. Some appear to be completely lost without the love they forgot to cherish.

     Priced out of their previous dwellings by landlords that could give a shit about lost love. They sit here to wait for a spot in the newest government subsidized senior living apartments. Or to die. Whichever comes first. I'd say they make up at least 20% of residents.

     I'd estimate that a good 15% to 20% are people who are mentally incapable of caring for themselves properly. A situation that was exacerbated when the local mental institution found itself no longer funded so they had to open the doors and say "good luck".

     The funding for missiles was increased. I wonder how many people could have been helped for the cost of taking out one Iranian girls school? Guess we'll never know.

     Most of this group doesn't stay too long. It's hard enough to keep track of all the seemingly endless rules here when you possess your mental acumen. Your awareness.

They're destined to haunt the bus stops near where free food can sometimes be found. Food and drugs. You can believe that the dope man knows when each one's check drops.

    

The last 30% to 35% are made up of people who have a string of bad luck. Or just a major catastrophic event.

    

A medical emergency, a rent hike, a job loss, a run in with the law, and addiction, etc.... The list really does go on and on.

    

I'm not sure what group I belong in, to be honest. I've had a rough ten years. I've also got an invisible handicap in the form of a brain injury. I've never been to prison though, but I can now draw early retirement. I can't wait to find out what I was up to before repeated blows to the head erased my life from my memory.

The shelter itself is a combination of a human warehouse and a very minimal security prison. It's a huge brick building divided into five separate dorms which hold anywhere from 50 to 30 men. It's fenced off with a guard on duty at all times.

    

You have to be out of the dorm at 8 am. You are welcome to hang out on the wooden benches in the hall or out in the yard.

    

Once you leave you can only come back in at certain times of the day. No exceptions. The last check in time starts at 4 pm but the general curfew is at 7 pm.

    

Breakfast is served at 6:15 am, lunch at 12:30 pm and then dinner at 5:30 pm. Miss those times and you don't eat, if eating is what you call the food. Most often I just go hungry.

    

When you are the waste product of unbridled capitalism you aren't really worthy of healthy nutritious food. You should feel lucky to be eating at all. Capitalism would rather throw good food away for being ugly than let people in extreme poverty fill their stomachs.

    

So mostly I eat at the various feedings around town. Places where churches try to recruit the hungry and disenfranchised. Every so often a little money will come my way and I'll splurge on a burger or something of that nature.

    

It seems we're all just in that shelter waiting for clearance to land. Somewhere. Anywhere. Like it's some reasonable goal to try and get back into a society that just this morning spit at me as I waited at the bus stop.

I was floating in an amniotic sac. Direction less. Carried by a breeze that I couldn't feel.

Or maybe a current. It's not like it matters. It's not like anything actually matters.

Anymore.

Not only did I not know where I was headed, I really wasn't so sure I was heading anywhere at all. And that's fine, too.

A Great White Abyss.

No form. At least not physical. As far as I could tell.

The dull sound of a divorced heartbeat I just assumed was mine. So far away now.

Inside the cushion.

Airplane mode and out of reach. Sorry I couldn't be here today, now I'll take my leave.

When I tried to look up I discovered that I wasn't sure where that was. I can't remember where down is. Either.

The silence is screaming. Softly. Down the hall in a room with the door closed.

It's probably just nerves. So is everything. Everything is just nerves.

    

Ripples. Pulses. Ripples.

    

They said to stay tuned, but now the TV isn't working. So I'll just wait here until you get back.

That's a matter of fact. The judge doesn't even work this week.

    

Maybe you won't come back. Never intended to at all. And that's fine too.

    

I'm much too old now to go chasing children. I'll just watch and listen when I can.

    

If it makes you feel any better, I didn't care either. I guess that really shows now.

    

Right now I couldn't care of I wanted to. That's the beauty of it, though. The brilliance.

    

I'm not home at the moment. No cause for alarm. But I am light years away.

    

Be careful of seeing the light.

    

The truth of the matter doesn't really matter. That's a matter of fact. The judge doesn't even work this week.

I sharpened my pencil and now the papers dull. No one warned me about dull paper. I'm sure I'm not the first.

I'm in no big hurry to get nowhere. No one even knows exactly where nowhere is.

Nowhere is a concept. If it's on your map, then that isn't a map.

You have to be undone to come together. You have to lose a few to be a gracious winner. I'm all by myself in solidarity.

The skin I feel is not the skin I'm in.

Although feel might not be the right word. More of a sensing. Attuned to a presence.

And that's fine.

Too.

     I did everything right. I had a career, a family with two sons (one bio and the other one a stepson I raised from 6 months old to 23), a nice apartment to live in while we looked for a decent house.

