By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Apr 26, 2013 Featured
On May 11, 2013 community, civil rights, union and student activists will reclaim Rev. Dr. King Jr.’s legacy by staging a three day march from Baltimore City to Washington D.C. entitled, “2013 Poor Peoples Campaign March.” Groups will plan a national strategy to fight new austerity measures along with major social issues including police terror and mass incarceration.
Rev. CD Witherspoon, President of the Baltimore chapter of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and representative of the Baltimore Peoples Power Assembly, stated, “The sequestration cuts will only increase the misery of poor people in major cities and in small towns across this country. This region, Baltimore, Maryland and Washington D.C., will be hit very hard causing layoffs and harming both workers and those needing their services. These developments, along with the recent attacks by Supreme Court justices on voting rights, give our national march in May a renewed sense of urgency.”
Witherspoon continued, “Our 41 mile march to the nation’s Capitol will unite families fighting police terror from Baltimore to Oakland with low wage workers fighting for justice and against sweat shop conditions like Wal-Mart and MacDonald’s. They will march alongside the growing jobless who will be the victims of cuts in unemployment benefits, students who will be losing their ability to go to school because of sequestration cuts, trade unionists whose rights are under attack from Michigan to South Carolina, and all those fighting for justice whether it’s for immigrant rights, LGTBQ and women’s rights, or voting rights.”
“When we arrive in Washington D.C. we will deliberate on a national strategy to overturn these new austerity measures. These recent events underscore the need to ignite a new movement for justice that can genuinely represent the people. We have already begun the call for peoples and workers power assemblies in neighborhoods and communities everywhere. Dr. King had a vision of a people’s movement that would overturn injustice and win the human right of a job for everyone, a decent income, housing and health care. It’s important to note that the original Poor Peoples Campaign and Tent City was one of the first occupations,” Witherspoon concluded.
Activists contend that this is a historic year for the civil rights movement. This year marks the 50 year anniversary of the August 28, 1963, Jobs and Freedom March along with many other important milestones in civil rights history, including the 45th anniversary of the May 12, 1968 Poor Peoples Campaign.
The May 11th march is initiated by the Baltimore Chapter of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and the Baltimore Peoples Power Assembly.
After a hiatus, HELLO.
This is an odd post from an old timer, but now something relevant. So let’s go line by line.
For years, your nice little Occupy correspondent had been sitting in Oklahoma, going on about well, this speech from a certain Disinfo.con. The speech was by media theorist Douglass Rushkoff. It was In reference to a quote from Tim Leary Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence. Trust your instincts. Do the unexpected. Find the others…”
Find the others. Seems simple enough. Going to find the others. They are out there.
But finding them in Oklahoma is hard. Especially handing this out in 2003 in OKC, on DVDs I burned with everything from Rev. Billy documentaries, NIN’s official “Broken” Video, and various soldiers and housewives on LSD, being that horrible horrible guy, who is just a little higher, a little drunker, but way to connected, learning new things ever day.
Yes, I wanted to find the others, find my friends, my family, and I never thought about how. I couldn’t travel the nation, or travel much of the city, figured it would just happen. Sat around and waited.
Didn’t know, it would happen. Or how it would happen. Just knew, that I was winning, or at least, treading water, miserably.
Yea, Fox News was something. A network in keeping the people dumb and afraid. but enough of us got over that. We saw something else. A new glimpse. 2003 we still had the Iraq war blogs may have dissolved, and the others.
So we went off. We got into art. Some of us joined up, cause we had to. Some of us, some of us suffered in other ways.
But we still kept looking or a way out of this. Blogs may have dissolved, but we were still our own leaders, looking for a pack. We thought ourselves wolves. Wolves ready to snap, bottling anger, trying to make ends meet, trying to just get to a place to fell comortable enough to somehow explode.
So we went on, broken relationships one after another, looking for, as Leary said, those others. We bumped into rocks stars and that ilk, we bumped into local art stars. We kept looking, and looking. Sometimes disheartened, at what we saw. Our lives had become finely sharpened blades. But we were not to be letting that out in public.
We were looking for maybe not anarchists, but anarchist bent. We were looking for artists. We were looking for those who didn’t care, but were pissed off. And we couldn’t find them. And if we did, they just gave lip service. They, those we thought that deserved the title of others, just didn’t seem as into our struggle. Today, we admit we may have been elitist.
Went to Vegas. Gave our hearts to lions and tigers. Toiled in shit jobs. Unaware, that at that time, a few kids were playing hackey sack, near Wall Street. A few kids in New York City. Where were they, and what the fuck why do I, we care.
These were the others. They were not special, but these fucks knew what the were doing. You wanna use an old line, fine. Blues Brothers. Sent on a mission from God. (use that Chicago accent). That’s how it started. In Zuccotti Park.
Then The Tents. I still shed a tear when I see a tent. Why? That’s when we all came together and found those others.
I still remember when I was told “ Hey, there are a bunch of people camping in NYC, in a park By Wall Street.” My head spun. I knew this wasn’t just people with tents. These were the people I was looking for. But it was NYC. Due to past knowledge of what the NYPD was capable of, I was not going to NYC at this point. Pussed out, and waited. I remember what happened at the 2004 RNC Convention. I remember that shit. NYC can wait. I’ll get there one day.
Two weeks later there was a planning meeting in OKC. To Occupy OKC. 200 people showed up. A while later, on October 10th, we would be setting up, in Kerr Park, OKC. A park, supported by the same idea as Zuccotti Park. This park was paid for by Sandridge Energy, much like Zucccotti was paid for by Brookfield Properties.
It was an odd place. We were a camp of people in a mostly stone park, our bar was called The Library, a Fox News watching place that welcomed us with open arms, and we made ourselves immediately known. But we were small. 40 turned to 20 quick. After a while, it was a makeshift homeless shelter, and Sandridge wanted to blow up the park to renovate. I wasn’t going to let this die, and formulated another plan.
Working at a Walmart, living with my parents didn’t really seem like something I wanted to do. I found the others, and it was time to leave oklahoma anyways. Reached out to the first person in oklahoma I knew with Occupy in her name, and made arrangements to go to DC. There was something going on, called Occupy Congress. Let’s do this. 3 days on a Greyhound can’t be that bad.
Then DC. Oh the fucked up District of Columbia. I think i found the others.
I found lots of others, that a year later, still are the others. Lots of activists, journalists, rabble rousers, what have you. We are unafraid, we are coming together.
Those raids just made us stronger. We are not afraid, but we know how to deal with those that want to separate us.
We have not stopped either. Nor has mother earth stopped. Mother earth, for all her beauty, tried to tell us, we need to stop and try.
Since so many of us, could come together, and save ourselves and each other, Sandy turned from a horrible bitch, to a mothering experience. None of it was in any sense was pretty, and we lost a lot of our sense of humanity, but we gained so much more then we could ever sense. Or deal with.
All we can do is pick up the pieces. Those of us who took the time too meet the others, we need to find more others.
NYC can’t be complete, and NYC needs to get ourselves together. NYC, we are the others. We need to rebuild and regroup. And NYC is not going to regroup just for Sandy. We are going to regroup and rebuild, we are your city. We won’t be nice about it, we won’t be kind, but we will spread the love.
This isn’t just about Occupy, this isn’t just about some cunt that came through and swept houses away like dust.
This is About Community.
How to be a community.
How to be a HUMAN race, in love.
We are still Growing,
We are still Evolving.
Let’s get working.
And you better have dishpan hands.
Those that were terrorized by this superstorm, and in some respects, the dangers Occupy was warning about, ie Global warming, this idea of endless growth, and that MAN is something that controls the planet, well…
Mother Nature, the Earth, will set us straight. She aimed for Wall Street. She got hers. We need to respect that. And for those in Staten Island, and the others in the NY NJ PA region, we need to rebuild. The government is as useless as ever, but a strange group has evolved. Occupy Sandy. The same group that brought you the 99% line of thinking is also bringing you, of all things, SUPERSTORM SANDY releif! We are still the others, and we know community.
There is still time. We will still be here. But if you are comfortable enough, and have some cash, or supplies, whatever, here is how to get involved.
