West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (5)

First Step Misfits

The apartment was at the bottom floor of an old building that had once been of some prestige. Now it was drab house that looked out of place between two skyscrapers which scoffed at the vintage mystique. The bathtubs were from taken from a 1950s sitcom, the wood floors creaked and the so-called courtyard was really just a couple of wicker chairs where the neighbors came out to say hello while they smoked and spread the latest community gossip. They were all misfits, entertaining strangers, with the occasional joint and usually an alcoholic buzz.

The fairly wealthy Hispanic woman who lived in the corner had been in apartments the longest, a chain smoker and never without a full bottle of wine led the pack with stories about her daughter's ungratefulness. She admitted to sleeping with the mysterious Navy guy at the other end of the house and always hoped her latest fashion statement would impress him. Then of course the Navy guy, himself, had three kids, barely afforded his child support and admitted to being a heavy drinker just to block out thoughts of the children his ex-wife took from him. He often told me the Navy was the only thing he knew and believed he'd probably be a bad father anyway.

There were two awkward tenants above me - one woman, who worked at the Salvation Army. She talked about church and homeless people, but her loneliness was evident. She frequently isolated herself in her apartment except for the occasional cigarette and was rumored to have strangers in and out her home. Her neighbor, the Gothic-hipster who rarely appeared sober enjoyed conversing about the meaning of life, but the bunny trails usually led to video games, his jobless existence and his handicap mother who provided for him.

The two who often kept my attention the most were the two "besties" who both lived at the back end of the apartment building. She was tall blond hippie and he was a flamboyant red-headed cosmetologist (the Gay best-friend). She was a dog walker - her obsession was caring for pups that belonged to rich people -- of course I think it was really about being able to overnight in luxurious apartments. Somehow she managed to enjoy the high life of clubs and Hollywood attractive men with little cash in her pocket. Then again, her other source of income - as she boasted - was her ability to donate her eggs several times a year. 


She clung to her fashion obsessed hair dresser as if he were going out of style - and he was the apartment informant who always had a tale to tell about his latest client or a revealing secret we just didn't want to know. The two were awkward, but colorful and were always asking me to wine and waste time on those hideous wicker chairs.

For the next 5 weeks, this little community would be the only people I would have any real interaction with. Ironically - they were all as raw and real as anyone could be, they hid nothing of their reckless existence. Disappointed dreamers, lost in the whirlwind of meaning- one they couldn't figure out - and desperate for anyone, a stranger - a friend - an enemy to listen to their story. 


I felt like I was conducting an experiment - testing their souls in a strange game that moved way beyond the bounds of everyday "people watching." In the heat of it all, it was like an endless play that never exited stage right and because there was no audience to applaud-- what did it matter if the curtains never closed? They weren't acting any way. Most of the time, it was a distraction...from the silence wrestling with me in my quiet-unpacked apartment.


The Winter holidays were almost over...

Year In Review: The Stories

As the year draws to a close, we gather with family and friends for the holidays and a time of reflection. To date, this has been one of the most adventurous years of my life and I know 2012 will carry it over.

Over the next couple of weeks, I will add my thoughts to the end of 2011 - but to begin, this video put out by Google really hit chord with me. As a journalist, I have touched most, if not all of these stories this year - and I can say with confidence, they resonated deeply with me. People of the world - I celebrate you....

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (4)

Down 101, Up 5

Thanksgiving, a time when we decide family and friends are important enough to call together and and stuff our faces and watch football...or something like that, because what would it be without a good old fashioned commercial plot to kill a bird for fun and divide his stuffing by color? Of course, you get the idea but that was besides the point and I was in rush. My time was up. Los Angles failed to have any non polluted, breathable air.

I had a Great-Uncle and Aunt in San Diego hiding out in a retirement community and taking a break from "The Vegas," so I spent the time with them and figured out how to make the next move without the universe calling "check-mate." 

I had an interview with a local news station on Thanksgiving Day, because well - the world never sleeps and neither does anybody who's chosen the profession or the title, "journalist." And as such, on the days recognized by the rest of the world as  important enough to be absent from work, even in a local newsroom - people are working around the clock to keep you informed like busy ants building up a food supply for the winter. Running low on time and scratch, I needed a job, so I hastily agreed to the meeting with the news director at the local CW. Seemingly impressed with my resume, the affiliate of a larger network and owned by a Mexican company - they were in need and I seemed to fit the bill, of course a writing test and a chat around the newsroom would be the real evaluation if I could keep up. I didn't have any doubt that I would get the job after bantering with the news director about our connections back east and my praises of California. But to be sure, I threw in the extra charm and acted like I fit in just fine. 