    

Then my sister passed, six months later my mom was gone and then a year later my father lost his fight with cancer. That left me the last of my family except for my bio son, who was 11.

    

My father left me a bit of an inheritance, mostly the stuff that accumulated in 53 years of marriage. My folks had good taste.

    

The day after my father's life insurance hit the bank my now ex-wife and stepson tried to murder me. They tried to beat me to death. My son was engaged to the sister of a deputy so the fix was in straight from the start. They got everything and left me with nothing but a book bag, some clothes and a life changing brain injury.

    

I spent the next year or so teaching myself how to read and write all over again. I had zero help during those days except for those in the homeless community.

    

I've spent the last 5 years living in an abandoned house and the woods. After 3 years in the woods I came out 3 months ago and went to a large city to take advantage of the resources available to make my way back into a society that has spit on me, kicked me when I'm down and gone thru great lengths to let me know that no one cares. In spite of all that I'm going to make it.

    

If you've ever wondered what it's like to become and live the homeless life when you're not on drugs, don't drink and aren't mentally unstable then now's the chance. Ask me anything.

    

I'll leave a sample of my work in the comment section.

Edit: I was allowed to stay in the abandoned house by the owner. He gave me a lease-like agreement saying that I was the caretaker of the property so the cops couldn't mess with me. I turned that into a safe space for women and kids in the LGBTQ community who were running from violence on the streets but couldn't get into a conversational shelter for whatever reason. A lot of good came out of that house. Things that I'll always be proud to have been a part of.

It's been nine years since the beating that left me homeless with a TBI .

Navigating the systems that are designed to get people off the streets is impossible when you don't even know if your going to even eat for sometimes days at a time. Even staying in a shelter. I lose track of time and miss the feedings.

At one point I just gave up and got a tent and hit the woods. I managed to stay alive for the last five years living in the woods all by myself. I didn't want anyone else around me because of the drama people bring. Not to mention the drugs and alcohol. That's just not my thing. I don't judge anyone for that because God knows any escape from this life, even for a minute would probably feel like a utopia.

I escape the misery by writing. I had to teach myself all over while living under a bridge. But now I can say with confidence that I'm a damn good writer. But getting my material in front of anyone that can help us just another insurmountable obstacle at the moment.

Anyway. That's all. Thanks to everyone in this forum. Sometimes just knowing you're not alone can make a world of difference.

Hahaha. I just missed the bus that would take me to the soup kitchen that serves breakfast. Hopefully I'll figure something out. Sometimes I'll just stand at the bus stop and watch the bus I need to be on pull away. I'm hanging on but my thread is getting a bit worn out.

I hope this is allowed, but as a homeless person I constantly get religion shoved down my throat. There's this thing church people like to say when they hold a feeding. "Before we nourish your body we must first nourish your soul." It's fucking maddening. Especially when you've been a couple of days without a bite to eat.

I'm not homeless due to drugs or alcohol but because of a brain injury from an attempt on my life. I got so sick of everything coming with a side order of God and my brain injury making it impossible to navigate the system and the programs to help that I just gave up and got me a tent so I could be away from everyone. I most certainly don't stay in a tent city.

I had to teach myself how to read and write all over again. Here's a little piece that I wrote yesterday. My observations of one of those church feedings.

TW: It may be unsettling to some who have been through the sexual abuse that churches seem to love so much.

High Heels

There's a girl here with a church group in Moore Square right now.

She has on a pair of ill fitting high heels in an attempt to look older. Maybe thirteen.

Stumbling around with the heel of one shoe pointing at her other foot from time to time.

Old men are jockeying for a position to give her a hug. Of course she obliges. She's been taught to from birth.

Some ministry is set up with an industrial size charcoal grill. The kind that's built on its own trailer and pulled behind a pickup truck that has a sticker on the window that reads, "God, Guns and Country".

They're barbequing entire half chickens and I gotta admit that the smell is quite intoxicating. I had breakfast but it's not worth it to go back to the shelter for lunch with a side of hopelessness.

There is the gospel being read on a nice little street sound system. There is no chance for you to miss these words.

Especially when someone catches the spirit and grabs the mic for a quick testimonial.

That chicken has been out here cooking for a good hour and the crowd of the homeless and hungry stare at the grill like it's the eye of God. Damn that smell is intoxicating.

The child in high heels has moved on to another line of well wishers. It seems only well dressed middle age men wish anyone well anymore.

People are hungry, the scriptures are pumping while strategically placed minions roam the crowd to pray for thanks because God just can't get enough gratitude for some reason. Give him all the glory or fuck you to hell.

That little girl seems to want to go somewhere else. Her eyes look all alone in the universe as she stares at the sky. She's trying to fly away from the pervert squeezing her body.

