OCCUPIED UNION SQUARE, NY - Four NYC Parks Enforcement officers stand on the outskirts of the sidewalk as the low rhythm of hand drums blend with a smooth Jazz saxophone. The crowd, about 300 strong, is relaxed and chatting. It feels like the old days again. As I walk amongst the crowd, familiar faces and new smiles greet me and I decide to sit and chat.

The now infamous yellow Occupy Wall Street banner, designed to replicate caution tape hangs high and proud over a group of occupiers. Pillows, blankets, brothers and sisters converge under its framework. Telling stories of the long winter, countless hours spent laying the groundwork for what is set to be a monumental spring, our humble beginnings in lower Manhattan and how much farther we must travel on our journey. Food donations have already begun pouring in only reinforcing that feeling of nostalgia. The spirit of the Occupy Movement that seemed all but lost not long ago has burst back to life since the six-month anniversary and subsequent raid. It feels like coming home.

In speaking with some friends I learn that OWS has once again found ourselves a loophole. We are quite resourceful for “dirty hippies”. Our latest occupation, now in day three, is allowed to stay for some very interesting reasons. Union Square Park is patrolled by Park Rangers or Parks Enforcement Officers during hours of operation. This means the police have no jurisdiction over the park unless Park Rangers call them in to handle a situation AFTER the park closes at midnight. Ironically, the exterior of the park, where we have set up camp, is mandated to remain open 24 hours as a major subway station is located in the square. However, the NYPD can’t enforce anything other than open flame/noise violations or the congregation of more than 25 people having a single conversation (thank you NDAA ) because the Park Rangers go off duty at midnight. It’s almost poetic justice. As I continue to scan the perimeter I see a few “white shirts” and the occasional patrol officer but as before they remain removed. No barricades or wrist band clad monsters lurking, not a single mainstream media source in sight.

As the evening continued rather than the numbers dwindling, the crowd seemed to have increased, spreading itself out along the south side of the square, mindful to remain in small groups to protect the occupation. We played sports, sang, danced—spring training in full effect. Sidewalk chalk turned the once gray paving stones of Union Square into a canvas reminiscent of just a few days earlier in our “starter home” as remnants of the once sprawling OWS Library are set up on a staircase. Six months and two evictions later it seems we have a new place to call Occupied.

A relatively uneventful evening progressed at the new home of Occupy Wall Street and I decided it was time for me to depart. I had to work very early but promised friends, old and new, I would be back tomorrow. My faith in Occupy and my brothers and sisters continues to be renewed with each action I attend. As I sat down on the subway for my short trip back to Brooklyn a smile comes across my face. I take a huge bite from my fresh boston crème donut, courtesy of The Peoples Kitchen and hum to myself, “this occupation is not leaving!”

-Nicole Pace-

Editor’s note: The accuracy of this story and the credibility of the author has been challenged by multiple people involved with Occupy Tucson. After you read the story, make sure to also read the comments.

It has been a long strenuous battle for Occupy Tucson with the City of Tucson to establish a hub on public land in order to practice freedom of speech and assembly. What started off as a series of ticket writing sessions and named ticket time stacked up to over eight hundred tickets in a matter of three months, became an unquestionable win from a group of people that held strong to their rights and belief that one person can make a difference.

Occupy Tucson began as a handful of people (Sky Napier, Michael Migliore, Jon McLane, Craig Barber) developing a Facebook page and picking a place to host the first Occupy Tucson General Assembly. There were two General Assembly meetings, hosting over three hundred people combined, to decide to commence a twenty four hour on-going occupation (encampment) on Oct. 15th, 2011 at Armory Park. The first day at Armory Park there were over twelve hundred people that participated in the occupation. That evening the Chief of Police Villasenor went to Armory Park and let everyone in attendance know that they would be arrested if they were in the park after 10:30pm. Several left upon receiving that news. But, there were fifty individuals that decided to continue the encampment, and lined up to be arrested and released with a $1,000 citation.

On Oct. 28th, 2011 Occupy Tucson established 2 other occupation sites; Veinte De Agosto Park, and Joel Valdez Library Grounds. The encampment continued at Armory Park until Nov. 4th 2011, when the Tucson Police Department told Occupy Tucson that anyone or anything found in Armory or Library park would be arrested and detained. Upon receiving that news Occupy Tucson had Armory Park completely cleared and cleaned within two hours. The twenty four hour encampment continued, even under stressful situations, and continued to feed people by the thousands all while educating the community on the flaws in our system.

Occupy encampments were being shut down all over the United States, and Occupy Tucson was one of the only ones standing. Then came Dec. 21st, 2011, the day that T.P.D. finally said, “Anything or anyone found in any park after dark will be arrested.” The one-time working group of Occupy Tucson Occupy Public Land (OPL) saw the writing on the wall that this would happen, and even had a good line on Dec. 21st being the date. So, luckily for Occupy Tucson there was a back-up plan. OPL applied for a park permit on Dec. 9th, and researched the sidewalk laws as a back-up to that. OPL knew the permit would not go through in time so they set-up on the sidewalk outside of Veinte de Agosto Park on Dec. 15th, and were uninterrupted when the park was raided.

Occupy Tucson and Occupy Public Land continued to reside on the sidewalk outside of Veinte de Agosto Park for the next month and a half, until Feb. 2nd, 2012 when Occupy Tucson set-up tents and a full operating encampment on the sidewalk outside of De Anza Park. Occupy Tucson has held the longest ongoing encampment in the nation, and now is in a position that they can continue to deliver their message without the fear of having their rights violated.

Jon McLane

*On Feb. 5th, 2012 Occupy Public Land began working with #OccupyPhoenix in developing a strategy to recreate a twenty four hour encampment in the valley. The template has been created in Tucson, and the Phoenix Metro area is full of cities that have a lot of public land that can be occupied.

Editor’s note: This is the ninth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

Today was Monday, and I hit the plaza early and refreshed. As I passed the literature table, I met a middle-aged gentleman named James. He gave me a paper that announced a meeting before the city council on Wednesday. The meeting was about removing fluoride from the city water supply. He explained that fluoride accumulates in the pineal gland located between the lobes of the brain. Once there, it makes people complacent so they cannot think for themselves or form their own thoughts, especially when it comes to standing up to authorities or taking action. He claimed fluoride in the water dulls the thoughts and emotional processes. He said now that people are drinking more water without fluoride, people are starting to wake up. He struggled with the claim, and I told him I would look it up to get more information.

It turns out the pineal gland regulates the hormone melatonin, which is responsible for sleep and affects the aging process. Some studies show fluoride accumulates in the pineal gland, interferes with melatonin production, and accelerates aging. For example, it is widely claimed that the reason girls are entering puberty at such a young age these days is because of the accumulation of fluoride in the pineal gland. I couldn’t find much about fluoride making us more complacent, but if it prevents the formation of melatonin, which is the hormone that makes us sleep, and if we are tired all the time, maybe James is on to something. When I don’t sleep, the last thing I want to do is complain about anything except how tired I am.

After chatting with James, I stopped to talk to Sergio, whose socialist worker pin and pair of chopsticks poked in the side of his cap above his left ear caught my eye. I asked him if he was a Socialist, and he said he belonged to the Former Maoist International Movement. I asked why it was called the former movement and he said it was defunct, and he’s only met one other member who may be dead by now. Sergio said that he upholds the Cultural Revolution that occurred in China in the 60′s as how far society has progressed, and that society has not progressed at all since then. He said Chairman Mao did good things like bringing China together and giving women equal rights. He had a different spin on the “Free Tibet” movement. He claimed that women and children are slaves to the Monk’s patriarchal hierarchy and should thank Mao for liberating them, so Tibet should stay as it is, under China’s rule. He said just because a bunch of monks are running a country doesn’t mean they are good. Monk doesn’t mean good any more than the Taliban means good. I asked Sergio if the Cultural Revolution was hard on shopkeepers and businessmen and he said it was mostly hard on landowners and landlords. I asked if he would recommend a cultural revolution in the US. He says it’s inevitable due to the way resources are manipulated. But the time is not now for armed revolt because we would get crushed. He went on to say, “The white radicals from the 60′s and 70′s have faded away and now this is the time for young people to find their voice.” After doing a lot of research on the subjects we covered, I’m not so sure Sergio had all his facts straight, but he was nice enough to talk to me, and although it wasn’t like spotting Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster, he was the last remaining member of the Former Maoist International Movement.

