Book Review: Game of Thrones Part 1

"When you play the game of thrones, you win or die, there is no middle ground." 

(Cersei Lannister, Game Of Thrones)

How true comes the statement from a jealous and even vile Queen in an epic story by George R.R. Martin. Set in an early century world of Knights, Kingslayers, watchmen, Lords and rumors of ancient Dragons: Game Of Thrones depicts a story that can only be told through the eyes of its characters.

Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn are caught in the middle of a battle for honor among families who are competing for the throne while their own family may be in jeopardy. After Stark, a long time friend and confidant of the King, becomes the Hand of the throne, he discovers secrets that he wish he had never known. And time is running out as rumors rise that the children of ancient dragons are planning to revolt. 

Each chapter Martin moves the story forward by focusing on the point of view through various characters. From the view of the Stark family to the dwarf brother of the Queen to the daughter of the last great Targaryen warrior to the Night's Watch, the high intensity of progression made it hard to put the book down. 

When vying for power, money and in the case of Sansa Stark: love, everyone's honor seems to fail. Even among those most respected among the Night Watch, most of the boys coming from questionable backgrounds regaining their name and reputation -- find their vows are a heavy loyalty to bear against their families, particularly for Jon Snow, the illegitimate son of Ned Stark. 

Nevertheless, as winter is coming, so is war - and the high anticipation of clashing Lords hangs in the balance through betrayal, tragedy and peculiar loyalties and unorthodox victories.

I would highly recommend this Award winning book, Game of Thrones, and I look forward to the second installment: A Clash of Kings.

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

West Rear-View

It's not as if it was the last time I would ever see the place called home, but leaving so quickly does things to one's head that often come as a result of driving 40 or more hours by oneself.

As it were, I left in a fog - the mist enveloped scenery, bounding once again to a life that would lead me away from the crashing waves. The only thing I could see in front of me were the eastern Mountains silhouetted against the sky and two feet of road. The crisp air smelled of salt and dew, and my mind was in a swirl of ghost like passing. Perhaps it would get clearer, so I went on. 

The two lane highway headed Southeast into the desert barely bore a soul. As the salted wounds began to shake off, and the border drew closer, the skies began to clear and I could see my first sight of green grasses and ascending desert-like mountains, which seemed small in comparison to what I experienced in the mist. The sight of it was like watching a painting in motion of brilliant earth tone colors welcoming me away from where I had been. 

Three hours and Yuma, Arizona was in sight. The deep sigh that escaped my breath made me realize I already need to stretch my legs, so  I spotted the nearest gas station, filled my tank the rest of the way and paused a moment to reflect on the idea that well, I just didn't know when I would cross that sweet California border again. 

I was headed to see my Papa, just months after his surgery. He was in his own house, had a walker and a new leg to boot - a boot that attached to his stump and made for a good story, even in its saddest of moments. The aunt, the uncle, they were nearby - pushing prodding and making good to keep an eye on him. 

Getting back on the road seemed a little more bearable and the dry air gave me motivation to work the second half of the first leg of a long cross country trip. 

Descending south led me to a border checkpoint, though I can imagine it's nothing compared to those that would make themselves home in desert countries overseas. Still, it wasn't the first time and as usual, it was a little odd. Needless to say, as the checkpoint got closer, I slowed and rolled my driver-side window down. The young Border Patrol cop, who looked younger than me and scarcely older than a high school student asked, "Can you roll all your windows down please?" 

"Sure," hoping that he wouldn't mistake all of my "travel-for-a-month" supplies as a sign that I had human beings stuffed underneath. 

"Where are you headed?" 

"Georgia" 

"Is that where you live?"  

"Yes." 

"Are you a US Citizen?"

"Yes."

"Where were you born?" 

"Ohio, sir." 

"Anyone else in the vehicle?"

"Nope."

"Ok, move on!" He commanded it, almost as if I had disappointed him. I can only imagine that a good smuggle was all the excitement these guys got. Semi-trucks are like treasure chests and the dogs were their shining hope. 

Considering how easy that really was, I kept thinking they needed a better system. But who was I to say? 

Quickly forgotten; I continued on to Maricopa. After several road detours I made it to the aunt & the uncle's house, two hours later than I had expected. A little dinner, wine and jacuzzi joy...the end of the night had finally come. Breathe.

Only seven states to go....