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Sep 29, 2012 Featured
It’s another day. Stopping to get gas and cigarettes on the way home, and all I want to do is sleep. It’s been a few days of stress and no sleep.
And on the way home… Home… another wayward idea, another way off ideal… home….
“Please don’t poison Me… Please don’t Poison Me…. Please Don’t Poison Me…”
And going back to bed, seemed wrong…
Here I am, yet afraid… I’m Tired of being afraid… Tired of being afraid,…
Almost tired of being alive, but can’t stop. Each breath is an insult to society. Look at me. Stoned. Seen too many miles, too many nightmares, too much death.
But I’ve maybe got a grip on that
Seems a better trip here
A better voyage,
So all is good, a good group of people, a feint smile on my face, and despite the pull to sadness and despair, I see that balloon, and spear to chuck at it.
Ready aim. You are on Missouri. Fire.
We are group of people. On fire. On deck, on revolution. We are love.
And you will love us. We hope. We are not civil disobedience. We are loveobeidience. To 1613. the lsd and the mushrooms. The trips and tripping to the stream,
the love of being alive.
Even though we have death between our toes, we keep walking.
The now dead fish, Little Spotted Dude, Sex, is Public Places, our pit-bull Tsunami, and these are they days.
We have nothing but love, but party. We know love, and revolution, but its not the idea.
Walking up and down Wilson Avenue, Stopping on High ST<
Keeping the unrest alive and keeping the family types opposite left,
Playing quietly with the cops, Playing quietly with each other,
Another abyss, another life.
Keeping the Clouds of Dissonance of ideas together
Keeping those Ideas of Dissonance Apart,
Like the Counter Melodies of cross tuned Guitars
and Arythmic drums,
Keeping jobs and classes we don't care about,
Keeping Lives and Loves We do Care about?
Through LSD Cocaine Tequila and Marijuana,
Through Hugs and Kisses,
Rain Drenched Jams
“There's a hole in my Bucket,
A Hole in My bucket,
There's a Hole in My Bucket,
And I Can't Get NOOOOO
I SAID I CAN'T GET NOOOOO
There's a hole in my BUCKET.....ttttt
And I CAN'T GET NO BEER!!!”
And we got beer, and went to the creek,
And it was still raining,
And we were still tripping,
And we had no idea the night,
Less of an idea the morning,
No idea the life we had,
Just that we had SMILES,
That we had LIFE
That the world might have been right
That the life was good
We the 6 of us
on the right path
At the house on Wilson and High
And our drawers and our messssssss
The ignored Chore wheel,
The Mosquito Infested Couch
and the at hand bong,
The dying tv and the deadly balcony
and the free beers
and the free drugs
and the huge parties
and the life
And then it ended. The lease is up, the jig is gone, there is no repentence now.
There is just a JOB?
There is another place, and there is another party,
Here smoke this what is it
Just smoke this, the mushrooms, drink this beer, welcome home,
This is for you this is love
Welcome to the days
This is the daisy
This is your home
These are your roommates
And this is your mansion
On our porch we will throw parties,
And in this fridge is everything
Eat this Jello,
There are 550,
We will litter the town, lets GO!!!!!
its a new lake of the unknown,
the sugarcubes are mine....
this rice is scary
this is nothing
this is the square is all coming down
its all love here,
its all walking
but its one party
and we have something new?
We have something old
No we know there is something coming
We are sitting in the clean room,
Dixie cups of old,
Those cells burned,
but we still know,
Here on Wilson Street,
Here on High Street,
that there is something
yet we can't see our feet,
Just empty cases of clean bottles, waiting for our special brew
We have the delivery man on call,
And from here we walk,
We can't see anything, but our future callings,
We make hastily planned escapes, and never talk again,
We know our missions,
We know our causes,
And we go.
Our separate ways, out separate ways out, and our separate ways in.
It's a new path. It's filled with guitars, and noise and revolution. It's all the same old song. Work a job, collect the pay, pay the bills.
Trinity Church Wall Street may be a nice place, but try waking up there. Not in the church, seems they have outside corporate interests that would prevent them from publicly helping anti corporate protesters. But the sidewalk outside, by the graveyard. Seems the proper place for a group that marches through Manhattan trying to make a better world. Thanks for thinking of that whole “casting out the money changers’ thing you bastards always preach. Hypocrite.
Not like the night before wasn’t a night of Chaos!!!!
But today is a new day. Wake up, drag our asses and our backpacks from Trinity Church to Foley Square. Due to the concept of occutime, we were not late. Occutime is however, a frustrating concept for those who are at least on time. Ten am event starts 1030. Event in question? Education and planning committees. Not my thing. AT ALL!
You guys have fun with that. I have other serious work to do. Article. Charging batteries for the livestream. Coffee. It’s been a rough night of sleeping on the streets on New York City, at a protest site with the damned Swine watching us and over us. Never a break from Badged Bacon.
Planning and education, for most of us who have been doing this for a year, is infuriating. We got this shit, and the plans never work out right. But, this is a new model of democracy. A new way of getting shit done.
Fuck that, the anarchists and the media don’t care. Oh wait, the Times and the like do, as they like to see us fail. Or at least report that we have. Until we fall apart. That’s why Occupy has a dedicated media team of people that follow and travel occupy for as much of a living as we can scrape by. Some maybe do better than others. But whatever, we are occupiers, and we take care of each other. That’s what we do. A horizontal movement where everyone head back to Lie has a job and something to say.
But fuck planning. From what I know from Mike Bloomberg’s thugs and swine, planning only can get you so far. Because those fuckers have it all figured out. At least according to them.
What do we know, so happy of what we want, we keep going,. The swine keep going on. Our Marches mean arrests. Our lives of freedom mean pain. This is not why we are here.
Tens or our brothers later, what the fuck is this. Another day where our voices mean nothing. Another day where the Swine kill us. Fuck the Swine. We March on. Fuck the swine. Fuck the swine.
ARIVE. There is nothing. What the fuck is this. The NYPD is just worse that a filth pen. We have rights.
There is no idea of realism. This is too surreal. Too weird.
The NYPD is nothing more than SWINE. Rights. These fucks don’t know rights, These sidewalks, crammed in to keep others safe, well fuck you. Know what an idea of safe is fuck you NYPD you can kiss our ass, you have no idea, just want to arrest us, you can only arrest an idea, and have nothing, another camera will kill your arrest, we are the the idea, so fuck you, NYPD, you are swine, so join us, join our cause, we are the ideal
You protect those that kill your pension, you understand, so join us NYPD, You are just swine!!! Lets celebrate! And
Fuck it, kill the beat.
It’s just a dance…
“A ANTI Capi Taa Lista A Anti Antica PITALISTA” And is Goes on and on and on… In The Streets On and on…. and on and on and…. on”
Then there was a dance, A Dance, Another Dance, a dance.
Are you Kidding…
Its my birthday
Go Fuck Yourself
New York Swine
Hi Its Our Birthday
Occupy Wall Street
What are these wall street white shirts doing following me like some kind of Terrorist
I’M A FUCKING JOURNALIST MAN!!! THE PROTESTORS ARE OVER THERE
Seriously, this prick has been giving me dirty looks for 10 fucking blocks
If you are going to arrest me, arrest me, but seriously, just doing my job, and I’m not interfering with yours.
Ugh, another blocked intersection. That was the point of the day, but hell, we wanted to do that. Chalk another victory handed to us by the Swine. This is way too easy. Thanks officer.
Back at Broadway. Back to Zuccotti. Interesting that every time we get back, we rally for another action, then we feel lost. Where is our original group? The cops are good at splitting us all up, but this is getting annoying. Sitting down finally, looking at this giant red cube and the “Tripod Fucking” attempt at art, I see some people I know from earlier in the day:
“What now? Where to from here, anyone know what’s going on?”
“I’m tired, hungry and thirsty, and protesting here is a mess. I miss DC” Said one of OccupyDC’s members.
Someone from NYC comes up to us “Big rally down bu the bull! Head down to Bowling Green!”
Looking down Broadway towards where the bull was, all I see are white shirts, protestors, and a lot of loud messages about sidewalks and streets. It just seems like confusion is the name of the game.
Roll another cigarette, chug the red bull, we head off to Bowling Green, hoping to not piss off anyone and enter the Swine’s injustice system.