After I shook Sergio’s hand and began wandering about, I saw a couple of older women digging through the sign tent, where the used signs are stored. One pulled out a sign that said “Eat the Rich,” and the other decided on a tattered sign that said “Occupy with Unconditional Love.” They were headed for the honk if yer horny line, so I ran to catch up with them. We chatted for a moment in the shade of a live oak tree that arched over the edge of the plaza. Their names were Joyce and Jane. Jane was 72 and Joyce was 78 1/2. They told me they drove all the way from Bartlett, which is way out in the country about an hour north of Austin. Jane said she came to the protest before, because she believes everyone should have a chance to share in the wealth. She said they are going through rough times because of the drought as she has a farm and Joyce lives on a ranch. But they know many folks are having a tougher time of it right now, so they formed a non-profit organization called, “Food for Friends,” to help out. They started feeding just a handful of folks in their little area last year and now they feed over 120 people. They get donations by word of mouth. Jane said everything in our economy is lopsided and she is for occupying everywhere. She said the previous weekend she was in San Antonio to support Occupy San Antonio and Indigenous Day, which she hopes one day will replace Columbus Day. She says we are all suffering needlessly and all the money going to corporations for war and bailouts has prevented any positive social change.

Joyce said 2 1/2 years ago, she and another friend, who is 87, went out into the countryside and were shocked at what is happening to people who spent their entire lives taking care of others or working in the fields. These people have little or no savings because they were paid in cash for 50 years or more. Minimum wage was non-existent when they were young. Joyce said the number of homes she and her friend visited with no electricity or running water was appalling. This is less than 100 miles from Austin, by the way, not in a third world country. She said, “These poor people were already mired in poverty but were getting by with help of extended family members until the economy went south, and now they are in dire straits.” So Joyce and Jane cook from scratch and deliver over 100 meals every Friday. They also deliver to Vietnam vets who have a whole other set of problems, including mental illness. Some of the vets haven’t signed anything since they were drafted, and have a deep mistrust for the government and anyone else for that matter. But the problem is not they refuse to get help, it’s the help they need is not there for them even if they wanted it.

One day, a man who has a business in Central Texas heard about Jane and Joyce and came by asking if he could help cook and deliver. About a week later he called Joyce and told her he would build her a brand new kitchen, which he did. She said, “I am very thankful for that, but it does not stop the injustice I see every day. When David Dewhurst gets on the TV and says Texas has the finest healthcare system, I say go to Salt Lake, the little section of town I serve, and take a look if you want to see Texas’ fine healthcare system at work.” Jane and Joyce also offer clothes, toothpaste and other things folks need. The recipients don’t have to sign anything and there are no questions asked. In fact, Joyce said, “If somebody is an alcoholic or on dope, we don’t care-they need a meal just like everyone else.”

Joyce had ankle supports on both her ankles and the two women helped each other over the limestone rocks by the sidewalk, that are difficult for even a young man to navigate, and stood in the honk if yer horny line for the next two hours until someone gave them a chair, and they remained for another two hours or more. These two women spend all week working for the poor and still have time to come out and make their voice known and show the world and our country that we must change to survive. They also believe we can no longer give all our resources to gamblers and thieves who are giving us the finger and laughing at us right now with the help of people so cruel, you can’t believe they are Americans. And right now, many of those people are trolling the Occupy Facebook pages and websites or driving by our protests just to call us names, mock us and waste our time. But Joyce and Jane hold on and help where they can despite being mocked, harassed and degraded by the right-wing fascist filth.

-Jim Gober-

Editor’s note: This is the eighth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

It was Sunday, and I awoke to the news that on the previous day, hundreds of thousands of people had marched for the occupation in cities all over the world, and although 3000 to 5000 people marched in Austin, the local newspaper, The Austin American Statesman, covered it as if it was a minor car accident on the Travis County line. But we knew better because we were there.

Later in the day, The Austin American Statesman offered a few photographs on their website, and they were tastefully done. There was a picture of two children in a wagon holding balloons while being pulled through the Austin protest, which at least helped our image a bit. They were not like pictures from other news organizations cherry-picked to show the most downtrodden or bizarre characters because they think Americans will laugh or make fun of us. Fox News and a handful of other conservative news sites are doing their best to make us look like outlaws, but as anyone can see from looking at pictures of us from all over the country, we are all, simply and beautifully, Americans.

But the day before, the day of the mighty march, I was dressed loudly as possible and ready to go at the designated time. You are supposed to be colorful when you attend a peaceful protest. It helps lighten the mood, puts people at ease and hopefully, they’ll join us. If we all wore black, covered our faces and carried hammers, something tells me the mood would go sour rather quickly. I brought my tambourine, plenty of water, wore my favorite Grateful Dead tie dye given to me by my friend Erica, and a big hat. The crowd got mobilized in the plaza at 11:30 am sharp.

Our first stop was Chase Bank where a few protesters went in to close their accounts and move their money to local credit unions. On Friday, in New York, 30 protesters were allegedly arrested for trying to close their Citibank accounts. That’s right. Citibank, the company that used Robert Rubin to lobby President Clinton to implement the very tactics that brought down the economy, and took in almost 2 trillion dollars in bailout money, is now having people arrested for trying to flee from them with a few thousand dollars of their own money.

We made a lot of noise during the march. I gave a fiery speech on the corner where Chase Bank sits. In a booming angry voice, I shouted, “Look at the protection Chase now gets. Just look at all the police standing by the doors. This is after Chase and other New York banks stole trillions from you and brought down our economy. Where was our protection when Clinton, Bush and Obama opened the safe and dished out your money to them, and now these same banks want to kick you out of your home before they’ll lower your mortgage rates while they get their gambling money free? Now look at these fascist pigs standing behind me ready to throw you in jail because you are angry that you can’t pay your bills because of what these people have done to you. These pigs are protecting the fascist scum that is destroying our world. Who is protecting us now? Nobody! This is what fascism looks like! This is what a police state looks like!”

The crowd flowed around me like I was a rock in the middle of a fast-moving stream. Cameras and microphones came and went. I was giving the battle call to the troops as the cacophony and immensity of the protest swelled. I jumped back into the crowd and made it to another vantage point atop a planter box of some sort. “And for all the soldiers who are overseas giving their arms and legs for our country and even their lives, they aren’t fighting for you, they are fighting to keep the fascist war machine in power and keep you impoverished while your money is taken from schools, bridges and healthcare. This is what fascism looks like! Don’t be stupid! Join us! Join us!” I shouted at the gawkers on the other side of the street.

I hopped from one location to another and repeated variations of the speeches very loudly. By now I was losing my voice, but I managed to yell at an older man with his arms folded as he stood with a larger group of stalled pedestrians, “Folding your arms won’t protect you when freedom comes, because this is what America looks like-this is what democracy looks like-it does not look like the America the fascists are trying to paint for you. You’ve been living a lie. We are fighting for the America the fascists have promised you and never delivered! We are fighting for the small businessman, the house, yard, 2 kids and a dog, not for an America littered with the broken bodies of the fascist war machine!” That was a good one; I had to admit to myself. I was alive, liberated and in the mix. I didn’t feel the jackboot of oppression on my lifestyle or my political beliefs. It was all lifted away and carried over the tops of the buildings along with chants of “We are the 99%” and “You are the 99%” and “This is what Democracy Looks Like!” Occupy Austin had reached the peak of its power.