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (7)

The Moment of Yes

I needed a break. I needed a moment to think. I needed to call out in the middle of the week. I needed to wander, and perhaps I needed to get lost. So I did. When the burden of work was released, I slipped on my favorite sweats, a T-shirt, and picked up my camera. I was headed to the beach to think, not that thinking was going to do me any good and perhaps it would only cause me trouble, but think I would and whatever came of it would keep from being at home, cooped up all day.


Finding a parking spot on a weekday isn't so hard to do, then again this was San Diego and even in February the 60-some odd degree weather and a slight breeze is enough to bring even the most stubborn bear out of hibernation. I made my way down the boardwalk, jumped over the wall and dug my toes into the sand. The sound of the crashing waves kept my attention and I felt like I was able to breathe - slowly, in through my nose, out through my lips, closed eyes and sense of rest passed over me.


But as I continued walking down the beach, I heard voices singing. This was Ocean Beach, there were always buscars about and a hobo sitting audience. Of course, this time, the voices I heard were multiple and harmonizing. Curious, I approached the group of ragged musicians - they were jamming to the beats of Bob Marley's "One Love" and traded off guitars, a shaker, and a djembe. I couldn't tear myself away, and frankly I didn't want to - from Bob Marley to jams to the Spanish singer and others encouraged everybody to "keep on movin'," -- I was practically drooling over the fantastic scene of talent and joy that came out of their vocals.


I found a spot on the wall near the musicians, tossed my flip-flops aside and faced the water. I could have sat there all day just listening to music and watching the waters tumble underneath the pier.


Finally, the music stopped long enough for me to lean over and tell them how great I thought they sounded. One of the boys, peered back at me from under his long curly hair, smiled and said, "thank you so much." He reached out his hand which I eagerly shook and introduced himself.


I asked if they lived in the area. No, he told me, they were from New York, he and two others he pointed out. They were The Band and had come to Southern California to find fans and friends, living off the good graces of strangers.


Introductions went all the way around and eventually I met the Spanish singer, blond hair, tall and talented. He wasn't part of The Band, but he was a local musician, a starving one at that - working for a catering company by day and making his way around San Diego with a guitar at night. His bright attitude and hippie sticks kept us in conversation even after the band kept playing. He'd brought crackers and carrots which he willingly shared and we swapped stories about our roots.


After realizing I still had my camera with me, I grabbed a few pictures and figured I'd throw it up on my blog. It couldn't hurt to show a little support, truth was, I didn't have a dime on me to throw into the guitar case, which honestly is what the band was really hoping for -- they had to manage to eat and fill their purple van with gas...somehow.


The afternoon ended with an invitation to join the boys at a bar and the conclusion that I had finally made a few new friends. The place I'd come to find myself and get lost was becoming home - and it was only the beginning.

A Wedding

My New Year started with taking pictures at a wedding - one of my dearest. Here are a few of the pictures:

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Starting Line

New Year, new apartment, and thank heavens only a mile from the clear blue waters of the Pacific. The hustle and bustle of legal paperwork I had to sort through just to get approved for a legit studio California bungalow was enough trouble to make a person go bald by way of pulling all their hair out. 

January 1st - moving day and once again, I'd have to hail a Uhaul to drag my belongings from the dusty house to a smaller space with a pool. But I could live with that, the studio was the biggest I had ever seen. Truly - the living room could have added a wall and a door with room to spare. The long hallway led to a built in vanity at the end next to a walled off bathroom. A separate kitchen with counters and cupboards completed the space and I was set for time being. 

I dragged everything I owned into that apartment: the headboard, the foot-board, the glass iKea desk, the iKea shelf, the dishes, the pictures and well the guitars & cameras. The property manager, Beverly, gave me the keys to the mail box, the gate and my 1-car garage. But, of course, I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to unload and see how long it would take me to make it to the ocean. I was in a race for the sand between my toes and I wasn't due to be back to work until Monday. 

After about two hours of heavy lifting and probably damaging my back for ages to come, I locked up, hopped in my little Honda and drove down the street, literally - 1.2 miles - to the blue vastness that rushed over my toes. Since it was winter; the ice cold sent chills went up my spine. But I took a deep breath and released. Now, now I felt like I was home with a beach and a sane mind. 

I had no outlook on the new year, I just wanted to get through the first month, earn enough to avoid detaching my arm for expensive California living. And at the moment, I was content enough to be staring across of body of water that doesn't stop until it reaches the next continent. 

What would come next...

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....

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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.