The whole endeavor only lasted around two hours, much shorter than I anticipated for how much the station hyped up the position, the job and the people I'd be working with. This is not to say there wasn't talent, there was, but the whole scenario was a little less than what I expected. Then again, this was California, the schedule includes morning surfing, followed by afternoon responsibilities and a night life with music, drinking and salty sea air. Frankly it was the style I was aiming for anyway, so I jumped in with both feet and in my state of mind, it would be an easy transition.

****

After putting my belongings in storage just short of a month earlier, I was set to load and unload it all over again - and this time in my own little apartment right in the middle of downtown San Diego. So I hitched another Uhaul on my tiny Honda, grappled with the lock and since my "promised help" flaked out, I grabbed the nearest flat bed and moved all of my stuff from the second floor of the storage to the trailer on my own. Really, the only thing that mattered at that point was getting out of L.A. I was stuffed up immediately entering the city and not the kind that causes one to look down on another, no, literally, my sinuses were insulted by the pollution.

There was not an official offer from the station yet, but it didn't matter. I had no doubt it would come soon and for the time being, I felt robotic and was moving fast enough just to get things done.

I wasn't sure how I felt about living mid-town, frankly, it was claustrophobic and just because my height indicates that I can fit in small spaces, doesn't mean I enjoy it. Even so, it was cheap, it was month to month living and well the neighbors I met seemed nice enough. I had no plans to stay squished for too long, anyhow.

Once again, I was leaving behind what was there, only to find myself "here," in a place a little closer to the waves, a little more distracted by my thoughts and the grace to find a new home. What was to come, I couldn't be sure. What I needed was for life to pick up the pace just a bit more -- for the sake of my own sanity that seemed to have left me long before I ever reached California shores. 

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (3)

Driving 45s**

Simi Valley, California is 45 minutes from everything interesting in L.A. Sure, it's got it's own little community and it has everything one needs to live on daily basis, and it's suburbia for the convenience of families who don't want to be near the hustle and bustle of Hollywood, or want to raise their daughters to be valley girls, though it might come close. What it really meant was that I had to drive to get to the beach, it was a trip and I would have to go through the canons, over the bridge and through the woods or something like that. I was closer than I had ever been, and frankly, I don't actually think I minded the drive, it gave my brain time to relax and think so that by the time I reached the Ocean, I was ready to turn off completely. 

Once I reached Malibu beach, in the middle of the fall, and seriously with no one there, the stillness is suprisingly unsettling, I was on my own and a wide open space of vast waves that would reach Japan. The emptiness would soon feel comforting as soon as I had a moment to empty the pockets of insanity that lingered on my mind. As I looked out the at the waves, each thought began to slip away and I was closer to bliss that I had ever been. Then again, facing the demons is a task no one is ever ready for and it usually begins with the death of one gray thought and the humiliation of another. But such grimacing memories were soon given a break from the swarming buzz they created in my head. For the moment, it was all just white noise.

The winds of the coast were cold and I buried my toes in the sand for warmth as I closed my eyes and listened to the laps of water ride over each other, in an acardian rhythm. I tasted, inhaled and held onto the salty-sea air, because in this was the only place where I could really enjoy California. Until now, the bland and unimpressive Los Angeles was lost on me and I was thinking of every opportunity to escape. Then again, isn't that why I had come out here in the first place? "There" was now 'here' where I had run to -- in hopes of cutting off ties from that which I left behind  -- there. 

My days in Malibu were often defined by how much staring I did at the deep waters that were too cold to jump into, then again, there were surfers riding in the waves in full wetsuit gear and catching any wave that would grace them with that exhilarating feeling. I smirked, soon enough I thought, I will brave the waves on a board. 

One cannot drive so far to the coast and not touch the water --even if the anticipation of the temperature was too much to bear. Anticipation is always the worst and usually ends up being rather silly, but whether it's an interview, the pain of a tattoo or the cold winter waters of the Pacific, we all do it every time - forgetting that it wasn't all that horrible last time. Somehow our mind is tricked into believing it will be this time. 

