Thanksgiving hike with buddies in New Paltz. |
Sometimes blogging is all encompassing.
In between lived experience, I imagine how I am going to write about and
visually represent what is taking place.
This is history from a camera lens. I am I
am the observing object and narrator. The process is also what story telling is all
about. In the midst of the worst
disasters we are compelled to escape into storied spaces, where we give or take
ideas, information, and first person narratives. This is the case in storms, jail experiences,
and even during plagues. Faced with a bubonic
plague, the characters
in Boccaccio's Decameron skip out of
14th Century Florence to go share tall tales in a villa outside of town. Boccaccio's
experience of escaping the plague inspired one of the first works of pure
fiction, The Decameron. It is a story of friends, pleasure, and a new
form of morality, such as can be created only when facing mass carnage. This
experience was on my mind as we sought to both contend
with and escape the ravages of Sandy.
Over
the last few weeks activists city wide have helped organize relief efforts built
around mutual aid networks, which have proved far more effective than federal
emergency responses. Even modest
participation in these efforts is all consuming. Yet, so are efforts to steer away from the
ongoing ravages and make sense of their reverberations and even ridiculousness.
Occupy Sandy Staten Island |
In between recovery relief rides, classes, and
blog posts, Caroline and I headed out to People's Republic of Brooklyn for a
drink before the kids went to bed during date night last Wednesday. This is our favorite bar in Brooklyn, a mixed
space where football fans share space with Jinga players, lawyers and hipsters,
reveling over bar food, gumbo and Wednesday night karaoke. In between
Barry Manilow and Guns N Roses, Caroline owned the mic. She started texting friends, inviting them to
join. Peeps started dropping by; more
and more took the mic. And the Brooklyn
night pulsed into the morning. Because of my kids I knew a few of the newer hits,
as well as my faves, "I Can't Smile without You" and "Rapper's
Delight."
We are all stars in these moments, especially when the whole bar sings
along.
We woke up the next AM
no worse for wear, enjoying just living.
The sun shined, the kids helped Caroline cook and cope. I finished last week's blog and we set out
for Garrison New York around noon, visiting the family and friends an hour
north of the city.
Caught up traffic, we
listened to Pete Seeger recalling
his friendship with Woody Guthrie. Over the last few years, I have started
drafting a manuscript on friendship and social movements. Listening to Pete recall Woody's efforts to
cope with losing his family to fires, natural disaster, McCarthyism, and his
own illness, it is hard not to be moved.
One hears how Seeger was there to accompany Guthrie, playing early
chords, collaborating on peace songs, anti fascist melodies, journeys in and
out of the military, struggles against the blacklist, and illness which would
consume the icon. Yet sixty years later,
Seeger is still there to bear witness. Keith Cylar and Charles King, of Housing
Works, used to say that their friendship helped each find a new way of living,
fighting, loving, and acting up against the silences which allowed the AIDS
crisis to rage. They were there to push
each other and love each. I recall King
crying as he recalled Cylar's legacy at the subsequent Harm Reduction
Conference that fall. These networks of
shared affinities are what inspire me, helping me move forward and stay involved. They push me to be more of the best part of
myself, allowing me to take part in something so more larger than myself. This is what rebel friendships are all about.
Through the weekend we ate,
watched football, remembered those not with us, as we enjoyed afternoon snacks
and the subsequent weekend hikes through the woods from Bear Mountain to New
Paltz. In between plans to support
the Wal Mart workers, I got an email from a friend from Times Up! stuck dog-sitting,
with neither car nor bike, only about thirty minutes away. She had been up state for a week, hadn't seen
a soul in days. Some years I take part in buy nothing day actions, others I
stay up state, hang out and hike with my kids.
Hearing the call from the friend, I opted to stay in Garrison. Still I was more than happy to see the
workers at Wal Mart push back against
black Friday. Their action signals a pulsing
step for buy nothing day anti- consumer movement. While I supported the workers, I was more than glad to be there with my
friends and kids. That morning the girls
and I created a fort in the woods in the back yard. Later that afternoon, buddies came up from the city. We picked them up from Metro North and hiked
along a route along the old Appalachian
Trail, later sharing some Mexican food in the rusty town of Peekskill.