So, it goes without saying, everyone was exhausted when we got back to the plaza, but spirits were high. There were awesome fiery rallying speeches by the organizers, as they stood on the rocks near the sidewalk on the south side of the plaza, and the honk if yer horny line was in full bloom. Then, an angry young man arrested a few nights before during the power wash, who was now exiled to the sidewalk, was given the microphone. As he faced the crowd, he loudly complained about the police presence, even though the police could have cracked any of us over the head any second during the march, especially me, who was obviously antagonizing them the entire time. Then this odious jerk demanded we call out Joshua, the guy with the dreadlocks, who has worked his ass off for this campaign, because it was Joshua’s PA and Joshua had told the jerk he couldn’t use the PA to be an asshole to the police, although that was exactly what the jerk was doing.

When the idiot finally got off Joshua’s PA system, Joshua was standing near and the scene was like a high school fight about to happen with the dickhead’s few supporters standing near him, and Joshua’s supporters rallying around him. They included a babbling man with an Italian accent talking very close to Joshua’s face, as European’s often do when arguing politics, but the withering effect it was having on Joshua was obvious. There were a few other folks I haven’t seen hanging around, and me, standing between Joshua and the dickhead. The heat was oppressive. The small crowd gathering around the two was animated, standing very close together and highly agitated. Our most victorious day was being tainted by this sorry pitiful angry jerk, with so many ripe whiteheads decorating his face you has to stand back 3 paces just in case one went off, who really had one issue: he was angry he now had a jail record for standing in the way of a power washing machine, and we couldn’t do anything about it.

Joshua was nervous and had crumpled his empty water bottle to the point it looked like old chewing gum. I took it from him, threw it away, then found some fresh water and handed it to him. He was looking perturbed and of course, exhausted. I talked to the dickhead and asked him why he doesn’t channel his energy in the right direction, and then it occurred to me, he didn’t even know what that direction was. He was literally too stupid to know why we were even there. He was just a hothead with a lot of rage who probably would have been better off cooling his heels in jail for a few days and leaving us alone. I really hated that guy. It was then I saw my beautiful occupation movement had an ugly side, just like everything else in America, and just like everything in life, I suppose. A few cops, one with a bandage carefully taped over 5 or 6 bloody stitches above his left eye walked over and stood beside the dickhead to monitor the situation.

Then I talked to a young man named Alan standing near Joshua who appeared to have a grievance for Joshua. I decided to draw fire for the beleaguered Joshua who was melting in the heat and frustration of the moment. Alan said the community organizers, on the minority dominated east side of town, are saying their constituents are not comfortable coming to the rally because of the police presence. He went on to say the rally organizers, like Joshua, by coddling the police, are keeping some people away, the very people who are the most affected in our economy. I reminded Alan that Joshua was working hard and this isn’t a movement about us against each other, it is us against the past. The angry tones must go, we must forget about our differences and chill out so we can move forward. And there was no reason the minorities he spoke of couldn’t come to the plaza. Indeed, half our group’s spokespeople, or magnets as they are called, or of some minority group or another. I reiterated to Alan that most people in today’s America are so used to arguing and not listening they can’t get their head around how the democratic process is supposed to work. And then you’ve got a group of people with trillions of dollars that want us to go the hell away and make sure the system won’t work for us even if we did understand it. Alan agreed, and since things seemed to be cooling off, we shook hands and I moved along, spending the rest of the day and much of the evening drinking in the excitement and exhilaration of Occupy Austin’s crowning achievement: Our glorious and beautiful mighty march.

Late that night, while sitting on a polished piece of granite waiting for Father Time to deliver me a bus at Congress Avenue and Cesar Chavez, I felt myself becoming urban and gritty after spending so much time in the plaza with my comrades. Glaring out into the night, I imagined myself as a gargoyle sitting on a high ledge staring over the same sooty grey buildings for 100 years. I looked around to see what a gargoyle might see from his perch far above the city, although I was grounded by fate and the need for transportation. I looked toward the third floor of the Radisson Hotel and there was a couple getting it on with the curtains wide open. The room was directly over the intersection where the entire world could easily see them. She was on top for a while, then he was, and after a few minutes there was a spectacular missionary finish with all the bells and whistles and legs high in the air. After the show, he stood up, moved into the light of the room, and hastily put on his clothes. He stood near the door and talked for a moment while she sat cross-legged on the bed. Then he turned and abruptly left, his presence replaced with the impressive wooden door. The door was bare except for the oversized key card reader and the “Do Not Disturb” sign still hanging on the inside latch. She remained sitting on the bed with her legs crossed, and began pulling hairpins from her mouth as she put her hairdo back together from memory.

Editor’s note: This is the seventh in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

After writing most of the day, I left the house in the late afternoon. As I was locking my front door, I glanced over and saw my neighbor, Margret Hofman sitting in her driveway. She is known as Austin’s Original Tree Lady, because of her life-long work for Austin environmental concerns, especially when it comes to trees and tree planting. She is instrumental in implementing the city’s first tree preservation rules and created a registry of Austin’s largest trees. She served on the Austin city council in the 1970′s. Although wheelchair-bound and nearly 90, she is still very interested in what is happening beyond the confines of her home, including the Occupation, of which I am keeping her updated.

Margret Hofman, Austin's "Tree Lady" Photo: Jim Gober

She waived me over, and when I told her where I was going, she asked me to check on what the protesters call “The Island” but is actually her namesake park, a small triangle-shaped grove of oak trees and landscaping with a large rock in the middle located across Cesar Chavez from City Hall. It was officially named the “Margret Hofman Oaks Park” less than a year ago to commemorate her work. The island is where most people congregated the night the plaza was power-washed and the arrests were made because a few people refused to move out of the way of the power-washers. It is also a place for the cops as well as the protesters to cool off under the impressive oaks. Margret was concerned it was being trampled by the cops and protesters. I told her I would check on it as soon as I arrived. And of course, it was the first thing I did, and everything was in good shape. The plaque with her picture and information was perfectly positioned on the biggest rock so the golden setting sun would highlight it every day.

While I was there, I noticed a lady standing alone on another rock holding a protest sign. Her name was Carmen. She was born in Puerto Rico, moved to Spanish Harlem, and then moved to Tacoma, Washington. She said the green lands in Washington were so beautiful and a shock after living in the concrete canyons of New York, and she fell in love with the natural spirit that is Mother Earth. At 20 years old, Carmen hopped on a plane and turned 21 on a beach in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico where she lived for several years. It was there she questioned integrity, common sense and humanity. She believes common sense is stolen from Americans at an early age by our standardized educational system and rigid conformity to useless, degrading and dehumanizing social mores. She sees a society that is so jaded and citified that people don’t even know they are in a daze. It frightens her to see humanity this way-so disconnected from each other.

Carmen was out of the country while the cell phone and PC culture hit in the 90′s and was shocked when she returned because of the human isolation, commercialization and “not one authentic thing coming from anyone.” It is the dehumanization that is going on and how we’ve become incapable of feeling for each other that disturbs her most. She said, “If we don’t have a heart, how do we care for each other?” Carmen went on, “Information is great, but it is only healthy if we can process it and who today can process all this information and still have time to care for humanity? If you have too much incoming information your mind goes mad. That is why we have dissent and stress. The corporations that constantly push out all this worthless information are the root of all this stress.” Carmen said she spends a lot of time in her apartment, or “The Grotto,” as she calls it, and as long as there is food there she can stay safe and happy. And I was guessing she was in her late sixties, but had the skin of a 25 year old. Her beauty glowed from within. A beauty built on a lifetime of awareness and a desire to help others, not a lifetime built on bullying other people, deriding those who she perceived were inferior or having her face stuck into an iPhone or a TV.

After we chatted for a while longer, I walked across the street to the plaza and met Larry. Larry is holding a silent vigil about 150 feet down the street from the honk if yer horny line. He is in his 50′s and after noticing him there every day, I decided to see exactly what he was up to. His sign is kind of hard to understand but the number $40,000,000 is fairly easy to see. So I asked for an interview. Larry is a veteran who had a tough life after the Vietnam War. He found God one day in church with the help of a lady he met a few years back. He prayed that day God would help him build a place for homeless veterans, with hot showers, meals and recreation areas. God also told him it would cost around 40 million dollars to build his dream, and that is what he is asking for by patiently holding his sign, praying and hoping. When Larry left church the day he found God, he looked on the ground and found a 20 dollar bill and thought it was surely a sign; the beginning of his journey. And he’s been on that path every since.