Which was actually one of the easiest walks I’ve taken here so far.
“So we going to the bull or what? Gonna kick the bull in the nuts or what”, Thanks for the ideas Chino.
In front of the American Indian Museum there is a large rally. People from the Green Party, Reverend Billy and the Church of Stop Shopping, The Anarchist Alliance are all there giving speeches and pumping this crowd up.
“If you see a cop say ‘A COP!!!” screams a protestor, pointing at 2 no necked buzz cuts pushing obvious police issued bikes through the crowd. I actually thought that NYPD would have invested something in undercovers, but I was wrong. These are obviosly cops.
And a chorus of yelling and finger pointing ensues… these two undercovers disappear through the crowd and out the other side, knowing that we are a little smarter than they think.
Over to Bowling Green Park, where the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island are visible from the coast. Instead of the midday planning meetings, and a desire to get a way for a second, I leave that boredom to those who believe planning these things in detail works (were any of you here this morning? Plans + NYPD= CHAOS!!!) I walk to the coastline there and have a little prayer to Miss Liberty;
“We are working on it still hun. Right over here in the park we are still fighting, and will will always be fighting. We love you, and bless us if you can. We need all the help we can get not just for today, but all week, and all throughout this next year.”
I’d like to think she smiled, as the tourists, bewildered and sometimes angered by the motley group at the entrance to the park yelling and who knows what else, gave me evil looks or just rolled their eyes. Kinda wondering when something bad will happen to them, or something will happen to open their eyes to why we are here. Life is perfect for you now, but you might want to get some practice sleeping on the streets. Your day will come too.
Back to the park, and we are off to the march. March to where? Missed it, and ya gotta love those impromptu autonomous marches that just up and leave. I head back to Zuccotti,, meet some friends, and right now, we can think of only one thing. Nerves are shot. Sick of the leering glances by horny to arrest swine. This is just getting ugly. It’s not supposed to be us versus the cops. It’s supposed to be us versus Wall Street. It’s not Occupy the Jails. It’s Occupy Wall Street.
I’m going to occupy the bar. Food is needed. Beer is needed. A time to sit, reflect and rest. Just an hour away from the madness.
A time to sit and think, about what this is we are doing. Should we keep up these marches? Is it doing any good? It is our one year birthday party, and the only thing that has changed is that we don’t have tents? No we are only a year old. This still isn’t going to be as fast as getting a big mac. This will take longer than a year. We know what’s coming. We know how this works. They have stopped laughing at as. Some even know the joke is on them. We know we have nothing to lose. Right now the only way we are winning is we can still breathe, and we can still sleep. We will always dream. We will always be there. We just want justice and truth. We need a bigger sign.
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Sep 16, 2012 Featured
Getting into the Urban Wasteland. A mass of concrete and people. And the next thing seen is two of Mike Bloomberg’s Thugs, outfitted in what seems to be Seal Team 6 gear, complete with M-16. Guarding what you may ask? Times Fucking Square. Not sure whether or not this is something just for our OWS anniversary, or Times Square is a hotbed of terrorist activity. No idea, but a lot of Starbucks, McDonalds, and other perpetrators of true terrorism.
Later after making our way to Washington Square Park, it was a nice peaceful oasis of anarchists, Occupy Wall Street teachins and breakout teachings and discussion. Hundreds of people politely and peacefully discussing this and that about actions and the future of the movement, playing guitars and banjos, passing out flyers and newspapers.
It seemed we had forgotten about something. There was one thing missing. Right. The Swine had decided to remind us of their presence, and we had a serious issue. Our Dangerous Weapons.
We had PVC pipes holding up banners!!! A large batallion of 50 or so of these Swine, led by some portly gentlemen in White Shirts, had decided that we needed to remover all PVC pipes from all banners and displays. The NYPD Theater of the Absurd begun. A quick tour of the park later, and we re-installed our PVC Piping.
“Hello Mr. and Ms PVC Pipe, how are you doing today?”
“We are doing well! If holding up this display is our part of this Revolution, Then this is part of the Revolution!”
“Well you are being excellent, thank you so much Mr. and Ms. PVC Pipe!”
Shortly afterward, two impomptu marches happened, one to Trinity Church, one to Zuccotti Park. Both are within blocks of each other. After the crazy walk (incriminating evidence removed) we ended up at Zuccotti. Somewhat smaller than I had thought it was, continued onwart towards Trinity Church.
Or that was the idea. The Swine had other ideas.
A new march was in progress. Well, not so much a march as much as it was a RETREAT!!!
A violent pack of swine was pushing and forcing the group to move back to Zuccotti. Also known as the Freedom Pen. No reason to in there. Swarming Swine just yelling about Obstruction of the Sidewalk, as they push in a line obstructing the sidewalk themselves. Ten arrests later, things seemed to calm down. Trinity sleepful protest maybe cancelled tonight.
Taking a different route, do jail solidarity at city hall. Our brothers and sisters are in jail, we should be there when they get out. Again, the Swine had different ideas. after a few hours, my friends and I left. A Twitter storm later, while laying down at Trinity for Sleepful Protest, information pointed to City Hall Park getting surrounded by squad cars, and a group of 13 people doing peaceful Jail Solidarity, some who had just arrived in NYC from DC, were swarmed like flies to shit, and immediately arrested, the charge: Violation Local Law Parks Regulations. (English MOTHER FUCKER, DO YOU SPEAK IT!)
People being arrested for bullshit charges, just to get them off the streets, just to dampen the spirits, just to kill the mood. Trinity Church, the occupied sidewalk on Broadway, was nothing but laughter and sloganeering. They will not kill the mood here. OWS is still here. We will not be intimidated.
FTP my comrades. FTP.
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Sep 11, 2012 Featured
At issue, is Title 40 of the United States Code, Subtitle II, Part C, Chapter 61, Subchapter IV, Section 6135:
“It is unlawful to parade, stand, or move in processions or assemblages in the Supreme Court Building or grounds, or to display in the Building and grounds a flag, banner, or device designed or adapted to bring into public notice a party, organization, or movement.”
On trial, Thi Le, Taylor Hall, David Barahona, William Silvester, Robert Cruz, Andrea Rea. Accused of violating this section of the code on January 20, 2012. The day was cold, more like frozen, and the court was barricaded, and a large number of cops was present.
The Government opens. The first witness, Officer Flick of the United States Supreme Court Police. During questioning by the Government, Officer Flick could not keep his story together, and under cross examination, completely fell apart. This would prove interesting for the defense, as the Government’s witnesses, all Supreme Court Police Officers, seemed to not know much about being on the witness stand. Watching the witnesses, specifically Officer Vanessa Torroella who was nervous and stammering through questioning by both the Government and defense as if she was hiding something, was embarrassing at best. Embarrassing in that this is the best our government can do in this trial.
Of the Government’s witnesses, the most useful for the defense was Officer Anthony Dziak, the arresting officer that day. This curious thing about Officer Dziak, was that arresting officer does not mean what it sounds like. This officer was in charge of the arrested, as in the booking and interviewing of arrests etc. As such, he did not actually witness the arrests themselves, and had “No idea” why Ms. Le was arrested, just that she was on her chest screaming as she was cuffed. The same with Mr. Barahona. And only observed Mr. Hall unconscious. He was not present at the actual times of arrest.
As for the timetable of events, the government’s witnesses could agree on the following:
-At about 1pm, protesters had come across the street from the Move to Amend Rally;
-At about 1:30pm, the barricades came down;
-At about 1:40 pm, the protesters came to where the police were on the steps, at about the second step up from the public sidewalk;
-At about 2:28, after the police themselves broke their own line to take positions on the upper landings of the Supreme Court, the Supreme Court Chief of Police began to issue the first verbal warning;
-At about 2:30, the second warning was issued;
-At about 2:32 the third warning was issued.;
They obviously at least had this part very rehearsed. None of the officers had observed any of the defendants with a sign, banner, flag or device to display a message. This would turn out to be very important to the defense. The officers did not observe any of the defendants removing the barricades.
The officers did observe the defendants participating in a “Mic Check”, a form of communication for a large group. Interestingly, before the trial had started, the defense and the Government did agree not to talk about Occupy. In fact, every time the word occupy came up, there was a sustained objection.
