Occupy Life

What is the Occupy Movement? What do they want?

Lots of people don’t get it. That’s understandable, because it’s decentralised and there is no identifiable and charismatic figurehead articulating the movement’s demands. And, really, that’s because it’s democratic: “of the people.” And the simple fact that there is no central figure to take down, as was the case with Julian Assange and WikiLeaks, means that it’s much more difficult for opposing interests to attack the movement.

The movement is based on principles of participation and self-expression. That’s why we see so many varied flavours of protest: corruption; human rights; poverty; education; healthcare, and so on. And that means that there is room for many thousands of people to get involved, in their own ways. It’s one of the reasons that the movement has become so big.

How do we synthesise all of that? Is it an anti-capitalist, quasi-communist movement?

No.

Capitalism is fine, as an idea.
Communism is fine, as an idea.

In practice, what scrambles it all up, and what this movement rallies against, is egoistic, greedy self-interest—the manipulation of political and economic systems, be they capitalist, communist, or whatever, and the ancillary structures that are meant to support them.

It is the immoral, unsympathetic self-interested attitude, so overtly expressed by intrusive and growth-driven corporate entities and weak governments, that ruins it for everyone.

In a word: “Corruption.” What is it that is corrupted? The system that pretends to offer growth, wealth and prosperity for us.

We have enough to feed, house and employ everyone in the world, right now.

That means that what is happening is THEFT.

Auckland, NZ

We are not against capitalism, and we are not in favour of communism. We are against greed, and selfishness, and corruption. We are in favour of justice, fairness and positive evolution.

You want to know what we want? You want to know what our demands are?

We demand nothing less than A BETTER WORLD, where EVERYONE is fed, housed and fairly employed, and a contributing member of a just and equal society.

We demand our right to such a world… because it ALREADY EXISTS. There is abundance everywhere… and it is being hoarded and squandered by a greedy minority of government-sanctioned thieves.

We make this demand peacefully. We shall not fight you with guns, nor swords, nor fists.

We shall fight you with words, and ideas, and reason. Our weapons are our Hearts; our Minds are our shields, and we shall wield them with mighty compassion and unwavering confidence.

We are Soldiers of Justice, and we shall march, and march, and march–not until we win, but until you finally see these truths, and you join us.

Join us.

occupychristchurch.org
occupynz.org
occupywallstreet.org
occupytogether.org

Word.

How Does It Feel To Burn?

I’m full. Overfull, in fact… I feel as if I contain every emotion that it’s possible to feel, all at the same time. I’ve spent a lot of the last day or so in a free hotel room, writing and journaling and moving with some concentration to make some kind of relative sense out of everything that’s happening, has happened, and is about to happen.

Fresh Air, Fresh Eyes

The other day I was out on-site for work with Matakana assisting Rusty, one of the scaffies, to erect an 18x8ft cantilever platform eight floors above 2nd Avenue. This involved jamming six uprights between the floor and ceiling in a rectangle, then attaching three diagonally placed supports out into open space, connecting them with horizontal bars, and then placing plywood & aluminIum decks between those horizontals, creating the platform. (We were, of course, tethered to the structure for the duration by lanyards that can take 5000 pounds of weight.)

Having erected the platform, we were up there zap-strapping some capture-netting to the handrails to finish things off, when Rusty turned and said to me, “by the way mate, I s’pose this is as good a time as any to tell ya: this is the first time I’ve done a cantilever platform, eh.” He then emphasized his smiling pride in his handiwork by stomping loudly a couple of times on the platform with both feet, eight floors above six lanes of fast-moving traffic, and punctuating this demonstration of self-belief by stating rhetorically, with a wide grin, “pretty good job though, eh?”

fff

Just before we’d suspended ourselves out there in the chill winter afternoon air, I had taken my wallet out of my back pocket so that I could put on my harness and lanyard. If I’d kept it in my pocket, there was a good chance I would have lost it to that six lanes of traffic. I swear to the world that I chucked it into my backpack, well inside the building, but bugger me six times sideways if it isn’t bloody there now. While I didn’t lose any cash or credit cards, that wallet did contain my NZ driver’s licence, my Canadian social insurance card, and my NZ and Canadian bank cards. More of a hindrance than a catastrophe; still a pain in ze azz. Last time I lost a wallet was about ten years ago, when it got stolen while in D.C.

Anyway, earlier today on Sunday afternoon, I pulled on my grey wool jacket and turned the collar up. I put some polypropylene leggings on under my jeans, and fired a new DJ mix across to my mp3 player. I laced up my shoes and locked the door behind me, setting off down West 1st avenue to Clark Drive, turning south in the direction of Vancouver Community College, back towards the site where I last saw my wallet.

I noticed something as I rounded to corner onto Clark Drive, and the tall glass and steel and concrete monoliths of Vancouver piled proudly on the landscape before me, mantled majestically by snow-smeared, cedar-dotted mountains just a few miles north—strong ramparts about the keep. As I looked up to the iconic East Van Cross standing in the bright, crisp slanted sunlight, and watched the breath condense before my face in the cool air while the sounds of Alex Levin’s smooth, deep breakbeat warmed my ears and stimulated my senses under my chunky headphones, I felt something new—Something fresh. I stalked with hunched shoulders across the Skytrain overpass as two Millennium Line trains crossed paths beneath me, and as the padded bass pumped confidently in my brain, the steel bars in the bridge sidings made the sunlight strobe judderingly over me at a low angle and a high frequency… and I noticed that I was smiling to myself. I noticed that I am feeling Good.