So there Larry stands every day, in the same place he will stand long after the occupation is gone, because he wants to open his heart and help someone else. Although he has nothing of material value, Larry is still trying to get something for his brothers and sisters who suffer so badly. Larry has emphysema, COPD and peripheral artery disease, but is confidant God will grace him with the money he needs for his mission before he dies.

At the end of the day, I looked toward the corner for Larry. He was sitting patiently on the short stone wall that lines the sidewalk, partially hidden in some native grasses under a small oak tree. He was barely visible in the faltering light of the evening, but I could make out his silvery short beard, his sunburned face and clean red button-up shirt. He stared straight ahead into the passing traffic as he could plainly see the clear-cut path to his destiny. His shoulders were erect as any soldier, but even from that distance you could see the exhaustion from pursuing his mission for his brothers and sisters on the hot pavement the entire day. A car, pedestrian or chatty young idealist on the way to the plaza passed him by. Then another, and another and Larry faded into the blue-gray ether of the evening until he was no longer visible from where I was standing.

I chatted with Gabe, who was in his early 20′s, and has a good job as a draftsman. He came out to make his voice heard because he doesn’t want his future consumed with corporate greed at the expense of everyone else. He had everything going for him: a job, good looks, and a heart. He was hardly the bum or wacko the corporate press is trying to make us all out to be. And he had a good point when he said politicians running for office now don’t need millions from corporations, they have a free social network to exploit. They don’t even have to go door to door anymore.

I talked to Zach, who has a PhD in Mathematics and is a teacher at the University. He was discouraged the best mathematical minds are not used to solve societal problems, but are instead hired by money managers and banks to figure out ways to screw people when they invest in the stock market. He was also dismayed that math is not taught as a theoretical problem-solving technique but rather as a series of standard problems, such as 2+2 =4, and if you get it right on the test, you don’t have to worry about math again the rest of your life. He said students aren’t being taught to think, they are being taught to follow.

Then there was a general meeting and time for speeches. I signed up for a short speech by talking to Kevin, a young man in charge of the speech queue, or stack, as it is known throughout the movement. There were quite of few of us gathered around to listen to the speeches and when my time came up I was nervous but grabbed the mike. Here it was:

“I just wanted to mention my neighbor, Margret Hofman. Now Margret came over from Germany after WWII where her Jewish mother died in a concentration camp. Margret was also in Dresden when the allies bombed it and even by a small count over 100,000 people were killed. So Margret knows a little about fascism and Margret knows a little about war, and Margret hates fascism and Margret hates war. And if she could, she would be right here with us right now.

But I wanted to tell you this: The little island across the street is named after her. Margret Hofman was a city councilwoman who was very important in creating the tree-loving environment we enjoy in Austin today. So when you look around, take a look at what Margret has done over the years with her activism and letter-writing campaigns and how even one person who is dedicated enough to a cause can make a difference. If you go over to the island and look at the big rock you will see a picture of her and a little information about Margret. The park is formally named Margret Hofman Oaks.

I just wanted to tell everyone to appreciate what Margret has given to us and let everyone know a little something about the place we call, “The Island.” Before I left today to come to the plaza, I told her I would check on her park and make sure it was OK. And if it wasn’t for that island, the police would have had everyone standing in the street the other night when they came to power wash the plaza. So I just wanted to say thank you Margret, and before I close, could I get a big hand for Margret and all she has done for us and this beautiful city?”

Everyone clapped and cheered and some yelled, “Thank you Margret!” And for the first time I got plenty of the good kind of sparkle fingers before I stepped down. I had just given a perfect speech. It was completely unrehearsed or thought about beforehand. I got up there simply because I loved someone who loved the whole world. A world that tried to destroy her time and again. But somehow, tonight, all of our hearts-Margret’s, mine and everyone’s at Occupy-for a perfect shining moment-had melded into one.

Although it was after midnight when I got home, I could see a dim blotch of light shining through Margret’s antique living room curtains. I gently tapped on the front window. The home healthcare lady that stays with her answered the door and there was Margret, wide awake in her rented hospital bed facing the door so she can see the sunrise every day. I told her everything at her little park was OK and that I gave a little speech about it and had recorded it for her.

As I played it she closed her eyes and listened to me speak as if she was listening to an orchestra inside the most beautiful concert hall in Europe, before the angst, destruction and terror of war and fascism had stolen her mother and engulfed her young and precious life. When it got to the part in the speech where I asked for the applause, Margret noticed it was loud and quite impressive. She opened her eyes and got the attention of her day-sitter who was ignoring the entire scene with her head buried in a newspaper. When the day-sitter looked up, Margret said with a smile, “Do you hear that? They are applauding for me.”

The above was written in October 2011 and just last week Margret took her last three breaths and passed into the garden. Today, I planted a small oak tree she had nurtured in a flower pot on her back stoop. Three weeks ago, Larry had emergency heart bypass surgery. Yesterday, I saw him standing on the corner by the deserted Occupy encampment which lies across the street from Margret’s park. His left hand was holding a wooden pole on which a huge American flag was mounted. It flapped unceremoniously in the chilly February breeze. In the other hand was his sign with the $40,000,000 still clearly visible. The traffic roared by.

Editor’s note: This is the sixth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

Before I made it to the occupied plaza today, I had to wait for the bus as usual, and was entertained by an older man with a horrible limp who hobbled up to a pay phone situated between the two bus benches. It was one of those newer types that sits on a pole about 4 feet high. After he used it, he managed to make it over to my bench and sit down beside me. I looked closer at the pay phone and the price was 50 cents per call. And apparently you could call Mexico too. Although I couldn’t understand the writing on the little sun-bleached sign above the receiver, I could make out a beach scene crowned with a palm tree and a benevolent smiling sun reminiscent of Mexico’s golden days. It was scribbled over with gang graffiti.

I asked the man who sat beside me if the phone worked. He said it had a dial tone, but the number 3 was out and it took his 50 cents anyway. I mentioned how you don’t see many pay phones anymore. He said that’s what always happens before they invade-they take out all the pay phones-and he’s seen it happen plenty of times such as in Panama, Cuba, and then he started mumbling and I couldn’t get the full list. So I asked him who was going to invade and he said, “The Obamabush aliens.” He then announced they want to take over and bust your head if you don’t give them what they want, and they want your house and your money.

Now the similarity between what this poor old man, wracked with schizophrenia, was saying and what I say, when I am talking about the fascists, was not lost on me. But is it because our political situation in this country was so crazy and out of control that even the most severe of schizophrenics could smell it, or was I just another kook with something/nothing to say? All this had to be called into question. Was I crazy for believing big money from corporations and wealthy individuals had corrupted our government to the point they would take our homes and money to serve an ambitious agenda? But then again, isn’t that what they’ve been doing for years? I settled on the fact the whole country is collectively mentally ill. It’s out of control, neurotic, schizoid, over-medicated and brainwashed. Wherever I fit in, that is where I sit-in this crazy fucked-up place called the United States, still advertised as the best country in the world to live, by the fascists, of course, every time you complain about it in front of them.

It was obvious this guy, with one tooth, nowhere to go and now no way to make a phone call needed help. But that help was done away with in the 1980’s under the Father of Modern American Fascism, Ronald Reagan, and it’s never coming back. But schizophrenics, like this gentleman, have the power to see the world in its purest sense, without the numerous filters “normal” people paste over the truth to avoid pain and anger. That’s why political or social arguments coming from people like this man have a frightening ring of truth, because, although the presentation is lacking, they offer some insight into the real state of affairs without being tainted by the fascist controlled corporate propaganda machine. For example, it can be said that every sensible argument for positive change in this country made in the last 25 years has been discredited by powerful people who, through the use of the corporate media, make you believe you are crazy for going along with any solution that doesn’t include transferring more power to the fascists. Think climate change, the Iraq war and bank bailouts.