I dipped my toes into the ice cold water, it washed my feet and sunk me deeper into the sand. At first it stung, and then - as if I had gone numb, it began to feel refreshing, renewing -- and my mind finally, it went blank. A grown woman on the edge of the western coast, nothing left to loose and at this rate, nothing to really gain, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered, it was vast expanse of space - waiting to be rejuvenated, brought back to life. It was a fascinating moment, on the surface, my hoodie and rolled up warm-up pants and glasses-- surely I looked out of place. Yet at the same time, I started to realize what my cousin meant when she said, "welcome home." - No person could have given that to me, but the waves did and I was satisfied that West is where I needed to be, but I was resolved, I needed to head South, because well frankly, I wasn't ready to be somebody where nobody had to be everybody all at one time. I just needed to find me. 

And that's when it really all began...


**(Part 1) // (Part 2)**

#OccupyWallStreet - Between the Lines

I laid my eyes on the remnants of an old city and what I was about to encounter was an explosive scene beyond the bounds of a typical protest. 

Like a modern day refugee camp, citizens with cell phones and ipods danced around tents, tarps, piles of...whatever and sleeping bags that were sprawled across the cement park. A single pathway made it maneuverable from one end of the camp to the other and each station ran over the next with only a cardboard sign to identify its place.

A peaceful war with no destination or anticipated outcome, a spectacle to the public, a threat to city officials, an annoyance to local businessmen. The protesters were definitely sending a message - they weren't moving.

I snapped pictures, took interviews, made friends, and blended in.  Dressed in torn jeans, a hoodie, jacket, converse shoes and beanie, no one thought I was any different. I was absorbed by the scene and even the profundity of the protest and honestly, the simultaneous madness of it all gave way for an awkward narrative. As it were, I kept wondering if any comparison could be made with their protest predecessors nearly 40 years ago.

I zipped through the camp like a buzzing swarm, being short actually made it easy for me to dart in an out of crowds and well...crowded spaces. In a fast-paced city with millions bustling and subways racing - a movement of disgruntled locals translates no differently.

One such day of my visit, Golden Sachs was the target of unified loud voices, "Banks got bailed out, you got sold out!" -- voices that disrupted business, protesters who - void of employment and responsibility - were abandoning any prospect of their daily post to join in solidarity for justice..

It seemed that Wall Street was listening. Professionals, suits of many color were investigating the premises, wandering through the group of misfits, asking questions, taking notes. Would these hippies shape up and ship out? Or would they get a grip on how to solve the problems that ailed them? 

Of course, then again, who needed a solution - the "wigs" were already supposed to have the answers: stop being greedy, someone said. Maybe, just perhaps, they were onto something.

Like clockwork as the sun set from the afternoon and into the evening, drummers at Occupy Wall Street rigorously called attention to the protesters in Zuccotti Park. In Rhythmic fashion, they set the stage for sign holders to hoist their messages above the crowd. Cardboard pieces that said, "Wall Street, War Street" and others that declared. "This is Democracy." It was as if they were preparing for battle, a daily cry against all forms of injustice.

To the spectators who walked outside the barricades, snapping photos and recording video with their phones, the whole scene was a loud joke. One woman behind me said, "Most of theses people don't even know what they're out here for. This has just become a tourist attraction." Indeed - it seemed to be just that.

But others felt the emotion behind the music, stood together and cheered, rallied and tried to solicit outsiders. All this despite a heavy police presence around the perimeter of the park. And most people told me, "Eh, this is normal."

Several Occupiers wore the masks from V for Vendetta identifying with a character who's face was marred and spirit broken by the corruption and torture of a frivolous government. Flags were raised in declaration of freedom. It was a sight that could draw anybody in...it certainly brought energy and momentum to the spirit of the protest.

It was a mystifying moment as I peered upward at the tall skyscrapers on Wall Street, the rebuilding of the World Trade Center Behind me and the sound of a Sax leading the drummers into a melodious renegade that required something more than what existed. Change. Certainly those who criticized were missing the point. Then again, were the protesters also missing out on what they could really do to get the results they wanted?