The East Van Cross

Good Grief

A man walks down the street, hands in his pockets. He is aware of all the other people, his brothers and sisters, sharing with him the pavement and the oxygen and the light. He recognises his connection to all things and people and animals and plants—his connection to the whole world.

He looks ahead, his eyes instinctively navigating the sidewalk, while his concentration is far away in space and time, thinking, sensing, analysing his own feelings and responses and comparing them to the responses and apparent feelings of others, seeing how they fit together and relate to each other. Slowly, he begins to find order in the apparent chaos. He finds many possibilities and probabilities, and allows them all to have validity. He also knows that none of them may end up as the reality, and none of the outcomes he predicts may come true at all, and he accepts that, too. He simply feels better about having given things some conscious attention.

He runs again through his shopping list to see if there is anything he may have forgotten. There is a momentary turn of fear in his belly as he imagines forgetting a key ingredient for tomorrow’s dinner. Then he reminds himself that if he forgets something, then he is creative enough to cover it up. In fact, it may just turn out to be an opportunity to create something new and interesting. He comforts himself by this coverage of all the possibilities.

He turns a corner onto a busier street with a wider sidewalk, and a strong wind catches his breath in his mouth, making him swallow. He thinks about things he has done in the past, and what he has learned from those experiences, and what he will do better in future. He thinks about neglected opportunities and poor choices, and he chides himself for his moments of meandering stupidity or laziness. Momentarily, he frowns at himself. On the street, perhaps someone sees him and wonders at the frown; perhaps not.

He remembers that his mistakes and neglected chances are not just his; they are everyone’s. The opportunities he misses to create and give something to the world are a net-loss. There is a pang of shame and guilt at this thought, and a resultant fear of future chances being missed due to his oversight, distraction or inaction. Really, he fears not having the courage to recognise good opportunities when they present themselves, and to act decisively upon them. This is a fear that dogs him, and has done for his whole life, despite that life being filled with many decisive actions and boundless creativity. And somehow he believes it is not enough; that he is not good enough. He feels as if he has lacked any solid direction, and even as he has done and seen and been part of many wonderous things, that he has not yet Mastered anything and created something Worthy of that. He demands more from himself, and steels his resolve to take more chances; to be alert to more opportunities; to give more to the world… and to feel worthy. Worthy of what? Worthy of love, of course. Worthy of recognition, and acceptance.

Fire and Ashes

[Written in Calgary, Canada; July 12, 2010]

“Yesterday is ashes. Tomorrow is green wood. Only today does the fire burn brightly.“
~ Esquimo Proverb

You gotta deconstruct, to reconstruct.

One year ago on this date, Theresa and I split up.

Since then, everything in my life seems to have come around to the opposite point in its cycle, if not having come a full cycle…

It’s summer instead of winter. I’m in the opposite hemisphere, about to (re)begin a relationship instead of ending one.

I’m a fresh and mature evolution of myself on many levels compared with this time last year.

The Wellington Kiss

I walk down Courtenay Place, and I can see everything. The contrast of colours and tones in the buildings and street markings; the garish, desperate shop window displays; and the sun bursting intermittently through muted gray clouds; all are sharp edges and clear spectra. Colours are saturated and vibrant; the movements of vehicles and people seem precise and certain. I am aware of every individual person ambling, charging, striding and waltzing along the pavement around me. Each one sticks out, unique, and I see all of them at the same time; all of them are in razor focus simultaneously.

I smell the diesel of passing busses and define it against the petrol of passing cars; I pick out the aroma of roasted and brewing espresso, and the fresh pulpy scent of new books in Whitcoulls. The whiff of baked pastry takes a seat on my tongue, contrasted against the must of wet leaves on wet concrete. The perfume of a woman strolling six meters away caresses my olfactory sense. I smell all of this simultaneously, and my brain hums and processes.

The fresh northerly breeze—the Wellington Kiss—chills my face and fingers as I hunch my shoulders under four layers of cotton and nylon. I swear I can perceive each molecule of air bounce off my skin as I walk along, dodging emo kids and manoeuvring around shoppers stuck inside their buying-bubbles, spending all their attention on what they’re about to spend all of their money on. The chill air cools my corneas, and I blink them warm again. My jeans rustle against my legs; my top rubs against my neck; and my tactile processing cortex extends itself confidently across all these sensations simultaneously.

I hear and understand every single sound around me. The conversation between the couple who walk in front of me; each vehicle in the traffic as it fits and starts; and the soft Kiss of the city whooshing quietly around my ears; each voice and noise is distinct and crystalline, and I hear it simultaneously.

Everything combines in a smooth synaesthesia of intimate awareness of this place, where I am here in time and space, right now. Everything is sharp with the awareness that after tomorrow, I may never see, hear, feel or taste this place again; that I may never walk along this busy street alongside all these people any more.

I am not sad. I am going to earnestly miss this place and these people—my people—and at the same time I am righteously happy about that. The knowledge that I will miss all these friends and family and strangers and places reminds me of how precious they are to me, and how much value I hold for them.

This is not a feeling like I want to hold on to this, like I’m trying to preserve all these senses like a snapshot in my mind and heart; this is a feeling like I am allowing this Time, this Moment, to permeate me and suffuse me and define me against it, even as it absorbs me into its throbbing, pulsing heart. The sensory input cannot overload me, because I allow it to flow through me from second to second. I pay all my attention in this present not to a moment in time, but to the passing of time and all these things through it.

The keen attention I am paying to Everything here reminds me of how much I love this place, and all of you. All of you whom I know to varying degrees of intimacy, and all of you in this city and this country whom I never have met, and never will; and yet who share this time and this place—this Motion and Movement—with me.

All of you.

Kiss kiss, Wellington.

Kiss Kiss, Wellington.