Someone sets up across the street to offer hot dogs and pasta. The crowd here disperses and reforms over there. That line moves pretty fast as everyone reunites for some now food.

The smell is intoxicating.

The little girl looks wasted now.

I don't really feel like eating anything anymore.

    

God as my witness she wonders.

That Raleigh Style Kindness is contagious people!

Those who have been following my journey here as a homeless person in Raleigh, boy have I got something to tell y'all about! Forgive me if this is a long post. I'll try to make it worth the read.

Most mornings I leave the shelter and take a brisk walk to the Shell station on Blount. Some cool morning air and a cardiac inducing walk always gets my blood pumping.

If I have the money I'll get a nice sausage egg and cheese biscuit and some life saving caffeine.

This morning I got to the Shell and passed a woman with a 3 or 4 year old child crying. Of course I had to stop and ask her if she was okay and if there was anything I could do to help her. She asked me if I would buy her son something to eat. Apparently, her bf and the child's father had been smoking crack and drinking for a couple of days straight and he dumped them there in the middle of the night and then took off.

I told her that I would be more than happy to help her son. I went to the Shell and got a couple of biscuits, 2 honeybuns, 2 Gatorades and a cup of coffee for her. That meant that I would go without, but being homeless means I understand hunger all too well.

No child should ever have to understand hunger.

I told her about Oak City Cares and gave her the last of my money for a bus ride.

Leaving there I felt pretty good about myself.

I got to the bus depot downtown and realized that now I would be short the money to wash and dry my clothes. Okay. No problem. I can do them at the shelter but it takes forever and you have to sit there with them. I do not like to hang around that place for any longer than I have to.

While at the bus depot I hear some jackass going off on some woman. He's yelling that his taxes pay for disability so she owes him sex. She is sitting there on her walker surrounded by her belongings and has a new looking hospital wrist band on.

At that point I thought that our inebriated ruffian needed a little reminder of how one should address another person, especially, and please excuse my obvious sexism, a lady.

I immediately stepped up to him to let him know that I thoroughly doubted that his family tree had more than two branches. I also let him know that there was some doubt as to the number of legal parents he had. I may (or may not) have told him that he would be the perfect person to represent the pro-abortion argument on both posters and other assorted media.

After diverting his focus from competing for the world's biggest douche canoe he began to focus his angry tirade at me. Being somewhat of a sizable man physically I began walking him backwards away from the woman in the walker. While doing so I tried to help him out with some positive affirmations in an attempt to brighten his day. Why, I even told him that he was a perfect example of why pets should be spayed and neutered. Maybe not in those words exactly, but judging from his reaction it appears he understood.

After almost getting hit by a bus he decided to let me know that he did in fact question my personal sexuality (like calling me gay is some sort of insult) and he then informed me that when he goes to sleep tonight (or pass out, whatever the case may be) that he will be engaging me in the pugilistic arts. I'm sure that he meant it that way because he just kept backing up in real life!

He finally left and the women with the walker thanked me and bestowed some sort of blessing upon my soul. Good. I need all the help I can get in that department.

So. How has everyone else's morning gone?

    Hey folks. I hope everyone is fine today. I'm going to dive straight in because it may be kind of long.

     I'm currently homeless because of a traumatic brain injury that took everything from me. I even had to teach myself to read and write all over again.

     I lived in the woods and in an abandoned house (with the owners permission) for the last 9 years because my brain injury made life pretty much impossible.

     Now I've moved to a city that has the resources I need to get back in the game. I'm in a shelter and I no longer look like Grizzly Adams. Hahaha.

     For the last 7 years I've been friends with the most beautiful woman to walk the Earth. A little over a year ago our friendship became what it was always meant to be and we confessed our love for each other. But in order to get myself straight I had to move an hour away to a city with the resources I needed.

     Her birthday is coming up this weekend and the shelter has been gracious enough to grant me a weekend pass for being such a good boy. I've organized a shoe drive to help the elderly guys with mobility issues get new shoes and other assorted things to help people out. Through the years I've used my sobriety (26 years soon. June 23rd, 1999) to help others. Won a few and lost a few.

     Now I'm asking for something for myself. I'm trying to get the money to get a room for my partner and myself for my weekend pass. I want to propose to her at that time.

     I realize that this is not a life or death situation and I feel strange asking for anything for myself. But this woman has literally saved my life. She has been there for me when I lived in the woods. She sees something in me that makes me want to be a better man.

     I need $180 to make this happen. I had $100 saved up but I had some medical expenses I had to take care of. One of my promises to her was to get my health straightened out and I'm keeping that promise.

     If no one wants to help, I understand. Like I say, this is not life or death. I just want to show her how much I love her.

     Thanks for your time.