In the mean time, meal time was often long lines through a tent at the center of the park and people asking how to get to the back of the line in anticipation of a hot meal - trying to brave 50 degree (and below) weather as the winds flew through the tunnels of skyscrapers around them. Even with thick socks, I think my toes froze more than once and since my body temperature is determined by the state of my feet, I had to find ways to keep moving around the camp just to keep my blood from halting transportation through my veins.

Despite the fact that the generators had been removed by order of Mayor Bloomberg; Occupy Wall Street didn't let that deter them from charging their cell phones - how else could they Tweet and communicate? Two bikes were constructed in the camp - for people to manually hook up their electronics and charge them or create other functions while they pedaled on the bike (I’m sure the physical fitness wasn’t hurting them either, another few minutes to stay warm). While I never got a good look at the construction of the machine, I got the point. It didn't matter what the Mayor tried to do, they weren't going to be thrown out over a little generator, they would just invent their own and keep going.

The leaderless movement they've grown so fond of seemed to function smoothly and yet there was something missing - volunteers at the various tables of information were not often under an area of expertise and who was in charge of organizing it seemed lost on them. But they're were armed with propaganda - fliers, a newspaper: The Occupied Wall Street Journal, and most importantly, "The Declaration of the Occupation of New York City," their creed and manifesto. They began with "We the people..." Much like the Constitution. They listed their frustrations, they wrote down, put in a booklet, got a sponsor to print it up for them and delivered their complaints. While it offered no alternatives, it grabbed my attention, because it existed. And most Occupiers found it "moving," "inspirational," and a point of reference for them them to talk to each other, like mindedness some said, they were searching for it. But I wondered - with so many minds here, were they finding it?

Wall Street, unlike Atlanta (for who I have been working to document since October), was definitely more focused on economics and financial dysfunction. At the heart of Wall Street and the financial district, they wanted change in their pocket and change in policy.

Atlanta over the weeks has moved in the direction of social change in the community looking to Civil Rights leaders as an example in moving forward and making a difference, if there's one to be had.

Some say it's the political Left's response to the Right's Tea Party. I say - I met too many people in the middle, on the Left, on the Right and well, those special Ron Paul supporters. I met Communists and Socialists and Capitalists who want reform. I met wanna be important protesters and homeless and college graduates. I met people running from their problems and others dedicated to the cause. 


I met multiple generations, all coming together - on both sides of the Occupy line, those for and against had something to say and they said it, even if it didn't make any sense, then again, maybe more people need to read between the lines.

#OccupyWallStreet - CNN Piece, "Who Are They?"

Package shot and produced by Ash Gallagher for CNN.com

Reporter is Ralitsa Vassileva

#OccupyWallStreet: Headed for NY

Headed for New York City this week to investigate Occupy Wall Street, where it all began. More coming soon...For now, enjoy the music...

Video & Music - by The Yes Team; Astoria, NY 2011

#OccupyAtlanta: Faces of the Occupation

Following a meeting with local Clergy and the Occupy Atlanta Media group, Tim Franzen and I worked our way down to the next floor for a brief interview about his roll in the Movement. He led me to his office and we swapped introductions. I smiled slyly as I noticed the various propaganda on the wall and cushions in the corner with a pillow and blanket, where I imagine Franzen had spent many nights since the start of the Occupation.

We hadn't really met until now and certainly I was more familiar with him and than he was of me, so I gave him a brief introduction and flipped on the camera.

I don't know that I had any expectations. The Atlanta Journal Constitution [AJC] has presented Tim Franzen as a brazened character who's comments were purposely defiant against anyone who differed from him.

Yet most of the people I had spoken to throughout the camp, up to this point, were generally good hearted people looking for a change - and most revere Tim as someone who really cares about their well-being and the cause. 

Here is some of our Interview...

#OccupyAtlanta: Arrest Aftermath

It was an unusual start to a meeting, a behind the scenes, inside look at the operation behind Occupy Atlanta and their "media coordination." I was waiting to meet with Tim Franzen, the face of Atlanta's Chapter. The hallways were small, and there were written poster board signs indicating various committee rooms (Logistics Committee, Media, etc) and the floor they Occupied looked like it was in the midst of renovations. Picturesque and grassroots.

