IN THIS ISSUE:
StreetViews is published by the Wyoming Coalition for the Homeless,
907 Logan Avenue,
Cheyenne, WY 82001-5247.
phone: 307-634-8499; fax: 307-634-9089.
email: wch@vcn.com
Views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those of the Wyoming Coalition for the Homeless, its staff or board.
Editors for this issue are Virginia Sellner and Bess Arnold. Copyrights revert back to the author upon publication.
WCH is a 501(c)(3) all volunteer non-profit agency depending upon the community for funding.
© 2003.
Articles from other papers are published with permission of the paper listed with the article.
**In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. section 107, this material is distributed without charge or profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving this type of information for non-profit research and educational purposes only.**
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WALL ART, by Earl Janack
Artist and musician, Earl Robert Janack is shown below working on his mural of a buffalo at the WCH building. Also shown is the Kokopeli that he painted on the front of the building.
His art work is presently on display at the WCH building, 907 Logan Avenue, Grandma's Pickle Parlor, 104 West 17th Street and the new UMC West Office Building, 214 E. 23rd Street.
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Musician-Artist Also an Activist For The Homeless
Wyo. artist, musician donates paintings, time to help coalition
By Allison Fashek, Wyoming Tribune-Eagle
July 13, 2003
CHEYENNE (AP) - Musician and Artist Earl Robert Janack spends a lot of time in his garage, painting buffaloes and colorful, Jackson Pollock-style pieces
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But what many people don't know is that about 10 years ago, Janack chose to live out of a garage in Colorado Springs and considered himself a homeless street musician.
At the time, Janack would park himself outside a bookstore and play a mix of popular songs and ones he wrote himself, mostly about social issues. He did it all on his guitar, which was adorned with a sticker that read "This machine kills fascists" - the same words the late folk singer Woody Guthrie had on his guitar.
 "I can't point to one specific event or reason why I've lived the way I have," Janack said recently at the Wyoming Coalition for the Homeless, where he volunteers. "Some people don't want to be told how to live or what to do."
Janack, 41, now has a home in Cheyenne with his 5-year-old son, Avery Lane. But his experiences have made him an advocate for the rights of homeless people and continue to influence his art and music.
Originally from upstate New York, Janack joined the Army at 18. He served as a military police officer for three years and obtained associate's degrees in electrical engineering and computer science from Colorado Technical College in Colorado Springs, now know as Colorado Technical University.
When he had trouble finding a job in his field, he worked as a picture framer. Surrounded by art, he started painting and, about the same time, taught himself to play guitar and joined a few bands.
 Eventually, Janack found work in the electrical industry, but he never left behind his interest in the arts.
In the early 1990s, he decided to live "an alternative lifestyle," partly inspired by Guthrie's travels.
While working for an antique dealer, he was able to travel and play his music on the streets of cities as far away as New York City and Toronto.
 But in 1995, in Colorado Springs, the music briefly died when police arrested him, saying that he was loitering for the purpose of begging. The American Civil Liberties Union stepped in and the charges were dropped, but the incident had a lasting effect on Janack.
When the mayor there decided not to run for re-election, Janack elected to throw his hat in the ring to raise awareness about freedom of speech and homeless issues. He didn't win, but he received about 1,300 votes and accomplished his goal.
"If I hadn't been there, certain issues wouldn't have been addressed in that race for sure," he said.
About three and a half years ago, Janack moved to Cheyenne with his son. He got involved with the Wyoming Coalition for the Homeless, and his paintings now cover the walls of the group's office, which makes up part of the Art From the Streets Gallery.
 The collection includes earlier abstract paintings of Indian dancers, geometric and Western-influenced pieces, and his latest drip, dribble, splash and spray works, which he calls "hapenstanchul art."
"I didn't know he did art for the first two years he was in town," said Virginia Sellner, Coalition Director. "He's making up for lost time now."
While he also sells his work, Janack has offered to give it to people who donate to the coalition's building fund. Recently he painted a large, pastel buffalo on the front of the coalition's building to call attention to the group's needs.