After the Government rested their prosecution case, the defense filed for a motion to dismiss some of the charges. Specifically the charge of unlawful entry to the Supreme Court grounds, as there was no Order from the Marshall of the Supreme Court, there was nothing posted in advance or in plain view that the grounds were closed, and that the Chief of the Supreme Court Police does not have the same powers as the Marshall of the Supreme Court. Judge Fisher did grant this request, as there was nothing that the Government nor the testimony of the Government’s witnesses gave any indication of anything posted regarding the closure of the Supreme Court Grounds. One win for the good guys. Devastating blow for the Government.
The Defense then began it’s case. The previous time line was used and agreed upon, however there were stark differences in what happened. After the barricades came down, the police did form a line. However, the line itself was more staggered and more oval shaped on the steps. Testimony from Ms. Shelly Frisina, a National Lawyers Guild observer or “Green Hat,” noted that the Supreme Court Police had actually given up steps, and had broken their own police line, for whatever unknown and highly questionable reason. Of course, once the police gave up the line, and therefor the steps, the protesters could easily do as they please. By this time however, the group was much smaller. Ms. Frisina had observed the arrests of Ms. Le, Ms. Rea, and Mr. Cruz, who also appeared to be bloodied in some way, something the Government’s witnesses had not noticed about Mr. Cruz.
Mr. William Silvester didn’t arrive back at the Supreme Court until after lunch, sometime around 2pm, and according to his testimony, the barricades were already off to the side, the cops were in a staggered line, and no officer had blocked him in any way when walking up the steps to talk to some friends. He did admit to participating in a “Mic Check”, however. Mr. Silvester did attempt to talk to an officer at the top of the stairs, but was not given any answers to his questions. Mr. Silvester did not know that he was doing anything illegal. He was arrested about 10 minutes or so after he was on the steps, while chanting. He was not carrying any props of a demonstration, such as a flag, banner or sign.
All defendants who testified, with the exception of Mr. Hall, were asked by the government under cross examination only if they had a flag banner or sign, as if that was the only thing they could think of. The legal team of the defendants, Ann Wilcox, Mark Goldstone, George Lane and defendant pro se Thi Le, definitely had done their homework.
Ms. Andrea Rea was the next to testify. She is a 63 year old who was at the Move to Amend Rally and had gone across the street to continue that protest at what she called a “national symbol of justice”. She had come to the District of Columbia by herself and was not with any of the defendants prior to being arrested. Actually, none of the defendants had known each other before the action at the Supreme Court.
Ms. Rea had waited and chanted with the rest of the group, and when the police had broken their own line, she simply walked up the steps and sat down near the top. She had actually sat down due to a health problem, as she does have issues with high blood pressure and was worried about her health when she was on the steps, and did feel a sharp pain in her chest. At some point she was asked by police to leave, even as a reporter was asking here if she was OK, as Ms. Rea did have her head in her hands. Once she was arrested and taken to the inner annex of the Supreme Court with the arrested, she was asking about a lawyer and a phone call. The officer who was trying to question her about the day wanted to get testimony, he made it seem that if she cooperated with a statement she would have access to her phone call as well as be released sooner. Worried about her own safety, Ms. Rea did cooperate and give the officer a statement, but only to get her to a phone call and otherwise get her health taken care of. It actually is legal for the cops to bait an arrestee like this.
Mr. Barahona, also arrested on the steps, gave pretty much the same description of the behavior of the police, and was arrested, as he put it, “for meditating on the Supreme Court Steps.” Mr. Barahona also gave testimony about how on January 17th, there were no barricades on the steps, and people were free to move about the grounds of the Supreme Court, with or without flags, banners, or devices carrying a message. Selective enforcement of the law?
Mr. Taylor Hall was the next witness for the defense, questioned by attorney George Lane, who describes his style as “A lot of defense attorneys ask a lot of questions. I like to walk in, stab them in the heart, and leave,” which is always a good way to handle the Government. Mr. Lane proceeded to show evidence that Mr. Hall was inside the Supreme Court, looking at exhibits and the museum of the court, and was not aware of the chaos brewing outside. Mr. Hall was still unaware of the issue when he went outside and asked around, pretty much to only be tackled and arrested. He was not chanting, holding a sign, or anything else that would be a crime on the steps of the Supreme Court. These actual human being, who breathe, took a stand, took a chance, and felt that they had to compel what personhood meant. Being a person. Being a Human Being.
These are Human Beings.
Taylor Hall. A human being.
Thi Le. A human being.
Andrea Rea. A human being.
William Silvester. A human being.
David Barahona. A human being.
Robert Cruz. A human being.
Corporations are not people. We can’t arrest and shut down Goldman Sachs. Or Bank of America. We still can’t even audit the Private fucking bank of the Terrorist Federal Reserve. That is not just a private bank, its a SERCRET BANK.
We call ourselves Freedom Fighters. Yet in this land of freedom, we kill them on a daily basis. Yes, we have a lot of freedom here in the good Ol’ USA. But as you’ve seen, and need to see, protests are becoming more and more criminalized. These protesters, these good citizens, took to the streets, they took to the steps, to voice, to represent, and were charged.
Our Presidents take to the podiums to champion rights here and abroad. Yet that is hypocrisy. These Presidents, these officials of any rank, don’t know freedom.
In an era, started by the policies of Ronald Reagan, to hurt the worker, and give back to the rich, these policies of Dooh Nibor, we steal from those who have nothing to give to those who have everything.
We as a country were founded on the idea of constant expansion, where the idea was to expand and take care of the land.
We took and occupied this land on the idea of mutual respect.
Well we took it.
We had no respect.
We’ve run around, destroyed, taken, and let corporations kill everything in sight.
We the people, we want balance.
So we tried to take the Supreme Court. We tried to take the Capitol Building.
What we got was anti-protest laws, even though the First amendment says we can.
We Got This. These 6 people give us the the idea. These 6 gave up everything to take the court. They want nothing. Live the protest. Live the idea. Left or right. We are in this together. We are the future. Get on the streets.
Look up to these Six. And the other thousands arrested for speaking, in essence, the first amendment. Cause, it’s fucked. See ya at the Riot Cops.
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Aug 28, 2012 Featured
The continuation of Citizens United. On January 20th, 2012, a Move to Amend Rally was held across the street from the Supreme Court, to protest the 5-4 decision in the Citizens United vs The Federal Election Commission.
This jury trial is for six of the people who were arrested on the Supreme Court steps, charged with parading and unlawful entry of the Supreme Court of the United States. The Defendants are Taylor C Hall, Thi Le, David Barahona, Robert Cruz, Andrea Rea, and William Silvester.
This trial isn’t about being on the steps, as much as it is about the 1st Amendment, Corporate Personhood, and the right of the people to have a voice in their government. This trial is about the ultimate sellout, and giving the voice of the people over to corporate rule.
At the start of the trial, the boring preliminary motions. Boring at least for everyone who’s not a lawyer. Various motions to suppress testimony either defense or prosecution witnesses, as well as issues with videos of arrests. Long boring waste of words and legal mumbo jumbo later, videos were allowed with no sound, as the sound does not have anything to do with this case.
Jury selection. Specific questions for prospective jurors about feelings towards protesters, the Occupy Movement, and whether the prospective juror has ever participated in any protests, occupy related or not. Twelve jurors plus 2 alternates, from a pool of 45 people, some of whom might be sympathetic to the government’s case, and the ones who would maybe on the side of the the people thinking of ways to get out of jury duty all together. Then interviews between jurors and attorneys at the judges bench.
After the selection of the jury, 10 males predominately white, four women 2 black 2 white. Seemed to be a hung jury. The jury is not going to be a problem here. A mixture of people who will not be able return a verdict. Which Mr. Cruz, a defendant, says that the government is happy about, the jury wither hung or find innocence on 1st Amendment grounds, and that on appeals that the Supreme Court want to be able to say NO! The longer this case stays in the court an in appeals, the longer it will give activists time to bring the issue of corporate personhood to the people.
There is no way that the government wants to see this case in appeals, and these defendants are willing to take this case as far as they have to.
After the opening statements, Officer Flick one of the arresting officers, bit it. This was one of the officers involved in the arrests of those under cross examination, could not keep his statements straight.