Before we could start, the Almighty Movement of God Church wanted to address the Media group and ask Occupy to join them in a March next Tuesday. This march was to help people claim back their homes and businesses - for which had been foreclosed in the economic crisis. They would have Civil Rights leaders, Media outlets and the attention of the city, they said, They wanted Occupy Protesters to join them at the court house and stand against the banks and government, in hopes of repossessing the properties.

But what came of the meeting was more than just an announcement for another Protest. The discussion unfolded into the occurrences of Tuesday night when 52 protesters from Occupy Atlanta were arrested. Since then, Mayor Reid has insisted one of the main reasons for the arrest was a man who entered the park that day with an assault rifle slung on his back. I remember seeing him and how nervous the Tactical Peace team was with the man's presence. Others at the camp bantered the man's rights to carry it and their concern for safety.

According to Franzen and others in the room, Occupiers repeatedly attempted to inform the police that surrounded the park, outside of the metal barricades, asking them remove the man or investigate him. But Franzen said, Officers never responded to the complaints. Another young man in the room said he had talked to the gentleman and had ever learned how the gun was obtained.

The Clergy present at the meeting felt that it needed to be brought to media and the public's attention that possibly, the Mayor allowed the man to remain in the park or knew of his presence, which would show his lack of interest in protecting the people of Occupy and Civil Rights icon, Andrew Young who spoke at the park that day. The Clergy expressed concern over allowing the man with the rifle to be within yards of Young.

Ironically enough, no one ever learned the name of the man who showed up, and it is not evident whether he was ever detained or questioned.

Since Tuesday, Occupy Atlanta has regrouped and is planning further demonstrations throughout the city. Some are camping in the park again, while others are camping near the King Memorial and headquarters is being moved down the street. Their drive to move forward is impeccable, and they stand by the statement that they were wrongfully taken into custody during a peaceful protest. Most video that has popped up on the web shows protesters being dragged away silently during the raid and whether or not the public will hear their message about the man with assault rifle is yet to be determined. 

(To Be Continued...)

#OccupyAtlanta: From Beyond the Barricades

Recently Police put fences surrounding the park at Occupy Atlanta. Last night, While waiting to meet a friend for dinner near the site - here is some of what I saw...

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (2)

Fade In: Kin & Courting

Odd as it were; I had only just seen my cousin a couple of months ago. I had only met her a few times in my life. She was of the older clan of cousins we shared. But I'll never forget, she said, "I want you to come. I want you to be here." And when I arrived, she said, "Welcome home." I didn't have a clue what she meant. I shrugged it off and accepted a glass of wine. My friend and I would be sitting with the family for dinner, throwing - jokes and jabs-- with three little munchkins who fell into the quick rhythm of dry humor. It was like a backwards family reunion with kin, connected only by the past and by the fathers who grew up on opposite ends of an awkward Irish Catholic upbringing. Nevertheless, it was where I was to stay for the next few weeks as I got my feet wet and made the best of a nomadic attempt to hide underwater. 

My friend and I had driven six hours from Phoenix to L.A. - and frankly we were both done with driving for awhile, at least that's what I thought, but if you've ever been in L.A. traffic, you'd know it's a pain the ass and no one has time, but then again be prepared to take you're time because you'll be stuck bumper to bumper for a while. The brightest moment between the two cities was the lonely gas station just outside the California border that had gas for less than three dollars and personal pan pizzas that I don't think went well for either of us in the end. Needless to say, the ride was over - and she was leaving while I was to make my way on the west coast from now until...well, whenever. 

I settled back into a mode of thinking that ultimately was a robotic way communicating among family types that seems so easily familiar and quickly gave me room to forget the reason I had come in the first place or why I had left in such a hurry from the last place. It wasn't as if I were looking for anything in particular, except a job in a town where everybody's and actor and a waitress - and pressing their luck with plastic surgery to get into the industry. 

The friendliness was fake, of course, and the routine of every meeting I went into, I felt like I needed to have a song and dance ready for an audition, -- media skills and production just weren't what they were looking for and I swear my height was examined every time I applied at a restaurant -- or maybe I didn't show off enough cleavage? Who the hell knew, but what I figured out was that this wasn't meant to be easy, nor did I have the time. Deep down, I don't think that I had the stamina to stay in big bad L.A. where everybody is somebody even when they're nobody and knowing somebody is the key to everything. How far was So-Cal?