 He now makes his living by working as a guitar instructor. But he also plays gigs around town with his band, Slow Trucks Turning
He has dislayed his art at local shows, such as the Cheyenne Artist's Guild Easter Show and other venues in Colorado Springs.
A single parent with responsibilities, Janack said he is at an age when he appreciates having a home and more of a routine.
 "I always knew I could earn enough money on the street to get a sandwich," he said. "But it's a tough life."
Of course, he maintains a license for street performing in Cheyenne. Some things don't change.
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REMEMBERING JIMMY AGAIN
Bridget Reilly
Thirteen years ago this summer my friend Jimmy Hoyt died when he was homeless on the streets of Boston. As I'm reliving that time again a new thought has occurred to me:
People in this culture are fearful of homelessness in some of the same ways that they fear death. This is why they try to distance themselves from it by denying the humanity of the homeless person. Just as when a person dies their body is reduced to a mere "corpse" as if it had never belonged to a living being with a name and identity, when a person loses their home they are no longer seen as an individual, but become part of a faceless mass called "The Homeless."
I know how false both of these concepts are, partly because I had the experience of seeing a co-worker go through the downward slide into homelessness, then finally succumb to death less than two years later. We had once shared the same world of the housed and employed, and developed a relationship during that time.
Then I saw him gradually lose his grip on the those things that had constituted the fragile structure of his material life. I saw how he lost his status and respect in society's eyes when he became homeless and therefore became subject to the stereotyping and abuse that homeless people receive. I knew this dehumanization was false because he was still a precious human being to me.
After he died I saw the pictures of him that his sister had taken at his wake. I had feared that I might be repulsed and upset by the photos, but when I looked at them I was surprised at how good he looked. His sister had taken care to photograph him from the best angle so that no evidence of his injuries would be seen, and there was even a hint of color in his cheeks and his eyes were closed just as if he was asleep. In fact, he looked so good that I saw fit to display these pictures on my wall for a time; these were images not of "a corpse," but of Jimmy gone to his rest.
So because of this, I can also see the falseness in people's fear of death, the idea that it's something abhorrent and repulsive. Jimmy had remained Jimmy after being ejected from his home, and was also still Jimmy when his spirit departed from the home of its earthly body. The only difference was that he no longer shared the same physical plane with me, but he hadn't really gone very far away.
Jimmy had worked as a landscaper and had planted a lot of trees that are still growing today. He also gave me some elementary lessons in gardening when I was trying to start a vegetable garden in my back yard in Boston. His life ended when he was hit by a commuter train on July 9, 1990. And my garden only bore about six or seven green beans that showed up on one of the plants right after he died.
Today, thirteen years later, I have a lush and beautiful vegetable garden in the back yard of my present abode on the opposite side of the country. I often feel Jimmy's presence close by when I'm watering the cucumber and tomato plants. This morning I heard a train whistle in the distance when I went out to see how these plants were doing.
The memories of that fateful summer have a sweet sadness attached to them now, no longer a crushingly painful grief. I've cried all the tears over him that need to be cried. Now his spirit peacefully resides in my present-day garden that continues to bear new life, and still gives me a cheerful greeting when I walk barefoot among its healthy plants.
June 16, 2003
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Not Just a Statistic
words and music by Earl Robert Janack
No matter their story, no matter their name
They're just a statistic, a faceless name on a page
Somebody's son, somebody's daughter
Somebody's friend, somebody's father
An aunt, an uncle, a sister, a brother
An artist, a poet, a singer/songwriter
They were sleeping when you came upon them that night
Never had a chance, couldn't put up a fight
They were the victims of your cowardly aggression
You were under the influence of desensitization
These are the sad stories that should never be told
of men who lived different lives, who died out in the cold,
of distraught women who died untimely deaths,
of lives that were lost in the East and in the West
They were homeless by choice, perhaps circumstance
you made a bad choice, you didn't give them a chance
you cut their lives short and then got off scot-free
But the guilt will remain in your memory
In your memory.......