David Barahona says about today’s appearance “I feel today went very well as we were able to again educate the public about the continued fight over the Citizens United decision that is a danger to our democracy. I feel that there is a good energy from the people and from the court.”
This trial is just beginning, and there are four other defendants here milling about, and everyone is happy, but there is hope here. The government witnesses are going to be shut down by the defense. Officer Flick couldn’t keep his story straight, and couldn’t keep details straight. The government has to prove the guilt of the #J20 defendants. The government is doing their usual job. Which for once works in the people’s favor. There is much left to do this week.
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Aug 17, 2012 Featured
The green faced house on northwest 12th, known as the Peace House, or People’s Embassy, has a long and wonderful history. Bought at a tax auction in the early 90′s by William Thomas, founder of the White House Peace Vigil, the house serves the purpose of bringing together people from all over the world who want change. It is a house of constant movement, of people of many movements. Mira Yolanda, a Palestinian activist fighting Israeli Apartheid, says ” Its the place that makes us work without limits or fear of difference , its a family of crazies that love and teach justice . its a place where miracles happen,” about the house. She has involved in the house from December 2011 and does what she can to keep the house moving. She has the thankless job of waking us up at 7:30 each morning and keeping the house clean. Ferhia Kaya, another activist who has been a main organizer and a main support for the Freedom Plaza occupation since October 2011 and originally from Turkey, says ” its an important space for activists . its a safe place and its my home.” She is another of the house managers, and keeps the house running smoothly. Having a space for 15-20 activists and protesters can be a nightmare and we are not a group of people who are fans of getting up early. The army may get more done before 8 am than most, but the activists of the Peace House generally work very late into the night. But we still get up, clean the house, and get to work.
Sarah Hines, who works with progressive religious groups, loves that she can connect with those organizations whenever she can, as well as being a legal observer for the marches and actions we plan. Brian who runs social media and offers counterpoints for the house, had this to say about the house ” Amazing resource for activists for peace to come in and make connections , have a safe work space and be a part of an amazing legacy of non-violent activism” which is a very important part of the services the Peace House has to offer. Most of activists in the house are veterans themselves of the Occupations of McPherson Square and Freedom Plaza in DC, and a safe living space with showers and some food supply is very important. Internet, a place to get mail, a kitchen and the thoughts and dreams, and the planning capabilities of the activists who live there is extremely valuable.
We also offer a space for travelers to stay. Muriel, who is visiting DC from New York City, is a student who is originally from the Dominican Republic, found that it was nice to have “wonderful dysfunctional crazy family working together on a variety of important causes.” Which is true. We call ourselves the Peace House, but oddly enough, there is a lot of yelling. At each other. Being that everyone is working diligently on a variety of projects and actions, the stress level is very high, and we get very agitated. Then we all sit down and have a good laugh. Yes, there is a lot of laughter. Juan, who is doing a study on Colombian North American Relations at the National Archives, “I like the peace house because its a space in which people with a common interest in different social events and activism and share their experiences in this process of sharing they can get to improve their projects and get involved in New projects.” Yes, we do have a SQUIRREL problem. We do get things done, but there is a problem of too many things going on to get involved with. This is a place for everyone.
Finally, Rudy Roberts, a gay activist who is fighting for LBGQ rights and equality, “the peace house to me is a safe haven since I’m homeless . By staying here it gives me the opportunity to continue my activist work. I fully support and love the peace communal home that continues William Thomas’ vision of the peace house!”
That’s the truth. The mission of the Peace House, the People’s Embassy, is to fulfill the vision of William Thomas. That the house be used by activists as a safe space, a staging ground, a place to call home. Most of us have been homeless, and would still do this even if we were on the streets. But this is our home. We are carrying the torch for the dreams of William Thomas, and we will not back down.
We need your help. The People’s Embassy is under threat of being sold, and we must raise money so that the house will be the property of those who inhabit it. To help, please visit www.occupypeacehouse.org or come by the house at 1233 12 NW, Washington DC, 20005. We would love to see you!
copyright Tim Anderson 2012
A novel based in True Events, Covered in a Glaze of Fiction to Save the Guilty. There are no Innocents.
Part one. The setup.
How the fuck to I get myself into this mess time after time?
Boredom on an behemoth level. An intense feeling that everything is going slowly down the drain, there are only a few days left at a time, and each week alive is another victory over a voice inside my own head I am unable to control.
Lets call it “Bob”. Just to give this little demon a name. Doesn’t like this farce of a society. Not that I do for that matter. Seems so futile, bland. Devoid of color and noise. The noises this planet does make seem to be dissonant and chaotic. Nothing really that peaceful. War, gunfire, and horrible breaking news segments that hurt the eyes, the ears, the soul.
“So let us have ourselves a little FUN!!!!”
“Okay Bob, what you got in mind”
“Colorado Springs huh. Get in the car. DRIVE”
It feels like there’s a gun to my head, not just in my head. But off I go, laws, cultural codes, control constructs be damned. Filling a pipe with some bud, driving west, to see an old friend. Still have a job lined up, and this will be cake. The car itself, small, loaded with my entire life, drug paraphernalia, clothes and computers, across 3 states, towards the belly of Colorado Springs.
Sixteen hours later, I get to the soon to be dreaded Acacia Park. Only about the size of a block, and central to Colorado Springs, I’m about to find out what I’m in for. As I’d soon find out, a lot more than I bargained for.
“Hello Tanderson welcome to Colorado Springs, party favors abounds”
“Hello, I am Maggot, eat this”
And there is the beginning. A little lavender bit of paper, ingested, which amazingly set the tone of the next crazy month. However, it did take the edge of, and in a few hours, put a new edge on. Just what I needed. While I watched the trees of the park melt away, and the setting sun drip down towards the horizon, some words were spoken to me that I couldn’t at the time comprehend, or even hear. I just saw the lips move and the colors drip out. Odd that they were greys blacks and dark blues, but I took no notice.
Getting in the car, finding out where I was to call home was another experience all together. Glad i’m wearing this new lavender mental suit though. Make all this easier to swallow when I come to in the morning. Although it does seem at times, during this hellish trip, I may never fully come to.
A tiny 2 bedroom apartment. Nine to eleven people at all times, some of whom never seem to sleep. What is this then? What’s going on here? What the fuck just moved over there?
A cat. What the hell do you call it? Oh Schiz. That is lovely. Why is everyone wearing black? Yes I would love a hit on this bong. Hold on, gotta pee…
What is this strange place? I know, it’s an apartment, but it seems like something else is going on here. There is something called a Juggalo in the back room. He seems, ok at times, but mostly angry. Ah the bathroom. Good. What the hell is going on here. Constant shadows, I don’t know if that the drug, or are there more people here that I think. Trying to get it all together, trying to see when it will make sense. Then I finally notice the floor. Many things can be figured out by looking at the floor. Broken glass, empty bottles of all descriptions, and something intriguing going on with this carpet.
Count the colors.
FOUR? THIS CANNOT BE RIGHT. I’ll check that out in the morning. Something is wrong here. Something is very very wrong here. Who just puts down more and more carpet in an apartment? Is it the maintenance people? Is it these tennents? How long has this place been going on.
I need to get some sleep. Great. The Juggalo’s room. He’s yelling and screaming about something. I don’t care about what it is. I’m just tired. Been driving all day to get to this place. It’s 4am. I think this is starting to wear off. Good night or good morning, whatever. I gotta call the job.
Well, it was a good 4 hours of sleep. Because this house is buzzing, or at least the tv is. Some insipid talking heads. Whatever. I get up from this matress, find the bathroom again, and count the carpet. I hope I just imagined that from last night. GODDAMN IT! This is not a drill. Something odd is going on.
“hey Linda, just what the hell is with this 4 layers of carpet? What the hell is going on here? What kind of place have you brought me to?
“It is going to be ok. Calm down dude!! Here, let’s go get some coffee in you, coffee is good for you”
Once outside and away from this burrow of nightmares, I’m told what’s been going on. It’s basically a squat. Rent hasn’t been paid in who knows how long, it’s easier to just put down more carpet than cleaning us the stains, and no one has a job. Eviction notices are burned and laughed at, and the cops come around regularly. Hearing this, I wonder what other bad news is in store. Once inside I call the job.