Every day I went out to the field, accepted an interview, filled out a million applications and asked for the head of who ever was in charge. And every day, I came up empty. Blasted all. Then again, where was that guy that called himself Eric, with a successful media production company out of Georgia and California who had promised me a freelance gig editing material for various clients and when I showed up, he never did. No emails, no return phone calls and that promised meeting never came to pass. I had heard rumors about him that he was flakey and really just a jack-ass, and he wasn't proving them wrong. But I didn't have time for him, so I gave up and haggled with my other sources. I didn't know what I wanted, but I knew I had to find it. I was determined, I'd figure it out, at least that's what I told myself to get through the day. 

Meantime, I was doing my best to go to football games, cook dinner and offer anything I could to earn my keep. It was a full house and it was bustling all the time. Four children from age 3 to 19 - it was like a scene out of a Roadrunner cartoon, only with more characters passing each other day and night with feet that looked like faded circles; they were spinning so fast. Often the dinner table was the one moment where everything was calm and gentle laughter bounced off the walls of the kitchen. 

Then again, there the awkward moments of parents disciplining children or perhaps a flustered phrase that exceeded the normal levels of conversation and on such occasions, as I was not the subject for any of the loud noises, I escaped to the room I was given and tried to preoccupy my mind, not remembering I had left months of arguing behind. The safety of that small space was the only place I could go and certainly my own mind wasn't a blank sheet of paper anymore, it was over run with words and phrases and pictures and ideas that honestly weren't actually going anywhere. They were just there and I was not here, for I left here and fled into there, - the crazy was too complicated to really put down, only because the phrases on paper were too simple to really define what was going on in my mind. 

The weeks were passing quickly and it was almost Thanksgiving  - almost a month and I was ready to move on. One tried to convince me that I would not make it in LA, let alone California at all, another told me my decision to leave behind a steady paycheck and benefits was the stupidest decision I could have made and if I ever came back, I'd better be ready to commit, while still the days I was spending at my cousin's were growing weary for me, for her, for all. I was exhausted, I was very grateful and I was ready to be on my own. 

There was still no job offer on the table and I had accepted the fact that I didn't really want to be in a city where I was expected to compete with everyone I met on the street. San Diego looked promising and so I worked my way down for interviews and scouting. Would it work out? Hell if I knew, I was just ready to be somewhere a little more chill and a little less busy. This west coast thing was becoming a burden and LA was starting to feel like where I had come from. I was suffocating. Gotta go, new place, new space.

I was wearing thin...

#OccupyAtlanta: Social Changes

October 15-16, 2011


The second weekend of Occupy Atlanta proved to be a much different experience than when it began. Emotional, personal, and what started as an outcry for Economic justice seemed to have morphed into a protest, a movement against Social Injustices. Such is the atmosphere in the South, how fitting Atlanta has turned inward and demanding more from their own community. 

The introduction of changing the name of the park from Woodruff Park to "Troy Davis Park," has certainly resonated with many of the protesters as racial injustice, despite that many of them do not know just how convoluted the case of Troy Davis really was. While some, justly, protested the Death Penalty, there are still others who are concerned with what they call an unfair and racist trial for man convicted of ultimately, two murders. But neither here nor there, the passion over this man's life and death was evident among everyone who participated. 

On the day Washington D.C. was dedicating the Martin Luther King Jr. statue, The Almighty Movement of God church joined Occupy Atlanta. They set up a tent for church services and ministry. They held a press conference and attracted local news entities in order to show their support for the protesters. They led a March down to the MLK Memorial singing "We Shall Overcome," and preached the victory of the people in the Name of Jesus. During the speeches at the Memorial, one man stood in the middle circle - and what he said, I will not forget, he stated that he realized not everyone, including himself, was a person of faith, but that there was, "something holy about this place, and it makes me nervous." He went on to talk about the failure of leadership in the US - and King's message about the "urgency of now," and rallied the protesters around the desperateness need for change. Another man called out and shouted, "we are the solution," and urged the younger people to change their world. A young 20 year old said he didn't know much but knew that he wanted to make a better future- eliminating the obstacles of not finding a job, being able to live a life of freedom. Still another man, who was very emotional, admitted he was new to the movement but he didn't understand why the community wasn't working to help prostitutes and put an end to street violence. From eliminating racial tensions to increasing community care and participation - the outcries were not really about economics and taxes and corrupt capitalism. It was about the people. When they left the memorial, they continued to sing "We Shall Overcome," and chant. 

