beggars

I live in New York, and have had one foot out the door for at least a year. I realized last night that one of the minor reasons i'm still here is perverse self-punishment.
I've imagined my next home will be someplace warm and wet. Palm trees, perhaps. A lower population density. There's a tiny part of me however, the pseudo-messianic voice, that would deny myself such a life, because i don't deserve it in a world filled with unspeakable deprivation and incomprehensible cruelty. In this world, how can anyone deserve contentment?
I just made myself laugh, as a metaphor sprang to mind: "sticking my head in the sand".
Where is my self-punishment dynamic most clearly crystallized?
With beggars.
I'm approached by beggars on a virtually daily basis. It can be easy to take that for granted if you live in it long enough, and easy to forget how sheltered from it most americans are. That constant presence will be denied me if i no longer live in a city.
How does living around the homeless affect one's psyche?
For me, perhaps it feeds the outrage that informs my spirit.
For people with little or no exposure to beggars, it makes the realities of abject poverty abstract. Somebody else's problem.
I've no wish to be an angry person. But perhaps this is the price of human progress, the martyring of people like me on the altar of hope.
What sad idiocy. In the big picture, probably pathetic conceit too.
Do i always give to beggars, emptying my pockets and spirit as i walk the streets? No.
When i left the house today, having gotten just this far in this article, a beggar was dropped into my lap. I was crossing a large intersection when he stopped me in the middle of the crosswalk. He talked faintly, almost a mumble, with a thick accent. I picked up maybe one word out of five. It wasn't clear what his need was, as he was relatively well-dressed. I finally caught the word "epilepsy". He handed me a stack of prescription slips. I thought perhaps he needed directions to a pharmacy, but i soon had confirmation of what i'd been mostly sure of...he wanted money.
Mind you, all this time, we're standing in the middle of an intersection, with the lights changing. Unsure whether his spiel was sincere, i declined to give and walked on.
Sometimes i give, often i don't. My choice to shy away from the wheel of materialism makes it easier to live with that, knowing that on many days i earn far less than many beggars. It also makes it easier to not give when you realize that, in the big picture, charity is a masturbatory joke. The pillars of our society are self-interest and hoarding. Until that changes, nothing else can.
Looking into the eyes of a beggar is a no-win situation. Spiritually, it's almost as painful to give as it is to not. Giving, you're reminded of how paltry your money is, and the likelihood that you're not changing someone's life even the teensiest bit. You're often just subsidizing chemical dependency on an express track to death.
Sometimes, the faint spectre of fear makes you give when you otherwise might not...you give with the thought that doing so might prevent this individual from one day murdering you.
Sometimes too, i think the act of not-giving is my way of steeling myself for hard choices to come. Perhaps an element of heartlessness will be required of me one day, in the service of a greater good.
I hope not.
The one situation where i always give, is when someone is performing. Music or dance or poetry...
Except those pan-flute guys with the amps and cds. They're a little hinky.