“Hi, this is Tim. I’m a transfer from the store in Oklahoma City?”
“Hi Tim, we were wondering about you. We’ve actually got you scheduled for morning shifts, iis that ok? You were supposed to work this morning but we figured that you got here pretty late last night.”
“What!!!! I thought my transfer stated I was a night closer” I don’t do mornings very well!!! But ok, what time do I work in the morning”
“We will see you at 5:45am. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding”
You’ve got to be kidding me. Bad omens since I got here. Nothing but disappointment. First I live with 11 people in a tiny apartment, with no working coffee maker, a kitchen littered with the remnants of seemingly thousands of parties, or one continuous binge. The stench of a cat who shits in an uncleaned out cardboard box, what I think is some kind of lizard hiding in a cage, and nothing more than a matress on the floor to sleep on.
“Something tells me I need a drink!”
“Store’s not open yet man, but here smoke this”
At this point and time, I could care less. A couple more tokes, and I’m a little more level headed. But what the hell have I gotten myself into. Well, let’s see what this town has to offer. Start unpacking a little from the car, it’s overloaded anyway, save some gas. Bring a little bit up, find a little space between the back of the couch and the screen door, set up camp more or less. This will be ok. This will be fine. Just keep telling yourself that.
“Tim we have everbeer!”
Do I even want to know what that is.
“Here’s a 40oz, clear the top. Damn what’s wrong I didn’t mean that quick! We’ve got a live one here”
Various cheers from the spaced out peanut gallery.
“Now here, lemme see that, the ever part of the everbeer”
The motherfucker is filling it back up with everclear? One hundred ninety proof alcohol?
“That sir, is everbeer. When you are broke, that is what you drink. Tastes like beer, just a bitchload of extra kick.”
Ok, this isn’t that bad, and he’s got a point. I am broke. No food, not much cash, and I’ve gotta eat something. Killing a black cat is bad luck. Well, I guess I can live on beer for today.
“Dude don’t get too comfortable, it’s Sunday! That’s underground night!”
The Underground I soon find out, is a weekly goth club. Ah yes, pretentious little fucking goths. That explains the black clothing. I will not fit in for long here. Gotta do this the only way I know how. Finding the brightest colors I can, and figuring that these people are the joke they are stigmatized with, let’s head back down to Acacia and see what this is about.
It’s a shithole, but it’s these people’s shithole. Stereotypical in all senses of the word goth. Skinny little strung out people everywhere swaying back and forth to crappy tinny music, or some kind of generic industrial. OK, I can deal with this. Even though I look about as out of place as a minority at a Klan rally. But no one gives me shit, and actually some respect the hippie in the goth club. No worries. Handed a drink, and walk around looking at all these people. Interesting is not the word.
Then I see what no one could have ever prepared me for. Two dudes at a half destroyed booth. I think it was two dudes, although at this fucking place, you never know. Bleeding from the wrists. I try and getting a better look, secretly walking by this table, as if i’m going somewhere else. Yes, that’s blood. I’m not afraid of blood. But when I see these two start drinking each others blood, wrist to mouth, I head straight to my friend.
“Linda! What is going on here!”
“What is wrong with these people, and where have you taken me?”
“It’s ok Tim, they just think they are vampires. There’s a lot of them here. You do know the Church of Satan is about 5 miles away right?”
No, I did not know that. But the crazy carnival that is Anton LeVey’s Church of Satan does not excuse this. This is just straight out of crazy stupid. This is a mess. No amount of drugs, delusions, alcohol excuses drinking blood. I mean the disease factor alone makes this just plain wrong. I was not prepared for this. Yes, as a lover of all things decadent, of depraved acts, this sort of mess was just something of fiction. I turned my head back to these monsters, thinking nothing had prepared be for this.
“Linda, I have to be up at a stupid hour, I need to get some sleep. I’ll see ya tomorrow afternoon.”
Leaving, somehow remembering where my car is, I eventually find my way home. Or at least to my camp. I’m not sure how much of a home it is, given that eviction day could be any day. With no lock on the door, I find my little matress, and fall asleep, setting an alarm clock so I can wake up at this ungodly hour.
Work, which after the last 48 hours should have been a sanctuary of normalcy. Had I taken the omens of the last 48 hours, I would have learned that nothing in this town is normal. At least I could leave early. Slow day, slow mind, and burning anger. I didn’t want to go back to the stoner den, but hell, I didn’t want to be here either.
Starving, and there is only one place someone starving and poor can get fed. 7-11, you are a godsend. Coffee, donut, and the quiet sanctuary of my car. Wondering what I’ve got myself into, taking a deep breath, back to this hellhole I call “home”. Something better have changed. Although from the noise last night, I doubt it.
“Roaches I’m Home”
That’s one hell a way to announce a mood.
“Sorry, this place is too nasty for roaches. But I guess we do need to clean up a bit”
A bit? Clean up a BIT? Granted I am in no way going to win trophies for cleanliness, I am far from this goddamned messy. True, roaches would not live in this purposely forsaken mess. But hell, lets at least clean it up to the point a roach would maybe consider making this it’s humble home?
The kitchen. I assume there is a sink in here somewhere. Is that the faucet. Holding my breath, and moving some of these dishes around, I locate a faucet. And soap. In an apartment with this many people, this many drugs and four fucking layers of carpet, this is an accomplishment. A faucet, that works, with hot water, and soap. Scared, but in need of a sponge or rag, I tempt fate and look under the sink, expecting something to jump out at me.
Nothing does, but at least there is a sponge. At this point, I have never been so happy to clean something. Finally, after all these dishes are done, I call bullshit on the coffee maker. As a caffeine junky, fixing coffee makers is tantamount. It does work, just needed to be cleaned. After the ordeal of the kitchen and getting who knows how many months of trash out, there is no surprise in this place. Coffee brewing, I can finally sit down and relax.
In doing so, I have actually become somewhat the bitch. None of the 11 people in this hovel feel they have to do anything. Eventually, the only thing kept clean, is the coffee pot. Why bother with anything else. There is never any food, we live on drugs. This went on for weeks until one morning.
April 20th is supposed to be a stoner’s holiday. I had the day off, some unknown slut next to me, and just woke up from losing my virginity. I felt pretty good about life, I guess sex has that power. I had a plan to get out of this apartment, a pretty good job waiting tables at a good restaurant instead of some corporate chain. Life was going to be ok. The eviction was coming. But also something worse. The same insipid talking heads morning show, only their voice was a little more odd. They sounded very very intense. Very intense. Reaching for the MD20/20, pushing the slut off, I poked my head up over the couch.
“What’s the hell is going on?”
“Shut up this is important”
Oh god. What I saw would impact every single person in this room.
“Yes, I am live in Littleton Colorado, where it appears the 2 students have opened fire inside and have taken a classroom hostage”
Yes, I can confirm that these students have opened fire, killing students and teachers, and have now help a classroom hostage. The room is barricaded shut. The students names are Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, And we are at the Columbine High School”
I couldn’t listen to it anymore. Except one thing did perk my ears just a little bit.
“It appears these students have a connection to what is dubbed the “Trenchcoat Mafia.”
Trenchcoat Mafia. What the hell? What is that supposed to mean? As those two words were said, I saw a few jaws drop, and a few people move slightly. As if there were immediately uncomfortable. Maggot left the room. Huh. This isn’t going to end well. The phone rang.
“Hello, yes I understand.”
“Everyone we have to go to the hospital. Raven is in intensive care”
Ok, nothing to worry about. In a place with this manny drug users, of course someone is going to the hospital. There’s a few wild cards about this though. Some drugs were sold. I knew them to be bad, almost experimental drugs. Begin slow stage freak out.
“It appears she took something that was supposed to be ecstacy. Fortunately, she had a little of it left, some kind of white powder. Anyone know what that was? Anyone know what Maggot was selling?”
“I think it was called DXM, pure dextromethorphan or something why?” I offered, somewhat knowing what was next.