So here is this “crazy” gentleman, all alone with his thoughts of an impending invasion of the Obamabush aliens as he watches the pay phones disappear. But is he crazy? I thought of an album by singer Jeffrey Lewis entitled, “It’s the Ones Who’ve Cracked That the Light Shines Through.” Oddly, now that my bus stop brethren had brought it up, the disappearance of communication lines that cannot be switched off instantly or easily monitored by the government, the proliferation of cell phones, which hold our entire life history within them, and the increased control of one political party on all levels of government, is unsettling when looked at it as a whole. As I got on the bus and paid my fare with the last dollar in my pocket, I looked back and there he sat, ripped off for his last 50 cents, after a simple device he expected to work stole his money. The parallel with what is happening in America cannot be denied. You put your life, time, money and energy into this country expecting it to work like it always has, and the fascists steal it all. Meanwhile, the opportunities once available to everyone if you work hard and sacrifice are disappearing before our eyes. Where did they go? They were stolen by the Obamabush aliens.

I made it to the plaza just before sunset, and there wasn’t much going on, so I sat down to write about the scene and it wasn’t long before a very nervous woman took to the microphone and asked for supporters in the planning commission meeting being held in the city hall. She was trying to save a beautiful pecan tree from a developer who wanted to do what developers love to do to trees. You know trees-those stubborn things that keep you from dying in the Austin summer heat if you are not bathing in the luxury of a high-dollar condominium. There was some chaos as a motion had to be called by the occupiers and volunteers chosen to go. I was chosen, but since it wasn’t going to start for a while, I did other things to keep busy. I passed out food, picked up trash, straightened out some stuff and held up a sign for the passing cars until my arms got tired. I noticed Ron Paul supporters were coming into the scene. Even though Occupy Austin is a non-political movement, we needed bodies today, so nobody said anything. My favorite sign today was “TV News is FUBAR” which means, “Fucked up beyond all recognition.”

An elderly couple pulled up to the curb and hastily dropped off two boxes of fruit. There were lots of bananas and some huge apples. I carried it to the food station, took the wrapper off everything and handed a banana to a man named Bert. I made a lewd comment about the banana, which caused him to emit a nervous laugh. Then I asked Bert to tell me his story. Bert is a 64 year old homeless man sleeping every night in the plaza. He is retired and on disability. He claims the system is broken and that is why he is there. Bert gets enough disability to have money in his pocket or a home-but not both. He said he’s been homeless for a long time. Bert went on to say, “When I was younger, I was in Vietnam, I was a Navy Medic. After the service, I owned my own landscaping business but can no longer do that kind of work. I thought I had enough saved to retire but couldn’t keep health insurance. Medical bills piled up and I had to sell my home. I am on Medicaid and get $687 a month. I’m on a housing list but that is a 5 year wait. I take my showers at Barton Springs during the free swim time at 6-9 in the morning. I don’t stay in shelters because they are dirty and people are on top of each other. But I don’t think I am different than anyone else. As long as we all stick together we can make a change for the better.” I liked Bert. He was neat and clean, used a cane to walk and complained that sleeping on the plaza cement was giving his hips plenty of problems. But he was cool and happy to be with us. I had a feeling it had been a long time since he was surrounded by this much love. I offered a hug and he eagerly accepted.

Another great sign today: Real Eyes Realize Real Lies.

“Join us! Join us! Join us! Join us! Join us!” They chanted over and over in the honk-if-yer-horny line. I stood there again with my sign and watched the faces of the passers-by in their comfortable cars. The furiousness and hatred plastered across some of their faces was unsettling. How were we hurting them? I wondered. Why would they hate us so? Some didn’t even notice we were there, but most honked, waived or pumped their fist in support of Occupy Austin.

I thought about how in any war, you have your warriors and those that stay home and pray for victory, and we have our share of both. But in this war, you don’t see cheesy “pray for our troops” spam on Facebook or preachers telling their congregations to pray for us or little yellow ribbons around an oak tree, even though we are fighting for America too. And ironically, it’s the ideal America where everyone has a house, a job, 2 kids and a dog we are fighting for-the one the fascist right is always dangling in your face so you will vote for their ilk. But they never deliver. Never. The America our soldiers are fighting for overseas is an America taken over by the industrial-military complex that sucks up every penny that should be used for housing, healthcare and job creation. Those soldiers are fighting for an America that feeds on human blood, arms and legs and the suffering of others. Who in their right mind would pray for that? Well, just go to church or get on any social network and take a look. It seems like everybody is-and you thought the guy back at the bus stop was crazy. We are just fighting so Americans can live in peace.

Eventually, it was time for the meeting about the tree, so I went into the civic center and signed up to speak, but got cold feet because it wasn’t really an emotional issue as much as a technical one, and I was going to look the fool trying to talk about the technicalities of this potential building permit and a tree I never saw. But I hung around for moral support. And guess what? The planning commission denied the request for the developer to cut down the tree.

As I left the plaza and meandered through the sign-waivers and horn-honkers and animated speakers, I was happy. I looked over Austin’s lush green hills and felt all the trees were happy too because one of them had been saved from the fascist jerks that don’t give a shit about anything beautiful or kind unless they own it. I thought how happy we would all be if we worked harder to save people we will never know from the pain of losing their home, from not having affordable healthcare and from the life and soul-destroying war machine. Then I thought how mankind-now at the absolute peak of its existence, has decided the few, who are just like us, somehow have the right to more than the many, whose only mistake is they trusted the few.

This is the fifth in a series of excerpts from Jim Gober’s book titled “Deep in the Heart of Occupy Austin.” A new excerpt will be published at OccupiedStories.com every Wednesday, so come back next week to follow Jim though the evolution of Occupy Austin.

“Beauty awakens the soul to act” -Dante

It was Monday, Columbus Day, and I hitched a ride to Occupy from my neighbor who was heading downtown. I quickly found myself at 2nd and Congress and walked the few blocks to the plaza. There is really no reason for me to stay every night on the plaza like some of the occupiers. I live 20 blocks away and spent the better part of 2001 living in a tent with no electricity or running water, and 1989-91 running the streets of Austin and San Francisco, so I’ve made my sacrifice to the gods of homelessness. These folks at the plaza got it made. Food and water is being delivered non-stop due to a healthy stream of donations, and they have toilets and running water. They can brush their teeth 10 times a day if they like, and don’t have to cook and eat with filthy hands. And hard-core drugs like heroin, crack or meth are readily available, which is really bad news for Occupy Austin, but when you roll out the welcome mat…

The thick clouds left over from the weekend storms were beginning to clear as I approached the plaza. I was surprised to see only 100 people or so there, and most were in a large circle doing yoga. The speakers were playing a recording of yoga sounds over the PA that went,”Ohmmmmmmmm, ohmmmmmmm,” and the vibe was most excellent. Everyone was very still, evenly spaced and casting long shadows on the plaza in the hazy golden Indian summer sun that was breaking through the clouds. The yogis looked like monoliths planted years ago by an ancient and mystical religion. I took off my backpack and sat down next to a garbage can adorned with a recycled protest sign that read, “Recycle Here.” I got into my yoga pose, following the lead of the yoga leader, who, according to his demeanor, was well into yoga land. Then I looked up and noticed the clouds had completely blown away, leaving a brilliant blue rain-washed sky. It was the kind of sky I had not seen in months of dusty drought. I could see a sparkling white airliner blazing toward the sunset 35,000 feet in the air. At a lower altitude, a small private plane hummed. Then beneath that a helicopter chopped by and then a flurry of white-winged doves-which are everywhere in Austin-flew over the treetops.

