I don’t want to live like this forever, or much longer, for that matter. There’s nothing to recommend it. It’s abhorred and even nominally illegal. It’s highly inconvenient, generally unpleasant, boring and unproductive. It’s unhealthy, uncomfortable and maybe slightly dangerous.

That’s my take on it. I can’t speak for anyone else. If I believed my situation was utterly hopeless, I can’t imagine what would drive me to continue, since I’m not getting much joy out of life at present. Those who have read my articles in the past know what I’m talking about. I’m a 60 year-old homeless man living in Prescott.

You and I really aren’t as different as you may wish to think we are. There was a time when I had a full-time job (supervisory, no less), a motorcycle, a guitar, a great many books, a cat and a home. I didn’t expect to wind up in this situation. But now there’s a wall that separates us, you and me — well, four walls, more accurately, and a roof. Maybe some central heat. Brrr.

I’ve tried, in my previous essays, to debunk some of the myths surrounding the homeless, to wit: that we are, as a rule, substance-abusing, low-class, lazy psychotics, and that’s why we are where we are. I stand by that, though I’d be lying if I said substance-abusing, low-class, lazy psychotics were without representation among our numbers. And you’d be a fool to believe for a moment that all substance-abusing, low-class, lazy psychotics are homeless. Just ask the next cop you meet.

As I stated in a previous article, you’ve never seen me holding a cardboard sign begging for change. I pass my free time reading, writing, watching the occasional movie on my tablet computer, or cooking a meal on my camp stove. I apply for those jobs that a man my age with a bad knee who lives in a car might be able to obtain and perform. I sleep erratically, and my access to hygiene and laundry facilities is irregular. My goal, if ever I can afford it, is something like a class-B recreational vehicle in which to live and write novels. My needs are modest and I’m accustomed to living small. If you eed to know more of my personal story, I refer you again to my previously published articles on 5ensesmag.com. I lack the heart to rehash all that.

While I would gladly have eschewed the experience of homelessness altogether and would abandon it in a heartbeat for a better situation, would I say the experience has been worthless? I don’t believe I’ve gained any valuable insights by suffering through insect-infested summer heat and unrelenting winter wind. My views of human nature haven’t been significantly affected by being suspected, propositioned and harassed by the local citizenry. It’s highly dubious that living and sleeping in my clothes month after month has taught me a great deal. Honestly, I can’t claim that homelessness, in and of itself, has proven an especially edifying experience.

Still, it has been experience, and experience changes us. I may not realize how much till — if — I make it back to the other side. For a while there, for example, I cried a lot. At the drop of a hat, really. I seldom do that anymore. I guess that’s good. Some time back I had the opportunity to sleep in an actual bed, and I couldn’t quite remember how to mount the beast. I just stood there looking at this piece of furniture, lips pursed, thinking, “Hmm.” Crawl onto the thing? Run and dive? It came back to me, of course, but I was out of practice, momentarily stumped. That was a little weird.

I once watched a small fire ignite by lightning, burn for days and finally die out on its own on the side of Granite Mountain. It was quite peaceful, sitting there in the misting rain. I’ve spent a hell of a lot of time alone, outside the walls. I’ve had some ugly days, long nights and dark thoughts. Experience affects perspective.

I don’t bother with a lot of woulda-coulda-shoulda self-recrimination. There’s no use kicking myself over the past. As for the future, I have no idea. Anybody’s guess is as good as mine. I’ll keep you posted. But this column isn’t about me, I’m not particularly interesting. It’s about what I see or experience from a perspective altered by homelessness. Whether or not there’s value to that is up to you to decide. I’ll try to keep it amusing and  relatable. If I’m too much of a bummer, complain to the editor about the disheveled old guy making all that noise outside the walls.