“It almost killed her, and there are a few other people in the hospital. Everyone outside”
Outside, after a brief conversation, these drugs and these poor sould were victims of what Maggot was selling. Being that Maggot was Linda’s boyfriend, it was explained to me that I had to leave Colorado Springs in 48 hours. Otherwise wait for the eventual death sentence. Knowing full well what kind of blood drinking freaks these people were capable of calling in, I started packing my stuff up, lading the car and waiting.
“Tim, we know this wasn’t your fault. You had the foresight to warn people, you are not in trouble here. However, we can only protect you for so long. Linda left this number for you to call, so please, call her, you are going to Columbia Missouri. She said just get on I70, and head east. Ya can’t miss it. Get some rest, and get out of here asap. Here is something for the road. Good Luck”
At least I had some pot for the road. Driving across Kansas is the worst thing imaginable. And Linda has some fucking explaining to do once I get to where ever this place is. Missouri? Are you kidding me? What the hell. What the hell.
I left as soon as I could. Fuck sleep. If people are out to kill me, then fuck it. I need to get out now. I’ll call Linda from some payphone, just got to get out of here. But not across Kansas! Cornfield after cornfield, the plains of wheat, and billboards of God this and God that. And after what happened in the space of this month, driving through a state of Bible thumpers did not sound like my idea of a good time.
Fortunately, Kansas was uneventful. Stop for gas, keep mouth shut, get coffee, food I could eat with one hand, and keep moving.
Got a hold of Linda just outside this town called Columbia. Seemed like another boring city surrounded by highways, like an afterthought of some developers. Whatever. At least no one will try to kill me here. I hope.
“Is this Tim? Hold on.”
Well, there’s an adult of some kind here. That’s good. At least there might be some sanity. Maybe.
“Hello this is Linda, ok, we are kind of on the outskirts of town, yes, Maggot is here, everything is going to be ok. This you could get that old corporate job back?”
“Yea ok, I’ll be there when I figure out how.”
Another 10 miles till I get to a bed. This had better be good.
“Not now Bob. We can’t go crazy here”
“You’re in fucking Missouri for fuck’s sake?”
“Give it a rest Bob… Here eat this”
Assuming the best thing at this moment is another bowl of herbal goodness, putting the demon to rest, coffee, and back on the road. Twisting roads through the wilderness, but no more godawful snowcapped mountains to deal with. No more fucking goths, hiding in corners, drinking each others blood. Fingers crossed.
By the time I get in, everyone is asleep and Linda is out front.
“Shhhh… turn the car off. Everyone is asleep. Just grab what you need, and get some rest, you have to be tired.”
A few steps in the doorway, I am shown a room with a bed. My own room as it were. I crash out, and get some sleep. Tomorrow, something has got to give. Or do I keep traveling like this, one tragedy after another.
Feedback appreciated to firstname.lastname@example.org This is a life’s work, and a true story. Will be a novel, a true story. 12 years in the making.
It’s Back. A flood of flashing lights and fast cars, lights brighter that the sun. A cast of thousands, the flashy dressed high rollers, laughing at the amount they are pissing away. Tourists, dressed for the heat, ready to walk everywhere, every sight enthralling, yet, the soul is melting in this desert hallucination.
And everyone is wasted. Stumbling around, laughing, doing what they can to miss the homeless lining the skyways, the sidewalks, hiding in plain sight.
The homeless here are a special bunch, they are not run of the mill. Not down and out. These are a group of fighters. They are not a bunch of bums stuck here cause they lost everything at some blackjack table. They came here for a special fight for their own survival. They seem to not want to live any other way. So much money to be had in this town, everyone is sure to get a share. Seems they do get a large enough share.
Mickey and Minnie are here, albiet somewhat dirty, hiding the truth in a somewhat outlandish head. The truth of the dirty Disney idols on Fremont, is the wrinkled lines, the sun torn leathery skin, graying hair and lost eyes. They live here on this monstrosity of the cesspool, taking pictures for tips, each flashbulb taking part of the characters soul, in trade for a buck or two. They are among the cast of thousands, chasing something in this town, along with Sonic The Hedgehog, a ventriloquist, looking after themselves, looking after each other.
All of Vegas is not a sham, or a shame. There is a unity here. There is a spirit.
But alas this Strip. Miles of hotels casinos dreams and nightmares. Slot Machines and Blackjack tables full of empty souls looking for that jackpot, that hot streak, or hitting 13 they placed the last $5 in chips. This is an adult wonderland. An over twenty one playground. DO NOT BRING YOUR FUCKING KIDS HERE! No child needs to see mom and dad lose the college fund because they know this time they will hit black, a dozen golden Elvises, fire breathing midgets, let alone grandpa drunkenly crawling up the stairs after getting kicked out of the strip club. Take the kids to Disneyland, leave them at home, probably not with that old perv grandpa, just for fuck’s sake, don’t bring them here. This is a sanctuary for the party people.
Drinks are free, drugs are cheap and plentiful and the hookers and fetish artists are on every corner. There is a place for everyone, a price for everyone, and everything is for sale.
For some of us that place is the street, and those streets belong to us. For months, I had inhabited those streets in this nations capitol. The activists streets. A so called mild winter, on the east coast. Perfect weather for protesting the wrongs of a government that knows no rights. Kerosene and propane heaters going full force to keep us warm, and the full force of the United States Park Police to keep us uncomfortable, awake, uneasy. A movement of love, peace and equality, forced to live awake, on the streets, treated worse than the homeless, worse than the rats. Cat and mouse games get old, as do power struggles between activists. The mice never have the guns, and the mice don’t believe in them.
It was a daily struggle. Not just against the police forces. More factions against us than I could count. Including our own bodies. A constant struggle for a meal, a drink of water, heat, a place out of the wind.
But here is a paintbrush, a sheet, another fucking slogan, another fucking march. Even our powerful friends, have become our foes.
But not this monstrosity in the Nevada Desert. Billions of gallons of water and beer a day. Tons of food prepared in any way, anywhere, you want. And yes, you can eat the sushi off of her belly should you so choose. Just pay up.
Vegas is a destination, not a home. Those that do stick it out and live here, the locals have seen it all. Seen. Too. Much. Nothing here phases a local.
Just another day. No matter what the seen is, a tourist puking out the excesses, fire farting ponds, drug deals gone wrong, the roommate going out to prostitute for the rent the coke dealer, the food bill.
The wrinkles of the working class, the 4am humorless bartender, is a way of fighting the tears. Fighting the desolation of a town built to have temporary acquaintances constantly out on the next flight, bus, the next ride they can hitch. Between the insult to the planet for this obscene gesture to our Mother Earth, to the psychic cost extracted from the visitor, a toll by all those involved must be paid.
What happened last night? Or How I think I Figuratively Pooped Me Pants in DC Radical Space (undisclosed location)
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Feb 27, 2012 Featured
What began as an innocent enough evening painting signs and sending press releases for the F29 Shut Down The Corporations action, a nice little video was posted by our good friends at Anonymous.
Sure, a nice dinner of coffee, pizza and cigarettes is innocent enough, painting cardboard cutouts of corn and tomatoes and innocent enough, then around one in the AM, the shit had hit the fan, when this dropped on Youtube. No idea on what to say, I’m still wiping up, waiting for my heart to stop pounding, wondering what the fallout will be. Occupy and Anonymous are already considered to be terrorist organizations, and with this, there is an exciting new chapter.
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Feb 17, 2012 Featured
Stumbling into an action is dangerous. Within five short minutes, DC Metropolitan Police shows up. Whenever Occupy does something, the cops have to be there. Filthy fucking bastards.
Six tents are set up, completely empty, and completely legal. The homeless follow the same law, and Occupy is now among the homeless. Where can Occupy pitch a tent? As the now homeless, the parks now a state of INSOMNIA, homes need to be made somewhere, so as occupiers, why not in front of a Merril Lynch building? Take a stand, protest, and find a place to sleep for the night.
Not so, says the actually confused Police Force, 11 cars, 17 cops, including a paddy wagon. Two hours of confusion, as all actions by peaceful occupiers and jovial cops were being streamed live from many phones, and I had the only Press Pass, which was respected.