Was this a metaphor for how far we are willing to go with our movement? Are we going to soar with the highest jet airliner? Or will we just simply flutter above the treetops? Or maybe I was looking at the different levels of consciousness and understanding that only comes through meditation and peace? Who knows? But one thing I know for sure is that was one sparkling blue and pretty sky and I was optimistic as ever. A fire truck came by along with a police car and all the honking and sirens failed to dislodge the ohhmmmmers, but I found it hard to concentrate on my own ohm, and since I am a writer, this was not the time to gaze inward, so I started poking around for a story.

I noticed the plaza was straightened up and was beginning to look like a place we could stay long-term without sitting in something gross. Things were arranged neatly. There was even a big “Do Not Litter” sign posted. A sign by the restroom asked people not to write on the walls, because someone went into the most awesome restrooms you could ever ask for at a protest and scribbled anarchy stuff. Was it an agent provocateur? Maybe. Was it an asshole? Bingo.

Then there was some excitement as the bulk of the protesters were returning from a protest march on Christopher Columbus Street (which I couldn’t find on the Google map) and I didn’t understand the reason, so I didn’t go, even though it was Columbus Day, and I think it had to do with Indians. But Anglo-Europeans protesting against Columbus for the Indians seemed lame. What happened 600 years ago stays 600 years ago, if you ask me. My name ain’t on that one. I live in the now and now we have problems we have to solve now. When the marchers poured back into the plaza, everyone was in high spirits and blowing on flutes, banging drums and chanting things like, “Power to the family,” which I never heard before, but it sounded gay, so I was down with it. Some of the bigger marchers were sweating a lot and needed water. All the new racket was annoying the yoga people for a minute or two until the yogis got their ohmmmmmmm back and everything settled down a bit.

I changed my mind and decided to really participate in the yoga scene, just so I could take in more of this beautiful sight. I watched some of the young hippie girls looking so awesome in their beautiful natural selves. No makeup, no trashy high heels, nothing making them look like prostitutes, even though they were showing plenty of skin. Their hair is naturally sun-bleached, curly or straight. Their tan is not sprayed on, and they are just dealing with what their maker gave them instead of trying to cover it up with handfuls of chemicals or worse. As we all know, we live in a society that tells women of all ages they are ugly unless they do something-anything-to hide their real selves. Could it be by the time some of them are adults, they don’t know who they are anymore? Is that why so many young women are so insecure they’re ready to claw each other’s eyes out any second? Who knows? But all you had to do this afternoon was look at the young woman meditating by the yoga master in her tattered homemade dress as she captured the last rays of the day along with the essence of all creation. Her eyes were closed, and she held her hand over her heart as if she had discovered something breathtakingly beautiful and pure. I held my hand over my heart too, but just to be sure it was still beating.

Then I saw a guy I started calling “Ask Me” wandering around the plaza. He wore a little yellow sign on his shirt that said “Ask Me,” so at first I thought he must be there as an information source. But all he did was walk around and aggressively ask people for change and cigarettes. He was heading for me, so I got up and started looking busy, as I was out of both. About then, the yogis gave out three long ahhhhhhhhssss, which are much different from ohmmmmmmmms, and the yoga part was over-for now. A Mexican kid sat down beside me with a sign that said “Columbus-destroying our home since 1492.” Of all the people who had a genuine gripe about European “Explorers,” his was probably the most authentic. After all, Mexico has seen its share of marauding invaders over the years and all the goodies they brought along with them such as smallpox, cholera and the plague. Of course, Mexico sent the explorers back home with syphilis, but who’s counting.

As the day wound down, new age music continued to play from somewhere. The PA mike had been left on and was picking up the crowd chatter. The word “reality” came through loud enough to discern. A dog was barking. The mood was carnival-like. The Chief of Police, Art Acevedo, and his entourage, made the scene without raising any eyebrows. Then something occurred to me as I watched everything working together for a moment or two. With all our technology and advances in healthcare and our ability to really care for each other-we could have a perfect and amazing world, why are we not working as a planet to move into that space? The worldwide occupy movement is not just a movement for change in the political process, it is an awakening. It is awareness that if we do not change, we are all-and I mean every one of us-rich and poor-are going to die a hideous and completely unavoidable death.

Listening to the left-wing pundits on TV yelling about the Republicans and vice-versa makes me realize these folks don’t have a clue either. It’s time to stop yelling at each other. The world is changing-we don’t have peace and happiness because too many are making money on death and destruction. We are arguing too damn much rather than working on any reconciliation. But many of us are becoming aware of this sea change whether we like it or not, as one Government after another is stripped of its lies, greed and deceit. No matter what the fascists want you to believe, the children of the sun are beginning to awake. This occupation isn’t about us against them; it’s us against the past. You can feel it in the air. Someone turned the page on us. All the fascist batons and pepper spray will not make it go away. We are moving forward into the light and out of the darkness. Do not be afraid. You must join the change that is sweeping the world.

Then I spotted my best friend at the protest from a few days ago, John, and he was glad to see me. He was talking to Joshua, the Trustafarian, who I couldn’t look in the eye because I betrayed him by thinking bad thoughts about him a day or two before. I felt ashamed, because he turned out not to be such a bad guy for one, and two-why would I be negative about my brother in arms? The sunset was truly spectacular and perfect and I thought about my friends who haven’t talked to me since I’ve been involved in the occupation, and why even people you respect the most can fail to see the beauty in the mundane, which is the only way you can truly see the light that radiates from us all-even the plants and the lowliest of creatures. A brown-skinned man of Middle Eastern descent gathered his things that were piled next to me. He was wearing traditional clothes from his country. I closed my eyes as I slowly inhaled his scent. The smell of sandalwood combined with an exquisite touch of body odor sent me thousands of years back to the cradle of civilization. It was a beautiful peaceful place with colorful cluttered streets lined with shop barkers and the finest artisans displaying their wares. In my mind, I could hear people from an exotic faraway land going about their business, the sound of their activities undiluted by the electronic and mechanical hum of modern life.

I was brought back to nowadays by a lady who was telling everyone to go into the City Hall to see democracy in action. That was where the “Signs and Other Eyesores Approval Department” was having a hearing. I went in and sat down. There was an older man, around 70, named Peter, who was arguing against a new sign for a grocery store and strip mall on a scenic road near where he lives. After he made his point, a young woman walked to the podium. She was dressed down for the occasion, but was obviously a sleazebag, because she wanted to put up the ugliest damn signage you ever saw for the development she represented in total violation of the scenic highway ordinance. At first, the commissioners seemed sympathetic, until they read the fine print on the application, because she actually wanted to build four of the eyesores. Since it looked like she was trying to deceive everyone, her application was denied because of the domino effect of approving her sign, then another, then another, according to one of the commissioners. Interestingly, the three women on the panel voted for it and the four men against. And that sign was the ultimate eyesore. If you could distill ugly from a chunk of cement-that would be that sign.

As I was leaving, I chatted with Peter and congratulated him and asked if he was a retired engineer. He laughed and asked if it showed that much. It did-but that’s what was needed to fight a developer who was wanting to ugly up the highway. Education was needed-that is why we must fund education and why the fascists are constantly at war against anything to do with education, unless it’s so expensive only their children can attend school and the classes are taught with a religious bent. As long as people are educated and enlightened the fascists cannot control us-or at least put up ugly signs where you don’t want them.

As Peter and I walked out into the plaza among the protesters I asked Peter’s opinion about the protest and he was happy things were peaceful. He said he talked to the Police Chief the day it started and asked why there were so many police, paddy wagons and police cars for so few protesters. The Police Chief said he would rather be over-prepared than under-prepared. Then I said that’s what happened when the fascists took over America, we were under-prepared. Peter and I laughed and parted ways. Then it struck me how our Police Chief had to be over-prepared for people to exercise their right for assembly and free speech in a public plaza.

After dark, John and I had an excellent vegetable medley put together by Food Not Bombs. I asked the server her name because John wanted to talk to her earlier but forgot he had mentioned it. So I gave him an unexpected gift. Her name was Ramen. I introduced her to him and they chatted for a while. Before I left, I gave John a hug and made my way to the bus stop. There was an African-American couple sitting next to the only seat, which I gingerly took. She was in her twenties, but he was much older and was the clappiest looking man I’d ever seen. Although he was sniffling and coughing, they were still pulling tongue and she had her hand around his dick which you could see clearly through his pants. You only needed one look. Their making out was making some serious slobbering noises that was making the Food Not Bombs vegetable medley do flips in my stomach. Then her phone rang. She said she had to get it in case it was her mamma. I could hear her wrestling the phone out of somewhere.