Romping around with the kids. Photos by Anna Harrah |
These days I am
hopelessly aware of the passing of time, from the thirteen years since I first
celebrated Buy Nothing Day with the likes of Brad Will, Reverend Billy and
Monica Hunken, and the ten years I have spent with my kids on these days. I recall walking with Brad Will recalling our
1999 Buy Nothing Day Action in 2004 or calling Charles King when Rev Billy was
arrested, or going to Critical Mass surrounded by cops, or driving into the
city for the 6 Macy's Zap as the store opens, or just hanging in the trees with
the girls. These friends are coming and
going with time. I am compelled to be
with all of them, to build a community
of friends, between my kids, extended family, and the world around us. It was a pleasure to do something different
with the day even as I remember, romping through the forest, exploring
Peekskill, taking in movies, stories, and turkey leftovers. I hope the kids will have a fair run of this,
even with the difficulties and anguish they face. Hopefully, solidarity and fun and care will
carry them forward.
Saturday, we drove up
through windy roads, with a blue sky, and a few snowflakes up to the Mohonk
Mountain House. There we'd hang out with
my mother, the kids' grandmother celebrating her 75th year. We enjoyed a few quiet moments, meals, and
walks. The kids and I skated, enjoying
taking in the mountain air. Scarli
scooted from one end of the rink to the other, crashing all the way, while Dodi
remained cautious. I skated with them
both. "Control your tricks," I advised Scarli. Mom stood by, cheering the kids on, warming herself
at the outdoor fire. It was only four
decades prior when my brothers and I journeyed with her to and from outdoor
skate rinks up and down the East Coast for hockey travel team. The fresh cold air felt so good. Between dinner and a few rounds of foosball,
we reveled in our time away, with each other in this safe house.
Memorable moments with the family at the Mohonk on our yearly retreat. |
Going to bed, the
Magician's Nephew, the first story of the Narnia Series we were reading in
Garrison was nowhere to be found. Losing
one's temper over losing a book about peace is one of the strap twists of
living, parenting, and hoping to be a good parent. We hope to be better than our parents, but we
step backward, as much as forward, our crazi reverberating along the way. I went to bed missing the story, which for so
many years had gone missing from the Narnia chronicles, only to be posthumously
be adopted as the first story of the series.
Yet, it never really fit for me. Asleep
by ten, I was up by one, with my discombobulated thoughts. Sometimes these in between moments tell me
more than anything who I am. I recall
waking jet lagged in Demnark, reading all and writing all night, alone with my
thoughts. The same sort of vibe grasped
me in those early hours of Sunday morning. Reading a print out of a friend's paper, I noted
an old story of mine from the recycled sheets of the flip side of the paper. This story about 2004 demos and arrests, from an
affinity group long passed, seemed like so long ago. It also reminded me of the friends who guided
me through that process and the colleagues who did not, the ways movements inspire
me, as well as lost its way. Sometimes
these moments without sleep remind us of what is important about being alive,
what we need to be thinking, writing, and making sense of. I didn't get back to sleep till five.
Nelson Ryland |
These were the thoughts lingering
through my mind as we meandered back through the lush fall afternoon home after
another day of hiking and skating and fellowship. I love driving down the Palisades, recalling
so many of the drives up and down this road over the last two decades between
my Junior year at Vassar and today, across the GW Bridge, down the West Side
Highway, past the 79th Street Boat basin with the sun shimmering in the water,
past Christopher Street, and the old Keller's bar, where Dad's buddy Fred
worked in pre Stonewall Greenwich Village, past the rising towers at Ground
Zero, around the city, and East over the Brooklyn Bridge, back down Hoyt street
to home once again.
The site for the old Keller's hotel. |
Photos on the way back home to Brooklyn. |
Another week ahead after
remembering and living and marking another
Thanksgiving.
I'll be back upstate next week to try and make sense of a few of the
lessons of today's plague. As Jay
Blotcher posted on facebook: This coming Saturday, World AIDS Day in Rosendale, NY...
I'm conducting a panel discussion after the screening of "How to Survive a
Plague" with director David
France (via Skype) as well as ACT UP veterans Victor
Mendolia, Linda
Meredith, Neil
M. Broome, Benjamin
Heim Shepard and Gerri Wells, plus Tony Beaudoin of Hudson Valley
Community Services. Hudson Valley neighbors, join us!" I'll be there reminiscing about comrades and
a few of the affinity groups not recalled in the movie, Syringe Exchange,
Housing and Majority Action, whose memories are also worth remembering. Living and recalling, acting and embellishing
the story of these rebel friendships.
Nelson Ryland |
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