I feel a pall of loneliness radiate somewhere behind my eyes. Like a kid's fiberoptic wand at the fireworks show. But I have met this foe before and prevailed. I have allies. I have weed, and coffee. I have books and magazines. I have a laptop replete with videos, music and pornography to distract me. I have Tony Soprano and I have Diana Ross. And I have this. Writing this, here.
This morning I took Concerta for the second time in my life. I took two pills two hours before my Communication Law test.
Oncology Encyclopedia Online says: "Patients should not take two pills at the same time."
Essentially it negated my need for coffee throughout the day: It's more than 12 hours later and I still feel like I drank a pot. I think tomorrow I will take three.
I pondered on how my views on health have changed. Somewhere along the line I decided to stop worrying so much about which chemicals enter my temple. I found a pack of Marlboros at work today and took it. On my way home, my bike got a flat. I smoked two as I walked the remaining distance. I wanted to do something bad for me. Something I normally wouldn't have allowed myself.
Then after I finished them a car rode up and its passenger called me a motherfucker. I replied in same, but my outstretched finger-salute soon became a defensive guard as I was riddled with gas-propelled plastic pellets. I must have looked quite the fool chasing them on foot, my bike held aloft, shouting. They looked as if they were going to stop, and I had to reflect for a moment on what I would actually do if they came out. But no, the driver chose to be the bigger man.
The amphetamine, adrenaline, testosterone, caffeine, nicotine---take your pick, it was rushing through my veins and I released some of it when I saw a car by the side of the road. It's been parked in front of a body shop down the street from my apartment for weeks. An old blue sedan, or rather the carcass of one. Tires flat, interior gutted, engine removed, tape deck liberated. Stenciled along the side in pink block letters:
YEAH I KNOW BUT ... IT MIGHT BE FUN
A glance to my surroundings, and the U-lock comes off the handlebars. I turn to protect my face as I shatter the windshield. Side window. Deep dent in the trunk. Incredible, the ease with which merry destruction is wrought. I make a sound like a giant hole puncher and then crushed ice.
I'm bitter. Misanthropic Monday. I'm in control. I cleaned dishes, took out the trash. Made some rice and ate it, brewed some tea and drank it. I took a shit and I read a column in the Athens News called "The View from Mudsock Heights." Generally this prickly old dude champions the small-town, rural virtue of southeastern Ohio. This week Dennis E. Powell tears apart a "cosmopolitan" straw man from New York who asks Mr. Powell why he likes living in a small town.
Powell contends that what makes small towns great, what really makes them superior, is neighborly love. A strong community rises up to seal the widening gaps in public infrastructure. He cites the hypothetical of a flat tire. In Athens, "a half dozen people would stop and ask if I need help." In New York, they'd just hurl profanities at you. Maybe they'd shoot you with an Airsoft gun.
Fuck you, Dennis Powell. I've never encountered a place as alienating and hostile in all of big-city Chicago. Blame the college students if you want; I do.
Hope I did alright on my Law exam.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
8 OU Students Arrested at G-20 Protest
The following is a piece I wrote for the Athens News about some crazy shit I was a part of in Pittsburgh last weekend. It's not comprehensive by a long shot, and it's edited for length. In the future I'll post something that articulates my thoughts a little better.
Silence fell among the paddywagon occupants as a uniformed figure came into view through the metal grate at the rear.
"How does it feel to be a terrorist? Y'all have no rights now."
The "terrorists" had moments earlier been chanting slogans at a rally on the University of Pittsburgh campus. They were gassed, pepper-sprayed, choked and beaten as a result of their efforts.
I shifted uncomfortably in the plastic zip-ties wound around my wrists and thought of the comfort I had enjoyed only a few hours earlier. After a march to Pittsburgh's City County Building, myself and nine other OU students were eating dinner in the city's Oakland area. We decided to attend one last rally before we headed home.
We arrived 15 minutes before the rally was scheduled to begin, but from the law enforcement assembled you would have thought we missed the party. SWAT, National Guard, and K-9 units all served as window dressing to a small army of police clad in riot gear. There were hundreds of these already standing shoulder to shoulder around the perimeter of the area, and it was all I could do to watch in awe as busload upon busload arrived to thicken the ranks. As I surveyed the scattered clumps of protesters---many of them undoubtedly U of Pitt students out to witness the spectacle taking place on their front lawn---I found it impossible to understand what warranted a show of force that would have made bin Laden wet his pants. Authority outnumbered dissent 2-to-1.
We want you to know that this is a peaceful protest, said a fellow protester with a megaphone. I want you to know that I respect each and every one of you.
He got about as much response as if the wall he was talking to was made of bricks and not police.
Minutes later a much louder, amplified voice boomed across the crowd.
"By order of the city of Pittsburgh chief police, I hereby declare this to be an unlawful assembly."
A wave of panic rippled through the masses as the wall of police began to advance, seemingly from all sides at once.
"Move back!" they thundered, nightsticks in hand.
The crowd thinned as it was harried through a gap in the police line. The bold remainder found themselves in the middle of an adjacent street. Hemmed in on three sides by what looked like a force mobilized for war, our backs were pushed against a nearby park.
"We! The people! Have the right to assemble!" chanted the four dozen-strong unlawful gathering.