Then she started chastising the person who called her by yelling, “Why you talking crack on the phone.” Ain’t nobody supposed to be talking crack on this phone.” Then clappy coughed my way for the tenth time, so I got up and stood close to the front by the bus driver. I asked the driver if he ever got lost with a bus full of people and he said yes, when he first started. He said he found himself lost in a neighborhood of narrow streets and had the hardest time turning around after pulling in somebody’s driveway. He said the people who owned the home were sitting outside, and you should have seen their faces when that city bus full of angry people, who were all yelling directions, pulled up. So we had a good laugh. I told him thanks for his patience and hard work then jumped off at my stop.

When I arrived at Liberty Plaza last night, a little lost, trying to find my way around the Occupy Wall Street camp, the first thing I did was find the line for dinner. I was hungry. I had worked 13 hours that day, and needed to eat. I had heard that brilliant local chefs have volunteered to cook these fantastic meals for the protesters at the communal kitchen, so I lined up behind a guy who looked almost exactly like me: lost, a backback loaded up, a peaceful, accepting look on his face. And as we turned the corner, edging forward, we got our paper plates loaded with rice and lentils, soup bowls loaded up with a brilliant spicy stew, bread pudding, and apple sauce. All donated by supporters.

Our supporters.

Eating, sitting on a curb in the park, I got to talking with the guy next to me; “Its my first night here. Where do you throw trash?” “You sleeping here?” “Yes,” I said, admitting I hadn’t brought a sleeping bag, not knowing how things were.

“Welcome brother.” A handshake. We kept eating. Everyone’s eyes said the same thing, “welcome brother,” not in a creepy cultish way but in that way people who have gathered together to change things say it with their eyes. Walking around the camp, my next step was to see if they had at least a pillow for me to use; at a distribution center for donated clothes and blankets, they handed me a fleece, rolled it up, and said, “This could make a good pillow, don’t you think?” It did, and it would.

I walked around, I joined in the people’s assembly discussions about representation; I browsed in the provisional library, set up in plastic bins-in which The Beat Reader and Noam Chomsky were marked as REFERENCE. Reference indeed-next to Whitman, as well. In a spontaneously gathered group on the steps, I sang Bob Dylan in a crowd with a famous singer who showed up to help out; more folk music flowed from his guitar. Everybody, it seems, had a guitar.

I found a shining granite bench to sleep on; I was getting tired, and almost all the ground-space was taken up by people camped in tents or under tarps. The wind was blowing. It was getting colder, but I needed sleep; so I set up my “pillow,” put on an extra layer under my jacket, put my gloves on, put my hood up, and curled up on the bench.

Nearly asleep, back turned on the “path” between other sleepers and protesters, I suddenly felt a blanket being placed over me. I looked up, gave a thumbs up and thanks, and she said, “Keep warm dude.” That thick donated blanket would keep me warm through the windy, 45 degree night. I’d awake in the morning to donated bagels, a cup of coffee, friendly directions to the subway, so I could get to work on time.

My night at the protest glows in my memory, sustains me; we were all cooperating; we were all, remarkably. generously supported by each other, and by all the unseen anonymous supporters who gave us food, blankets, books, time. A thousand strings of support seemed to stretch out from every moment I occupied the park. I think of my fellow protesters down there tonight, as it gets colder-as “family night” goes forward (kids are invited tonight to the camp).

As the sign says: no protest, this occupation is an affirmation of all that we can do for each other, an affirmation of the way things can be. You see somebody sleeping without a blanket; you find them one. You put it on them. You keep them warm. That’s how you occupy privatized public space, take it back.

When I return to do another night there, I’ll bring books, food, and some pillows for the next person who needs one.

- Spurgeon Thompson

NEW YORK - The one time I visited the occupation in the park, I also wandered down to the exchange and was struck by its pillars crumbling. On Christmas Eve day I visited 60 Wall for the first time. It was absolutely freezing. A woman with a baby was standing on a nearby corner, asking for change. I was taking something to the potluck I read about online. I knew that was happening, so I told her about it and we started talking. It turned out she was homeless, just stopped in to shelter in the Occupy atrium, and hadn’t eaten for three days. She pointed me to the door of the lobby that wasn’t broken.

I wandered in and stood around for just a minute before a young guy sitting pretty far away, all bundled and hooded for the cold snap, spoke up with “Happy New Year’s Eve,” flashing a huge grin. He was hanging out with a guy playing guitar and a bunch of people listening, typing, blowing on their hands. I walked over and when the song ended, started talking to the guy still smiling. Maybe you know him? A super sweet kid named Frankie. He’s just 21 and joined the occupy movement when he was sitting at home watching the march over the Brooklyn Bridge on the news. He said he nudged his little brother, said “Watch this,” then ran out of the house to join.

Frankie and I talked for a while in the atrium. I ended up giving him the food I brought and he took it over to where people were gathering. We hung out for a few hours, first looking up numbers for shelters (and WIC and other assistance) for the woman outside, then we went for a walk so he could show me other OWS sites. We went to SIS-Shipping, Inventory, and Storage. I was a little self-conscious about blundering through OWS admin work or whatever, but it being Christmas Eve and Frankie being so warm and winning, it felt like a minor worry. We met some other people just walking around and then made it to SIS where he introduced me to Nick and Nick. I ended up hanging out with them a little, hearing their stories of getting to New York. One of the Nicks was a Marine vet who’d been passing through on his bicycle and decided to stay. Really nice guys. There was a lot of talk about family and Christmas and a little talk about the frustrations they had with the OWS protocols — mostly telling stories about big personalities that broke rules / caused problems.

After they closed SIS, they took me for pbr at Charlie’s Place, I think it was called. It was a short walk, but very, very good to get out of the cold again. At 60 Wall St. earlier, Frankie and I had taken turns closing the doors on either side of the atrium because the cops kept propping them open. Fucking annoying. I was exhausted at the end of a few hours and can’t even imagine how people who are also staying in shelters, like Frankie, feel — but even with all of the short, antagonistic bickering I saw, one still peeled off to join for the beer; and one of the Nick’s offered food to another right after a confrontation. The coolest thing was hearing each of them talk, warmed up by beer, about still being deeply committed to the whole, no matter how stupid the problems. I really can’t wait to see these people again.

-Amanda Gill-

MUSKEGON, MI - When the banks were bailed out a few years ago, I fucking lost it. Call me hot-headed, but I made up a series of three signs with slogans I don’t even remember— all slapped up in red paint— and hammered them into my front lawn. I lived in a shitty old house at the edge of the northern wealthy section of town, but it was the shitty old house my grandfather had died in and nearly all my friends and family had lived in at one time or another. For those reasons the house embodied many fond memories; it was the kind of place you always wanted to live in until you do.

Anyway, watching the government give up billions and trillions of taxpayer dollars to the very people who had screwed us in the first place, I fucking lost it. I lost my faith in dissent, in people, in the solidarity of mass protest … What could I do? I was just some guy with three wimpy signs in his yard— and it rained constantly, drooping the cardboard until you could no longer read my short stab at the government, blindly swiping at big business, mega-banks and the auto industry. And there were the airlines and a morbidly obese defense budget slaughtering people all over the world in the name of democracy and commerce to boot, too, but that was old hat by then— it’d been done for so long people didn’t know any different. It seemed like no one cared enough to scream and shout anymore. A dissenting voice to the Great Bail-Outs of the 21st century was nowhere to be found.

“We’re behind enemy lines, man!” I’d tell my wife. “Jesus… no one gives a shit! If this doesn’t get people in the streets, what the fuck will?” She’d shrug and we’d eat dinner with the kids. “Eat your fucking rice,” we’d say. “Good fucking beans.”

