1/24/10

Every other night there are new crazy people in this home. Drifters become characters, and characters become fixtures, all ushered into our tiny paradise by the gatekeeper Hans. The evenings are colorful and high-spirited, and then the mornings are tense and quiet and down turned eyes. The people who entertained us the night before meander in from the backyard, hungrily and silently eyeing our breakfasts. We workers mutter about Hans like he is a dumb child, dim enough to lead stray dogs home. I am not being paid in cash, I am being paid with food. When I see derelict and homeless humans, the kind that seem to magnetize to Hans, shuffling around barefoot and hungover and with their faces in my only income, I can only feel cheated. I have been pulling weeds all day, and luckily I experienced dinner, the greatest satisfaction before the dirt clods drifted in.