Later, when asked by a local media station, if they were now aligning themselves with the Almighty Movement of God Church and becoming a religious movement, their answer was, simply, was that they were a Social movement that was not aligning themselves with anyone, but accepting the help of everyone who offered to step in. 

Occupy Atlanta has made it evident they do not trust police, authority figures of any kind and are weary of even the kindest Officials - who ironically offered a protective police escort to and from the King Memorial Site. In fact, Sunday night, an announcement was read by a member of their Media Committee - stating that a young 19-year-old had been shot in the back by a Marta Police Officer while running away from a crime scene with his hands in the air-- following a football game. In response; the encampment held an immediate vigil, lighting candles and solemnly commemorating the boy's life. It was as if they had become more determined to fight. Still the Atlanta Police have not made a single arrest at the park. Mayor Reed has extended the deadline more than once to allow the protesters to stay at the park as long as they are co-operative with park cleaning and noise levels. With the social turn of debate it seems the Mayor has extended sympathies to the protesters and a certain report has formed between Occupy participants and City Officials.

But there was something, even more, that stuck out at the Occupy camp this weekend - They had wall, a wooden fence - and written on it were stories of Occupiers, citizens who are in protest of the system. And while some of them described losing jobs or not getting loans from the bank, many many more told stories of broken homes, addict parents, loss of security, homelessness, anger because they couldn't get an education, jealousy, and one even read, "So What's The Point Anymore?" My first thought was, this is Wailing of Wall of Occupy, the desperation of my generation and the one following. As I peered through the lens of a camera, eyes stinging in wonder and sadness, all I read were people who were broken. Sometime later, protesters dressed as zombies, fitting for those who feel dead in the world, spilled fake blood on the wall - and while some were quick to defend that it was ruining artwork, other saw it as a testament to what the words on the Wall read. I did. 

Of all the desperation that proved itself evident over the course the weekend, one thing brought a smile - how many of homeless were actually being taken care of, with jobs in the camp, food, responsibilities and given hope that they were worth enough to be trusted enough to accomplish something and contribute to a society, to a community. 

Occupy Atlanta is beginning to show itself less as an Economic protest against the banks and governmental injustice. Rather it is showing the faces of social and personal needs for a freedom many of them don't have. 

Their continued complaints against political systems are only the mask of far greater issue. As the advocates and protesters continue, one thing is for certain, they are persistent in creating a changed community. The only obstacle it seems is they have yet to define what it looks like when "their work is done." The question still poses, what does the current system and government need to do to show the Occupy movement that they've been heard?

Time will tell. 

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast

A Place To Go

It's not as if i was in the corner, like an imbecile scraping the carpet behind the couch for single penny and pressing my luck to a lottery ticket. The fact was I was completely thrown for a loop and landed in an environment that had reached beyond the threshold of my eyeballs and frankly, I was just tired of it. Nothing mattered anymore and I didn't give a damn who or what was next - frankly, the only thought that kept crossing my mind was, "I gotta get the fuck out of here." So I did. 

Heading west really just seemed like the thing to do. I didn't know if there would be any meaning or rational justification worth my while, but it was far away, the other end of the country, and it had an ocean. But sentimental thoughts about its existence weren't even on the table. It was just a place to go. 

I packed my bags and filled Uhaul, b/c well, this is life and that's how it's done. I called up a friend and we jumped in my little Honda, started for the road. Would it be adventurous? Maybe. But we were gunning it on the road, so, honestly? Who the hell really knew. She was my alibi. Whatever would happen, at least there'd be someone to witness it -- on an empty road headed west. And honestly, I admit, I don't think Highway 40 is any way to travel. It's more boring than you'd realize. I mean first, sure there the mountains, smokey - beautiful and majestic. I could feel it in the air, but unfortunately, late on that Sunday night, the most I ever saw were silhouettes against the blackened sky. It was hard to believe I had just left a city I had spent so much of my adult life in, and yet I didn't even look back. I was running. Maybe. 