Civil Disobediance winning, however, the Metro Police win out. No doubt the occupiers won out, given the police presence, the community turnout, but there were arrests, currently being fought. Two occupiers were arrested, from an 1880 statute prohibiting camping, the tents confiscated put in an uncovered truck to be blown into the streets, yet Occupy is determined to win the fight. Ocupy is not going away. Every day Occupy is in DC is an affront to the Feds, the City of DC, annd a positive movement for everyone. Occupy exists on the idea we are here to make a better world, with anarchist ideals, for the better. Anarchy is not a violent ideal. Do some research. Excuse them, they are trying to change the world. It will be messy. <3
http://youtu.be/CV5ijnhYf4Q raw video look
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Feb 15, 2012 Featured
The Forth Estate, the Modern Press Machine is a failure. The same people that are supposed to keep tabs on our elected leaders/rulers are in fact in bed with them, and we the people, are the ones taking it painfully. If the Press, as a whole, is picking and choosing what are the important stories of the day, and those stories are in effect nothing more than passing on a delusion of reality. Hints of this total dystopia are given occasionally, or news that is slanted in a particular way to not expose the truth, but to character assassinate those that are fighting for the truth.
How is one supposed to take a movement seriously, when those participating in the movement are made to look like intolerant ignorant racists, (most of the Tea Party actually isn’t) or dirty drug addled hippies who just want to smoke marijuana (occupy is not about that). Both movements are in some way focused on corporate greed, however, both movements have had their messages in one way or another high jacked by the press to make them look bad for the general public.
Would you help a movement that is presented in a bad light? Especially if that movement was made to look horrible by whatever Press agent that’s trusted? Be it Fox on the right, making occupy look like drug addled hippies looking for a handout, or MSNBC on the left making the Tea Party out to be right wing fascists out to start a race war, there is no excuse the press who were originally sworn to uphold an unbiased window into the world, trusted to give an honest report on the issues important to the country as a whole.
Turn off those TV sets. Put down that newspaper. Citizen Journalists are here working diligently and honestly to give an honest clear clean and uncensored view of what is going on. We are publicly funded (that means YOU), and are here to give the unbiased reporting that originally made this country great.
We are the New Flesh. We are only driven by shining a light on this media blackout on the truth, this “reporting” style only meant to keep up a sick delusion, where the people keep losing, and the wealth corporate media interests keep winning.
However, this mission is at the expense of our health and sanity. It’s not that we do this willingly, we do this for the same reason one becomes a priest, the same reason one toils in a animal shelter taking care of the unwanted, the same reason one opens a soup kitchen. Citizen Journalists do this work because they feel they can no longer sit idly by, we can no longer live with the delusion that our Fourth Estate, our Modern Press Machine, passes off as news. This is a nightmare, this is not fun. This is a miserable existence, and we need your help. We are trying to smash this delusion, and inform the American public, if not the planet. This is a plea, this is a call. We need your help on this one. Working for a better tomorrow, today. Everyday.
The mood is terrifying. The stress, insurmountable. We are tired. Police State Insomnia. Two or three hours every 24, sometimes every 48. Writing in this kind of caffeine dependent condition is a waste of time. No longer knowing one day to the next, we continue to hold our space. This is all about holding our space. Sleeping is illegal, and common sense is following.
General assemblies are turning into general asses. Consensus is a joke, because our brains are hardwired on when we can sleep again. Churches are offering spaces, if not the whole church to us, but the hardcore among us wait for a break of sunlight to heat our naps from the District of Corruption’s icy winds and hard sidewalks. The general assemblies have turned into nothing more than how to fund raise for our kitchen and heating needs, so we can at least heat water for coffee, eat something, and not freeze to death. Note to future generations, have your revolutions in the summer, not in the winter with that fucking old man blowing ice on you all day and night. This is assuming we are all not rounded up, the First Amendment demolished and speech is an Orwellian nightmare. We joke about a Second Amendment solution, but that is due to the lack of sleep, and we are so weak we can barely pick ourselves up.
All the tents are empty, doors open, have to be cleaned out everyday from the rats. No, the United States Park Police are not pissing and shitting in our tents for us to clean, yet. Give them time.
What are we doing, undertaking such a psychological torture, warfare even, perpetrated by our own government, still trying to drive a large protest movement? Why would we do this to ourselves? We want this change, whatever that is, and right now we must maintain the camp.
There is a reason this is called an occupation. True, our brothers and sisters in the Military have it far worse, no one is shooting bullets at us yet, and we are spoiled in that we have a Corporate Coffee Chain a few minutes away. But this is an Occupation none the less. We are treated as such. Most of the camp, vigil, whatever, are from out of state, and we are homeless. Our tents are no longer our homes. We occupy nothing more than a park bench, a Media/Medic tent, a benevolent church, a behemoth bookstore. We are everywhere, yet we must hold our little space, because we are under attack, and we are unarmed. This is an occupation for the Freedom of Speech, now a Vigil of Pro Democracy Protesters, against a country Forcing Democracy at the Barrel Of A Gun.
If the Pro Democracy Protesters of America are to be tortured, then how does one expect our loved ones and kindred folk of Bahrain, Syria, and Egypt, be helped by this country? Do you think that America can really support the revolutions of those countries, when they treat their own protestors worse than the rats of Freedom Plaza and McPherson Square? So we are no longer Americans. Forget the fact that we have fought in wars from Vietnam to Iraq and Afghanistan, that we are now fighting for our rights and our voice in our government, fighting for our rights to peacefully protest. We are native born occupiers, hoping and working for a better tomorrow. Get this police state off our backs, and we can work harder. Because right now we are too focused on very very little.
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Feb 7, 2012 Featured
If it is six in the am again, this had better be important. I hate it when my tent shakes. Especially after the NDAA protest. I know it is before I open my eyes, and this had better not be another damned rumor we’ve been woken up for 3 times already.
“McPherson is being raided”
“Bullshit we’ve heard that one before!!”
“This is not a test, McPherson is really being raided this time!!! We might be next”
Out of my tent, force my boots on, eyes open, and head to the media tent to again steal some WiFi from the 1%. Eh, gotta do what I gotta do eh?
Livestreaming, and yup, everything is there. It is a smaller camp by this point, and i’m nervously wondering, do I stay or do I go? Jeez, there’s about 2 riot cops for every occupier. That’s overkill. The occupiers at this point can barely lift a backpack, let alone do any real damage. Some of them still have spirit. Some of them still have some power.
The Tent of Dreams. Something to be protected, to be saved, and something not to be given up easily. Well, somehow, the riot cops always get their way, and so goes The Tent of Dreams. It still lives on in the hearts, minds and spirit of all the occupiers. The Tent of Dreams is too beautiful a concept and too beautiful of an image to let go that easy, and yes there was a fight, but I couldn’t see as much of it as I had wanted through the screen.
Waiting, waiting…. There is supposed to be some kind of Unity General Assembly at Lafeyette Park, in front of the White House. At noon. Ok, that probably isn’t happening, but, grab a notebook and pen head over to the White House.
Nerves shaking… and that stench!!! What the hell??? Ten horse trailers in front of the White House, and the stench of horseshit completely permeates the air around the park and the home of President Barakabushlite. Makes sense, after he signed away the Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Amendments while on vacation in Hawaii, on New Years Eve of all times.
Come to an Answer Coalition protest against any War in Iran, who also are chanting for the occupiers as well. Good for them. But that’s not the story here.
What is going on at McPherson. That’s more important.
Got to Sixteenth and H. Encounter a horrible confusing maze of police tape. McPherson is given a police protected one block perimeter. Well, if there is some kind of raid, I start going through the tape, and facing arrest, I approach the DC Metro Police. That wasn’t smart.
“You in the flag, turn around”
Ok, maybe I should have left the flag cape at home. Oops. I take 2 more steps. These cops have been up since six am. Both of us are tired. I’m somewhat emboldened by the spirit of the day.
“You in the flag, turn AROUND”
Heard loud and clear, wondering what is going on. Depressed, I walk back through Lafayette Park and by the White House, back to Freedom Plaza, wondering what the next day holds.
I think I need to chill. I’m exhausted, sick, stressed out, and just need to get away for a bit. Recharge the batteries. Time to leave DC. Empty my tent and flee. Too many cops. Too much drama. Just too much. This isn’t a vacation. This is a full time job.
By: PeaceLoveSprayPaint | Feb 6, 2012