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This dead homeless women saga has a life of its own. To date, still no newspapers have reported anything about it. She didn’t exist. Nobody seems to care. I’ve sent out a mailing to our buddhist email list, which goes out to around 230 people, telling the story, and asking if anyone is interesting in doing something together. Guess how many people responded? 2!
One of them talking something about karma, and how do we know if we’re not interfering with that person’s karma if we help. please, spare me such bollocks.
However the second one was exactly what was needed. In the morning I spent some time again with the homeless people gathered at the bench where she died, listening to many stories (i wish i could record them and tell them all here), asking what exactly they think it’s needed and how people could help. Some interesting stuff came out: there’s plenty of food and plenty of clothes. Police is better to them than they used to be. Shelter is problematic - there’s only one in Ljubljana and none of the homeless I talked to want to stay there. Too many drunks, just Bosnians and other Yugoslavs, and people completely gone. But one said, how you could really help is if you get a reporter so that we can tell her story. And as I came to work a few minutes afterwards I had an email from a reporter from Slovenske novice saying that he doesn’t know how he could help otherwise, but that he can write an article about it for the paper. Talk about auspicious coincidence!

Then tonight as I was returning home from our Shambhala group sitting with a friend, just at the moment when we passed the same bench, two young punks came there, and took a flower out of the bouqet that the homeless have left there for their friend and ran away.
I immediately ran after them and shouted, hey stop, give back the flower.
Amazingly they stopped, and I repeat the same thing. They were not too impressed. “Why would we do that?”
“Because it’s my flower, i bought it for that women” - which was a lie, i just made something up. They were not convinced.
Then I said: “do you know what was her name? Her name was Marica
- whose name?
- the women who died there 2 days ago, those flowers were for her. Her name was Marica. She froze to death on that bench.
- I’m sorry
they mumbled. And then they both said, my condolences, gave back the flower and sheepishly walked away.

I came back to the bench, and together with my friend rearranged the flowers back to the way they were. Lots of candles were still burning.
On the bench a homeless person was sleeping. I wondered, what if again he will be found dead the next morning?
what to do?
as we stood there, he woke up, saliva trailing his mouth to his shirt and looked at us. he was quite incomprehensible, so it was quite hard to talk to him. Then he said, I need to go pee, where’s the toilet? I showed him the toilet, but he couldn’t walk, so I walked him down the stairs, payed for the toilet. I was thinking of leaving, but wasn’t sure if he can make it up the stairs by himself.
Eventually he got out, mumbling incoherently, now with even more saliva everywhere. I tried to get him up the stairs, but he didn’t want to go. He kept talking that he’s without a women and he wants to fuck. And he liked the friend that was with me.
oh boy… i tried talking to him for some time, but it was completely impossible. at the end I left and he slowly made his way up the stairs.

so… weird, eh? what helps? what doesn’t? who knows?
it’s completely hopeless. and we need to do it anyway.