By the time the first night fall passed we had left the state of Georgia...a long way behind, making our way through the South and sharing as much intimate conversation as two friends might do when all you have in the world...is time. And certainly time is exactly what we had - mostly due to the fact that a little Honda Civic with a Uhaul on the back only means your the slow car in the far right lane and as each driver passes you, yes even the hefty semi-truck driver; they look at you with disdain, honk and belittle your efforts to exceed 60 miles an hour...downhill. We were either a comedic sight for sore eyes or we were the zit on the road no one wanted to admit was there. It was laughable and rather frightful all in the same breath, especially because we were determined to continue moving the vehicle forward, avoiding at all costs - the agony of backing it up. 

I don't know if I thought much about anything at the time. It seems a blank sheet of paper existed in my head and the words I formed were out of robotic instinct to say something rather than emotional response to feel something. It was a soul-less time, where words and heart seemed to disappear and perhaps maybe once I dipped in the freezing cold of the Pacific Ocean, it would all wake up again. But if it didn't, I didn't care, I just needed to get somewhere that wasn't "here." People are often cruel to themselves when they have no handle to grasp, no life to celebrate and their very joys have turned in annoyances one too many times. Ultimately, their dreams are no more and therefore, their pithy plan to move up has given them the power to check out. Who knew this would ever happen to them? I didn't. You didn't. It just was. All that kept crossing my mind was, "change of pace, gotta go."  That and well, honestly, I just can't sit still long enough. I get fidgety - sometimes for the better, other times for the worse, either way, I like peeking over the edge of cliffs. The view is just too interesting. And who knows? Maybe I'll free-fall.

So there we were in the middle of South - Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas. The most interesting thing we saw between Georgia and New Mexico was a Cracker Barrel - and that's mostly because we were starvin' for a real food...or as close as we could get. Our goal was to make it Phoenix -- we had to make it California. She had a funeral and while I'd like to say I had a wedding, we all know this is a lie, so the truth is I had a business meeting (which turned out to be a fool's errand, but that's another story). Needless to say, much of our conversation had died down - and we traded off driving shifts to sleep. Of course, who the hell sleeps on a road trip anyway? The roads aren't exactly made for a solid cycle of sleep. Then again, neither is the passenger seat of Honda. Curled up, Squished, and even stretch out - it just doesn't work and you really end up running your body on fumes...the smoke smelling of body odor and disinfectant gel. At least the latter comes in handy after leaving a dirty outhouse behind the last gas station. 

By the time we reached New Mexico, the scenery was a little more interesting. Ok, so it was the desert, but a Cactus plant and a few tumble weeds make for fine scenery when, essentially, we've seen nothing of interest thus far. Then again, we both had tunnel vision and hitting the Arizona border meant switching every 30 minutes. We were almost there and we were dreaming a bed to sleep in, and well, more importantly, a shower. Going through the mountains the terrain seemed impossible to cross and my car was over-extending itself, even at the lowest 40 miles an hour. The moment I recognized my own blinking, I elbowed my friend and begged her to take over. She did. Then I did, Then she did...we finally made it - 9-am on a Tuesday morning. 

The site of our pit stop home was the most inviting thing I had ever seen. It almost seemed like a mirage. I may have had to rub my eyes a time or two to believe it. There was still no emotional attachment, no banter or grace. Just zombie like movement - having left something behind, racing to the coast, and absolute exhaustion from driving such a long way. 36 hours, I think we said. Our hostess and friend jumped up to greet us and make us a nutritious breakfast before letting our dreams take us into a peaceful dark cave. 

Have you ever stepped into running water, closed your eyes and drifted off a place where no one else could find you? I did. It was as if every drop coming from the shower head felt like the first drop I had ever experienced. The heat relieved my cramped body and I was soaked in the tears I could not produce myself. The world didn't exist, my destination didn't exist, my life up to this instant didn't even cross my mind, I was absorbing the moment. Time and space seem to simply disappear when the naked human body and the raw human soul come together for a single breath. It's as if all the senses come into play and a supernatural experience just...takes...over.

Later that day, I would visit with my grandfather, have wine with my aunt and uncle, settle into read. But for time being, the only thing I wanted, the only thing I could tap into - was my mind and body's need for silence, darkness, sleep. I was just hours from California. What would come next was yet to be determined - and frankly, I had no intention of trying to do that. It was just a place to go. It was there - not "here," the place I was. I didn't really care what was waiting for me. It had an Ocean and it had Sand and I could justify my odd collection of flip-flops. 

T-minus six hours...