No matter their story, no matter their name
They're just a statistic, a faceless name on a page
Now just a statistic, a faceless name on a page
how many others, unaccounted, their lived taken away
It's hard to believe, gut wrenching, graphic details
What depraved motive could incite thrill seeking juveniles
Try to explain it, defend it, it was all just for fun
Set on fire, kicked, beaten, harassed, shot with a gun
Dismembered, raped, beheaded, tortured, then bled dry
Disregarded, abandoned, forgotten, alone, left to die
A Vietnam Vet who turns to drugs and alcohol
A schizophrenic whose voices drove him up against a wall
A scared woman whose home had burned down to the ground
A young boy whose cruel father had pushed him around
They lived under bridges, in cars, and in tents
They begged for money on street corners wherever they went
sometimes they took a job or stole for their fix
or prostituted themselves at night turning tricks
No matter their story, no matter their name
They're just a statistic, a faceless name on a page
Somebody's son, somebody's daughter
Somebody's friend, somebody's father
An aunt, an uncle, a sister, a brother
An artist, a poet, a singer/songwriter
They were sleeping when you came upon them that night
Never had a chance, couldn't put up a fight
They were the victims of your cowardly aggression
You were under the influence of desensitization
No matter their story, no matter their name
They're not just a statistic, a faceless name on a page
Not just a statistic
Not just a statistic
Not just a statistic
Not just a statistic
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Poetry by Beth Darling
THE RIDE
And so we start over
hearts of the edge
not knowing
and yet caring
daring
to conform.
or to take a chance.
Let the ladybug land,
lend a hand
don't flatter me
I'm embarrassed.
You worked my strings
and I smiled, it worked.
now I'm crying,
because you and me were lying
while it's mockery to me
I see it in your heart.
We'll part and again
I'll start my slow suicide
the ride
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THE COSTUME
Pick an image wear it out wear it out
Pick an image wear it well
It's all an image all an act
pick a style it's not really fact.
Pick a style pick an image wear it out wear it well
Pick a style pick an image, who are you now?
I am me and you are you
My image is for them, to protect me
from all of the yous.
But you, you know me and I know you
we are not the only two, but I have an image.
and so do you, and we don't care about that
because that style isn't true.
The true is what's inside of me or you.
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Poetry by Morgan Brown
NO SECRETS
are there no secrets
ever to be discovered
as to a certain method
toward coping or in living
with the root causes
of an existence
so painful
often felt
experienced
alone
going unshared
never seeming to be
understood
nor accepted
since it appears
to be too unbearable
or even impossible
to dare face
or to live with
many never fail
in finding a way
of blaming themselves
at the very least
when no reason exists
other than to find some
scapegoat to be rendered
in an attempt to get free
and to acquire some hope
in being forgiven
for just happening
to be who they are
it can be frightening
for some to consider
or to accept
that there are no secrets
which can be found
to replace ones own sense
of self and the need
for self acceptance
because there are none
nothing else
no secrets
to ease the suffering
only love
to soothe and heal the soul
throughout this life
because our soul searching
is the spirit's seeking
only our acceptance
for that
it may be true
there are no secrets
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TIME TO PAUSE
time and time again
time keeps flying by
as if i'm having fun
giving me reason to pause
as time winds on past
time and time again
i'm looking for time to pause
people keep rushing by
as if i'm invisible still
giving me nobody to pause with
as people continue passing on
words keep rushing in and out
as if they speak to or for me
giving language reason to pause
as words pass through me
time and time again
i'm seeking voice to pause
thoughts keep rushing in
as if they were mine to think
giving my mind reason to pause
as thoughts beat paths inside me
feelings keep rushing through
as if they're emotions i can bear
giving my soul reason to pause
as feelings pulse within me
time and time again
i'm pondering thoughts to pause
time and time again
i'm needing pause of feelings
time and time again
time keeps pushing and pulling
as if i still can be moved
as time continues winding me
time and time again
i can't get time to pause
time and time again
time keeps wearing me down
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Monostitch indite
As my AA autarchy inspissates (re decrepit aging),
my 'ad hominem' dissipates.
grom
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