Once Before: Or, Where My Air Conditioner Takes Me

Once before (or, once, if my memory serves correct) I was homeless. I spent the last seven months of my undergrad career sleeping in Moos Tower and the library. I found this to be difficult and liberating. I kept my clothes in a locker; I showered in the gym; I shaved in this private public bathroom stall that also had a sink and mirror. I even worked as a barista right down the street. I had no enclosures, no rent. No gates. No cameras. I had no candles (see: a previous post). As a University of Minnesota student, I had every right to be there (in Moos Tower) and they were open 24 hours. Nursing and medical students would stay there all the time in order to study, and they would often fall asleep. I would just pretend to do the same. The couches were rather comfortable.

You can't see the couches distinctly, but if you look to the background of the last posted picture, then you can see the red couch. Behind that was a better couch. I slept on that. I would hear all kinds of commotion, but later in the night this commotion would consist of mechanical and operational doings.

I had to live strategically. I am not endorsing nomadic living, but this is why rhizomatics is important to me:

University of Minnesota had a network of underground tunnels that allowed you to get around everywhere. It was warm.

Strategy for sleeping in a library: put two chairs together and curl up. They (the computer lab monitors) cannot see you when you're down sleeping. Sleep in the back. Pretend like you were doing research.

My air conditioner re-marks: see, is my re-mark not re-mark-able? I am stuck between limits, always, now. The Continuum and its gates, its point of (in)direct exile makes me ill. The candles: eat your heart out, kid. Your existential position: roam, roam; row, row. Everybody row. I gag on the idea of a bright-eyed project from anyone not familiar with the tactics of that which is without: home. Thus, the odd pictures of my apartment.