The Bluestone Theory

So I found my sweaters. All stacked neatly in the old futon covered by an egg shell that I slept on for a month when I left Student Services and 20th Street.

Joe, my old roommate (along with Jill, Jewel, Jal and June), notified me that he believed a stray Havaiana and a Norelco charger were left in a pile at my old apartment. He was right and I had been confused about those missing items because I hadn't shaved since I moved, hahaha.

I finally dropped by the apartment to hang with Joe, we rambled about our lives before we went into my old room. I grabbed my belongings and he asked if, opening the futon, whether these  Trader Joe's and Census 2010 bags Full of illegible notebooks were mine. "Oh yeah!" I said in a mix of excitement and shame. I collected them, slinging them all on my shoulders and he asked, "hey, and this sweater, is it yours?"

"What sweater?"

"Actually, all of these sweaters," pulling out three stacks.

"Oh, my god." I laughed. I laughed and cursed and danced. I hadn't lost anything, I simply shoved a quarter of my belongings into a futon and walked away.

It was joyous. We drank a beer and ate Alligator pizza to celebrate.

My parents, Saints that they are, have been sending me sweaters in the mail and handed me five more when I went home for Thanksgiving. I was thankful (I'm wearing the cerulean one now!), but these old sweaters are gifts, memories, and had once defined me, like my ironic t-shirts in middle school, or bandanas and jokey sweatshirts in high school. I had recovered some pieces of myself.

(And I think I'm not materialistic!)

Today, I'm overwhelmed with sweaters and suit jackets and loans and transcriptions. 

****

Taylor had a percussion teacher in high school named Joel Bluestone. Taylor always had such great things to say about Joel, and I was always happy to hear them, and not just because of his great name. I actually saw Joel play once at POP PDX and his band was fascinating and groovy. He was a cool guy but when Taylor left Oregon, he did so gladly, with need of a new perspective in life and in percussion. 

Taylor moved back to go to PSU a couple years after and I asked him who he would take for lessons, and he said "Joel, probably."

"But you left. You went beyond his lessons, I thought."

~ "No, I left because I needed a different perspective to grow. He still has more to teach, of course."

And it made sense, eventually. Joel wasn't a teacher just for his youth, but a skilled, open teacher with much to offer. It was easier to see what else he offered after he left and experienced other perspectives.

I'm thinking about that a lot, lately. I'm thinking about that with a lot of things. 

Eric Garner Protest - December 3rd, 2014

A block away from my office is Times Square and when I read the cop who choked and killed Eric Garner had not been indicted in Staten Island and that a protest would be gearing up in Staten Island. I went to the protest, sort of. I more so gawked and the protest and steeled myself against some pretty heavy emotions. It was a very jarring experience. I've been part of some protests before, many of them when I was a kid, but the emotions were so raw from this case, and so personal for so many New Yorkers, that there was an odd flurry of emotion in the air.

It's a week and change after the protest, but I wanted to share what my (mostly) unedited thoughts were at that moment, and in the moments after when I walked alongside a mob of police officers, and then at the same protest at a different location. Here it is:

"How do you spell racist?!"
"NYPD!"

I feel nauseated and silent. I don't need to speak when the people are speaking. I'll speak low even though this is a space for yelling. But this shit is sickening.

[This protest is] surprisingly joyous. Joy is the wrong word, but protests have an energy about them. Excited. There are possibilities and an openness about politics. Direct engagement but also a social activity

"This is what democracy looks like!" "This is what democracy looks like!"

They decided not to indict the police officer that chocked and held Eric Garner off the ground. A Supreme Court in Staten Island. A jury of his peers [?] decided that no crime was committed. In just a few days after the Michael Brown Indictment, a jury decided that no crime was committed when a man was held above ground by a baton and wheezed until he died

"I can't breathe! I can't breathe!"

I started tearing when I heard that chant. There was no joy in that chant. That is the last words of Eric Garner and  the chant carried more weight. I couldn't hear it from the distance as the mobile protest joined with those standing and idly yelling. Walking and closing streets and throwing rocks and burning cars, that feels like a protest, feels like a movement. A civil chanting feels like nothing. It's cold and we're huddled.

Worse yet, we're surrounded, the protest is surrounded by the police. We have an armed guard in case we get out of hand. There are always swarms of police officers in Times Square and they seem just as routine.  We won't harm them but if we threaten them, they have an authorization to kill.

"NYPD!"
"KKK!"
"NYPD!"
"KKK!"

This circumstance, this instance was determined as not a crime, as lawful. The officer will likely resign, and likely work for a subcontractor or one of the dozens of security firms in the city. What's frustrating for me and for many is that this instance was authorized by the decision, and the whole system of regular, unwarranted stopping, frisking, incarceration, and killing of people of color is left unquestioned in the courts.

It cannot be Fought in the courts. Out here today, in Ferguson, in LA, in Portland, the hundreds and thousands of people are gathering to say that it may be authorized but it is not just. Though The streets of Times Square, of union square, of washington square, like the tents in Tahrir or in Taksim, are not exactly analogous to the court of public opinion. We disagree but do they?

"THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!"
"THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!"

I stepped out of the protest, mostly silent and gawking rather than participating, to see it from outside. The news crawl above the people was from ABC and read "BLACK-ISH after MODERN FAMILY." I thought that was poignant so I drew out my phone to take a picture and it flashed out and was replaced with "Police Officer feels 'Very Bad' about Eric Garner Choke Hold." I snapped a couple pictures of that and put my phone away when it flashed again. It was an advertisement for, I kid you not,

"HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER"

I know it felt like something to be in the crowd and yelling, but I don't know what direct action does anymore. This keeps happening. More kids keep being shot down by not just Eric Zimmermans but police officers, sworn to literally protect. How is every black person a threat to protect against? When does this become presidential action? When does congress start agreeing? There are people on the streets. As much as you can brand them all anarchists and homeless and violent (even if they are), they're still missing work, missing school to come down and protest.

"BLACK LIVES MATTER!"
"BLACK LIVES MATTER!"

When does this come to a head?


********

I'm walking south on 6th avenue to meet my friends in the east village. Police cars and vans full of cadets are weaving in and out of  traffic , all with their lights on, sirens on. I walked away from the start of the protest. It looks like it just got heated.

"HANDS UP!"

"DON'T SHOOT!"

Now all the unmarked crown royals and fords packed with officers are heading to Times Square. I just passed a police car dropping off a well-dressed white couple looking like they're starting their night out, and the man gives his a ride a "Thanks, Gentleman."

"When the system doesn't work?"

 "Shut it down!" 

I hope no civilians get killed tonight 

[I'm] Walking in a mass of cops [along Broadway and 6th avenue. The cops are rowdy, some nervous and some upbeat.]

Roving bands.

Telling jokes about the protests 

Stepping on banners of "everywhere is ferguson"

NYPD is multiracial, multicultural and yet they cannot speak the language of the protest. Even if the cops agree, they cannot agree. There was a secret hand gesture the cops would give if they secretly agreed with the politics of the [Occupy] protest but people are still being killed, secret solidarity or no.

The police are people and they are sometimes people who kill other people.

[I walk with the cops for some 10 blocks, sometimes in the bike lane, away from their prowl, sometimes in the middle of the 25 officers, like a VIP

Which laws are ignored in a riot? 

In Union square, the standing man from Istanbul has been renewed. Radical politics shares a language. About 60 People  are standing with their hands up silently. A sign reads, "I know you're scared but you should ask us why we're scared too!"

Don't make me a target 

But I won't be. I'm not even on a list

This is my kind of protest. Denying the violence out of fear for myself and fear of retribution. It was silent, more and more people gathering when one man yelled "Hands up!" And three, four people responded "Don't shoot!" Hands up, don't shoot, and then everyone was yelling it. Five minutes? 

One woman yelled "I can't breathe" and the shouts and hands subsided into "I can't breathe! " and "Don't choke"

And back and forth

"hands up!"

"don't shoot!"

"Hands up!"

"Don't shoot!"

I'm in the crowd; my arms are shaking

The other side of union square, people are shopping for Christmas trinkets in the bazaar

hands up, 

Don't shoot 

Hands up, 

Don't shoot

Hands up,

don't shoot.

Third (D)ave

While I was doing laundry on October 19th, I realized I lost all my sweaters. One big box, the first box I packed before I moved to Brooklyn, was suddenly misplaced. Vanished.  Disappeared not unlike the 43 Mexican student teachers.

Well, maybe not disappeared, I must have lost it long before October 19th. I must have misplaced it at 20th Street or maybe I took a cab and left it in the trunk. It was my biggest box, so I have a hard time believing that.

One way or another, I don't have my sweaters and it just got cold. Cold like I wake up freezing, stand in the bathroom after a shower soaking in the heat before I spring back to put socks on. And it just gets colder all year.

Luckily, I still have my flannel and jackets and sweatshirts, so I'm making due. I just bundle and layer and pretend the hodgepodge of fabric is as warm as a sweater or as snug as a sweater.

I don't feel great about losing these pieces which were part of me for so long (a couple of sweaters were my uncle's! A couple were from high school!) but in a different sense, being without them is freeing. I'm not tied to those threads, I am not defined by those colors. I can be a, like, a gray pashmina guy now. Or something. Are sweaters made of pashmina?

I feel like I'm rationalizing an accident, rather than finding the silver lining. I wonder if I were more careful, would they be lost in a cab, all of my best four plates and a pile of sweaters in soggy grocery store cardboard stuffed underneath a spare tire. Maybe I should have been more thoughtful. I wonder if they're being used or stuck with someone who doesn't handwash or sitting alone in a room, unused and unwanted. I wish I could tell them what they meant to me, now that they're gone.

But that's a waste too. Now I'm just repeating the mantras that I hear all the time. You move to Brooklyn, you lose your sweaters.

It really resonates now.