“SHIT, MOM!” my oldest son would yell. “THE GODDAMN BANKS ARE STEALING MY FUTURE! ASSHOLES!”

“No b-word at the dinner table,” my wife and I would scold him. “You know how we hate that fucking word.”

This is the caricaturized domestic life of a man who was not censored, who grew up memorizing late-night comedy routines on cable, who rolled and cried with bellyaches on the floor at George Carlin, Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy till his mother came home drunk from the bar and would lay down the most basic of life’s lessons— “Tell the truth,” she’d say. “Your life will be a lot easier.” So, I gave myself permission to express myself however the hell I pleased, like those funny people on cable, as long as I was honest, as long as it was the truth and sincere, and as long as the heart was involved.

A year floundered by and the world continued to stink, spin, and spew on down the line. Sure, there were puppies who found homes, bake sales were held. There’s a different colored ribbon for every f-ing cause under the sun. But anyway, a year went by, and in that time my wife and I purchased our first home.

“Put these fucking boxes in that room, and put those fucking boxes in this room,” we told the kids— even our toddler.

“DAMN IT, MOM! OUR GOD DAMN MORTGAGE IS FUCKED!” our eldest son yelled, storming off for the boxes, which our youngest echoed in tearing off his diaper, bending over and shaking his ass in the air.

Our mortgage was not fucked. It was quite fucking good, actually, but by then the media had crop-dusted so many Aqua Net politicians across the news, proclaiming and analyzing fault with the housing market, that our son began parroting all that b.s. back at us. “VARIABLE INTEREST RATES ARE STEALING OUR JOBS FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!” There was no real need to explain it all to an eight-year-old, but a good mortgage didn’t matter so much in the end anyway, either. He might as well have been right. Two years later, my wife lost one of her jobs, and the jobs we had left started providing less work. “THOSE DOUCHE BAGS ARE RUINING EDUCATION! CHILDREN ARE OUR FUTURE!” My oldest yelled again from behind the boxes, helping his little brother learn how to flip the bird—a prediction we agreed with long before.

By then, the whole country had its legs straight up in the air; my household’s income dropped by 75% soon after.

“This shit is all over the world!” I’d shake my head at my wife.

“Yeah, it’s disgusting,” she’d agree, shaking her head, too.

Then one afternoon, pissing away some time on the computer, avoiding discussions in my online classes and working on a novel that’s been ready for a final edit for months now, I came across the Occupy Wall St. movement.

“Some people are camping out in the middle of New York for a protest,” I told my wife.

“In the fucking city.” “Really?” she said. “What for?”

What for is old news now, but that afternoon I was still in my pajamas, still bleary-eyed and willing down a cup of coffee, waiting for it to shock the monkey back to the steering wheel, when this strange protest— this camping protest that had been going on for a little more than a week by then, with no immediate plans to stop— woke me right up, like I pissed myself ice-fishing or something— a sudden, exciting chill grabbed me and shook me around feverishly. “This shit is interesting!” I said, turning to find an empty room, my wife evidently somewhere else.

I’d been interested in counter-culture movements for years. It was always what I considered my passionate hobby reading— mostly 60’s revolutionary swag. I read a lot of books about (and by) a number of Black Panthers. I read a fair amount on the White Panthers, too, and a whole slew of bio books on different 60’s rock groups. I came across AIM at some point, and the Weather Underground, the Motherfuckers and the Yippies, which all came naturally after my earlier interest in the existential Beats, the Wobblies, the Diggers. My father is a musician and my mother’s a medicine woman; I’m Irish and Eastern Cherokee. My grandpa was a junk man and his brothers were hobos who used to fish for chickens from an old shack along the Flat River— I’m primed for this shit, and my wife knows it. Hell, I didn’t even mention Che Guevara, Martin, Malcolm, and Means…

For three or four days and nights I couldn’t work, I couldn’t sleep. Every few minutes I was back on the computer rummaging around the Internet for more news and developments about the movement. “Holy fuck!” I’d blurt out now and then. After a while, my wife didn’t even respond. I had to come up with something else to get her attention. “Holy fuck!” no longer did it. I combed every social website I could think of looking for Occupy Wall St. news, marveling at how fast it spread, and how far! Hell, it had already reached New Zealand! People were talking! Online, that is; mostly online, and I followed. I made it my personal duty to help the various Occupy pages stay connected, shuffling through the various sites obsessively, doing anything I could to feel part of it, helping to spread the information and solidarity.

And then BAM!— 700 people were arrested on the Brooklyn Bridge. Watching the footage, my mouth fell open like a rockslide. I shook with a chill that went from my nuts to my chin and all down my spine. An involuntary grin pulled itself up from out of nowhere and put a gleam in my eyes— that wild spark that always makes my wife look at me as if my name is Willis, still pushing Different Strokes after all these years: she sees a scheme in my smile and deflects it with a prudent smirk that makes her squint her eyes slightly.

“Look at this shit!” I told her, pulling her away from her own online classes.

“They arrested 700?” she said, “What the fuck?” ”They kept chanting, ‘THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING! THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!’ and ‘SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!’ at the police! I have to go!” I told her. “You know me; I’ve talked about this for years! I have to go … It gave me chills just watching it. I have to do this!”

Then I said, “Holy fuck!” again, because I knew that this time I meant it. This time, I saw something I felt instinctually different about. The energy and approach of it all was too high. Liberty Park was constant high noon; it was a line in the sand. Camping out in front of the White House had been something I’d ranted about for years. “I should just take a fucking tent and go set it up right outside that damn place,” I’d say, coming out of the bathroom, tightening my bathrobe, running my hands through my hair, checking for thin spots. “What the fuck have people got to lose?” But camping out to take over Wall St. made even more sense than D.C. You’ve got to show up on the doorstep of power, and OWS had its finger on the bell from the beginning.

But, primed as I was for a more liberal outlook on life, I still gave myself a cushy excuse for inaction. My claim: I didn’t know where to start, how to get involved in a way that makes you feel like you’re making a difference, that you’re not just some asshole pissing away his time when he should be at home, showing the kids how to swear in new and interesting ways so they can really wow their friends on the playground and around the daycare. Those old Andrew Dice Clay rhymes don’t cut it anymore, trust me. Ya, hear? So, recognizing where and how-the-fuck to start can be a catalyst for major change in the way a guy like me lives his life. It can help lend enough direction to spark continuous action— a lifetime of it!

When I saw Occupy Wall St., I knew; I just knew, right from that first sleeping bag unrolled in the name of freedom and democracy— I was Occupy through and through. Suddenly, I had a location and a purpose. I had the interest, the motivation, and I begged, borrowed, and scrounged for the money to get to Liberty Park. The arrow had been released.

Before I left, I called up my cousin and said, “You want to go to New York for a protest?” and he said, “Why, hell yes!” He had to sell a deer rifle to do it. We left two days later, having assembled funds and donations from a handful of kind souls in the local community.

As we drove east on I-80, facing a good twelve hours of driving into the night, I wondered what would be in store for my cousin and I, whether we would be beaten, arrested, or both; whether we would get separated and whether we would be able to find our way back to each other; where we would sleep, use the bathroom and shower … Having gotten a late start, the sun was well above as the wheels spurned us forward. In my head was rock and roll; every movement I’d ever studied; every revolutionary I’d ever had the honor to meet and speak with, learn from; and the last protest I’d been a part of—the sky gray above the land, old WWII bombers circling and roaring in the rain, fake bombs bursting in the mud around me— the lone person who saw fit to call foul on celebrating Brig. Gen. Paul W. Tibbets’ presence at the local air festival in order to raise ticket sales— a festival that has since collapsed.

My sign read, “F the A BOMB!” and “THE A BOMB IS NOT CELEBRITY!” Both sides were printed over large orange mushroom clouds I’d painted days before, and stood out against the darkness like a sudden torch in the metallic gloom.

-

-Dylan Hock -

http://www.youtube.com/embed/WIyZcfergWY