The stoic ranks began to close in, forcing us to jump over a row of hedges into the park. As we left the streetlights behind and found ourselves in darkness, the atmosphere quickly changed from one of caution to fear.
People scattered in all directions. The police had entered the park. They themselves marched with purpose, but in as many directions as the fleeing protesters. It was the kindergarten playground again; a big game of cops and robbers, but with higher stakes.
My friends and I, in an effort to stick together, eventually found ourselves trapped. A solid perimeter of stony-faced officers wordlessly encircled us. Fear melted into despair in some and impotent rage in others.
"We want to leave," said one OU student choking back tears. "Tell us where you want us to go!"
Another was on the phone with her father, breathlessly describing the situation.
From somewhere in the impenetrable night another squad of riot cops came charging into the clearing.
"Get on the ground! Hands out!"
We all quickly complied. As my arms were wrenched behind my back and fastened together, I craned my neck to check on my friends. The one on her phone was lying prone, but with the phone still clutched against her face, pleading for help. The armored men were shouting at her, and one began to choke her.
"Hey, get your hand off her neck! She's just on the phone with her dad!" I shouted.
My reward was a boot on the side of my face, forcing it into the earth.
"Keep your head down!"
It was this moment, the sensation of a hard leather boot sole against my face, and an imposing authority figure leaning onto it, that stuck in my head as we were hauled to our feet and whisked off to jail. The scene replayed as we sat out the night in handcuffs, as we emerged from the jail into a cold drizzly Saturday morning, and as we made the trip back to Athens. Five days later, and I'm continually drawn back to this episode. I find it impossible to focus; the other issues in my life pale in comparison.
How does it feel to be a terrorist? Apparently, like this.
Silence fell among the paddywagon occupants as a uniformed figure came into view through the metal grate at the rear.
"How does it feel to be a terrorist? Y'all have no rights now."
The "terrorists" had moments earlier been chanting slogans at a rally on the University of Pittsburgh campus. They were gassed, pepper-sprayed, choked and beaten as a result of their efforts.
I shifted uncomfortably in the plastic zip-ties wound around my wrists and thought of the comfort I had enjoyed only a few hours earlier. After a march to Pittsburgh's City County Building, myself and nine other OU students were eating dinner in the city's Oakland area. We decided to attend one last rally before we headed home.
We arrived 15 minutes before the rally was scheduled to begin, but from the law enforcement assembled you would have thought we missed the party. SWAT, National Guard, and K-9 units all served as window dressing to a small army of police clad in riot gear. There were hundreds of these already standing shoulder to shoulder around the perimeter of the area, and it was all I could do to watch in awe as busload upon busload arrived to thicken the ranks. As I surveyed the scattered clumps of protesters---many of them undoubtedly U of Pitt students out to witness the spectacle taking place on their front lawn---I found it impossible to understand what warranted a show of force that would have made bin Laden wet his pants. Authority outnumbered dissent 2-to-1.
We want you to know that this is a peaceful protest, said a fellow protester with a megaphone. I want you to know that I respect each and every one of you.
He got about as much response as if the wall he was talking to was made of bricks and not police.
Minutes later a much louder, amplified voice boomed across the crowd.
"By order of the city of Pittsburgh chief police, I hereby declare this to be an unlawful assembly."
A wave of panic rippled through the masses as the wall of police began to advance, seemingly from all sides at once.
"Move back!" they thundered, nightsticks in hand.
The crowd thinned as it was harried through a gap in the police line. The bold remainder found themselves in the middle of an adjacent street. Hemmed in on three sides by what looked like a force mobilized for war, our backs were pushed against a nearby park.
"We! The people! Have the right to assemble!" chanted the four dozen-strong unlawful gathering.
The stoic ranks began to close in, forcing us to jump over a row of hedges into the park. As we left the streetlights behind and found ourselves in darkness, the atmosphere quickly changed from one of caution to fear.
People scattered in all directions. The police had entered the park. They themselves marched with purpose, but in as many directions as the fleeing protesters. It was the kindergarten playground again; a big game of cops and robbers, but with higher stakes.
My friends and I, in an effort to stick together, eventually found ourselves trapped. A solid perimeter of stony-faced officers wordlessly encircled us. Fear melted into despair in some and impotent rage in others.
"We want to leave," said one OU student choking back tears. "Tell us where you want us to go!"
Another was on the phone with her father, breathlessly describing the situation.
From somewhere in the impenetrable night another squad of riot cops came charging into the clearing.
"Get on the ground! Hands out!"
We all quickly complied. As my arms were wrenched behind my back and fastened together, I craned my neck to check on my friends. The one on her phone was lying prone, but with the phone still clutched against her face, pleading for help. The armored men were shouting at her, and one began to choke her.
"Hey, get your hand off her neck! She's just on the phone with her dad!" I shouted.
My reward was a boot on the side of my face, forcing it into the earth.
"Keep your head down!"
It was this moment, the sensation of a hard leather boot sole against my face, and an imposing authority figure leaning onto it, that stuck in my head as we were hauled to our feet and whisked off to jail. The scene replayed as we sat out the night in handcuffs, as we emerged from the jail into a cold drizzly Saturday morning, and as we made the trip back to Athens. Five days later, and I'm continually drawn back to this episode. I find it impossible to focus; the other issues in my life pale in comparison.
How does it feel to be a terrorist? Apparently, like this.
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