The Big Cucumber

I had a post idea in November(?) about finding a big, neglected cucumber in my refrigerator, taking a moment to think about how I would cut it up and eat it for a snack. Instead, I rushed it to my mouth and chomped on it like a rabbit eats a carrot. I was going to write a couple of small paragraphs about how life was like a big, neglected cucumber, sometimes, and you just have to go ahead and take a bite out of it. Sometimes life deals you a shitty hand, and you just play on and I'm not very good with long metaphors. 

But I forgot to write that down. I was pretty busy. I was told yesterday that I was vibing people, acting really self-involved and cold. I don't remember that, but I remember a stressful November and December where I felt like I was going to fail a class for the first time. Grad school is hard! (I imagine all programs are hard!)

I'm on the other side now, though, somewhere in 2014. I lost count. 2013 was a year of diversion and 2014 is a year of waiting and then exclaiming! 2013 was a year of going to Turkey and going to Philly and going to Seattle at regular intervals. It was a year of escaping tragedy, escaping boredom, escaping tear gas and escaping myself. Both my grandmas, my real ones, not the many remarriage ones (thanks Grandpa!) died this year and I had a weird time coping.  Like in 2012, I didn't cry for months in 2013. Once I get coverage, I should probably talk to a therapist about that, but I'd rather be reactive than proactive when it comes to therapy. For whatever reason.

2014 is bigger, though. I'm going to graduate from my program, and leave The New School fully. I will sign a lease for the first time. Hania is going to be moving to New York in June, so we'll live in the same place at the same time for the first time in years. 2014 is the year of full time employment instead of cobbled part time employment (I'm looking at you, 2011!) Hopefully this year will be a lot of open doors. 

Or at least closed doors. I'm going to burn so many bridges when I leave this place! 

~~

I've been watching a lot of Homeland and getting pretty emotional while talking to Hania about high school. I had a big wave of nostalgia wash over me in thinking about listening to the radio for the first time, and what a wonder it was to hear Nirvana and David Bowie outside of soundtracks. I want to look at the world the same way I did when I was just discovering things, but I was probably too cynical and ignorant, hopeful and naïve to understand what was happening. I want to time turner the hell out of high school, just to see it over again with these eyes, but those terrible jeans and running shoes and bandanas and carabiners made me who I am today, including the nostalgia. I have to live with them in order to look back this way. 

I've also been getting into "Welcome to Night Vale," this funny, affecting, dark podcast in the vein of "News from Lake Woebegone" and The X-Files. I'm about 30 episodes in and loving it, but a couple of passages really spoke to me. One has to do with Carlos, the skeptical and beautiful scientist, but the one that really made me stumble in awe (it was icy!) requires less context and reminded me of what it is to be alive:

"Thinking back, ladies, looking back, gentlemen, thinking and looking back on my European tour, I feel…a heavy sadness descend upon me.

Of course, it is partly nostalgia — looking back at that younger me, bustling around Europe, having adventures and overcoming obstacles that, at the time, seemed so overwhelming — but now seem like just the building blocks of a harmless story.

But here is the truth of nostalgia. We don’t feel it for who we were, but who we weren’t. We feel it for all the possibilities that were open to us, but that we didn’t take.

Time is like wax, dripping from a candle flame. In the moment, it is molten and falling, with the capability to transform into any shape. Then the moment passes, and the wax hits the table top and solidifies into the shape it will always be. It becomes the past — a solid single record of what happened, still holding in its wild curves and contours the potential of every shape it could have held.

It is impossible — no matter how blessed you are by luck, or the government, or some remote, invisible deity gently steering your life with hands made of moonlight and wind — it is impossible not to feel a little sad, looking at that bit of wax, that bit of the past. It is impossible not to think of all the wild forms that wax now will never take.

The village, glimpsed from a train window — beautiful and impossible and impossibly beautiful on a mountaintop, then you wondered what it would be if you stepped off the moving train and walked up the trail to its quiet streets and lived there for the rest of your life. The beautiful face of that young man from Luftnarp, with his gaping mouth and ashy skin, last seen already half-turned away as you boarded the bus, already turning towards a future without you in it, where this thing between you that seemed so possible now already, and forever, never was.

All variety of lost opportunity spied from the windows of public transportation, really.

It can be overwhelming, this splattered, inert wax recording every turn not taken.  

"What’s the point?" you ask.

"Why bother?" you say.

"Oh, Cecil," you cry. "Oh, Cecil.”

But then you remember — I remember — that we are, even now, in another bit of molten wax. We are in a moment that is still falling, still volatile — and we will never be anywhere else. We will always be in that most dangerous, most exciting, most possible time of all: the now. Where we never can know what shape the next moment will take."

I found the transcript for the episode "A Memory of Europe" here. I highly recommend both Night Vale and Homeland, but also Guacamole Hummus from Trader Joe's (if available). Together, those three have prepared me for my last semester in school (as far as I've planned). 

There will be more frequent posts this year. I'm going to Vegas in March to intern my dad's mom with all my family. I'll write something about that, later. 

That's all I have. Have a good night, though.