Bill Buster - An Activist At Heart

Lessons Learned From OWS & Dire Need For Change That Remains

2012-07-30T03:15:00.002-07:00

What are the useful lessons of Occupy Wall Street's wave of once contagious activism? What can Americans learn from gathering and communicating, consistently and peacefully, outside of a rigidly-defended social ideology? I am a very proud American, but embarrassed and ashamed of the violent, sustained oppression of OWS. That said, as a member of OWS, I was also embarrassed by actions of the group itself, starting in November of 2011. I ultimately left the group formally in 2012. Still, if OWS was so laughably harmless as some depicted, it would have faded on it's own without militant police violence. If it was as dangerous as people claimed, in an insult to all Americans, cities would have been easily gutted by violence, if that had ever been intended. Surprisingly, Occupy movements survive to date more successfully outside of the US. Peaceful protest thrives for many reasons.

Let us begin by putting things into some context. First, we need to continue to humanize and dignify our fellow Americans, no matter how they resist. In the US media, business and political circles, human beings are "dealt with" and dehumanized by being referred to as "statistics". OWS challenged that practice and gave anonymous statistics a face. It's as though sanitized, depressing unemployment figures, crime stats and the bulk of Americans in poverty are not human beings. Statistics are calmly and coldly dispensed while people live, suffer and then die unseen. Statistics, and the people in them, are to be consumed, recorded in books, or discarded. Statistics, so revered in media and politics, don't have human needs or feelings, nor trouble paying the soaring costs of food and housing. Statistics don't need hospitalization they cannot pay for or become slaves of debt. Yet in our media and politics, never has so much been said and done by so few, about so little, without regard for the human cost. The effects are catastrophic. At a time when far too many Americans feel totally defeated and are numbingly dazzled by images of wealth in the media, we forget that the real wealth of a tiny controlling minority often comes through exploitation and suffering of millions of our fellow human beings. OWS was depicted as a mass of "protesters" not American citizens. The word "protester" cheapens and dehumanizes people when used to condone violence against Americans, as if they deserve it. Human suffering in our media is depicted as something that exists in other nations, but not in ours, unless there has been a mass shooting, a sensational crime, or a hurricane. Media messaging is all aimed at a placid, suburban audience, one that feels the impact of economic instability, but does not ever experience the magnitude of needless suffering and rights violations that urban dwellers often experience daily. It's ironic that during the final stretch in election cycles, politicians refer to all potential voters as people and claim to "feel your pain". That statement is never anything but patronizing, manipulative, insulting and never results in a humane change. A millionaire politician can never feel the pain of a homeless man or an unemployed, injured veteran. When the eternal election cycle is over and we've been used at the ballot box, we're demoted to mere statistics and poll numbers once again. We've been used as prostitutes.

What can we learn by the false "threat" that was perceived by people in power when a group of peaceful, kind and thoughful people came together to seek a path towards a better future? Wasn't the real sense of fear because the OWS activists reclaimed their personal power to choose for themselves, by removing themselves from the social norms that keep us managed and controlled, tightly bound to passive acceptance of corruption and influence? Many in government saw a vivid threat of revolution within the mass gatherings and had to quietly, forcefully break them up. Just as the mass gatherings of activists overseas brought change to oppressive regimes with US support, people sensed the possibility of destabilizing change in the United States when confronted wth images of thousands marching in our cities. This view is insulting and grossly underestimates the dignity and kindness of ALL Americans, including those inside OWS. I fear we've all been cataloged as outsiders, and a menace. How sad. Government and media refused to respect or admit the existence of any positive goals, ones our government does not even seek on its own, changes that would make society more just for all. Instead, those in government and media saw only menace in power being shifted to citizens who would do more than go shopping or march humbly to a voting booth. Seeing citizens "energized" by their freedom was jarring to those weak and prone to negative judgement of others. When people began to show immunity to controlling corporate messaging, it appeared fearful in the small circles of power. This is something Occupy Wall Street members never really saw from within. In hindsight, the skepticism in media, fear and loathing in business leaders and police make a real sense of danger quite clear.

I thought occupying a park was a good, temporary way to get people to start coming together. By October, camping was becoming counterproductive, and that tripped up OWS. I support police when they are maintaining law and order, but I condemn widespread police abuse that violates law and order. My issue is not blind defense of indefinite occupation of a park or the choices of the people in the park. But all of us urgently need to challenge police that NO ONE has a right to intimidate, stalk, monitor, beat, gas, entrap and injure peaceful protesters in a park, on a street, sidewalk or inhibit expression. I defend the right of Americans to occupy a park as expression of their needs, out of respect for their choice. Rather than simply approaching and arresting members of a historically peaceful protest, NYPD used a laughable "fear of personal safety" as a blanket excuse to set a precedent of beating, gassing, pepper-spraying, intimidating, spying on and injuring protesters INSTEAD of even attempting arrest. Police and other forces, heavily armed and assembled by the hundreds around the marches and camps were in "minimal" danger, and deserving of much push-back for antagonizing citizens beyond the scope of their duties. In press and cowardly politicians, violence and it's effect of 'containment" is seen as a necessary side-effect of peaceful, even passive mass civil disobedience. We have tolerated it in the USA for centuries. Americans who are activists in any group "deserve" violence, according to many, for not leaving a public street, sidewalk or park when "told" to. Allowing this tramples Human Rights and oversteps international law. Still, our press ignores it, while rushing to judgement of oppression in other countries. Rather than explore this (or any) domestic issue, our press dismisses hundreds of OWS videos of unreasonable police violence, then waits for someone else to raise the issue, examine it and give it validity before it is deemed worthy of consideration. In the absence of violence or true disruption, the fact no one in US media actively challenged barricading Wall Street from ALL Americans for months was laughable. Standard response, "I think the police showed remarkable restraint". Restraint from what? You fill in the blank.

We must all be reminded from time to time that we are all born pure. All of us started as innocent creatures, all citizens, mayors, policemen, and we must remember all of our values and social divisions are taught, then enforced institutionally. Indoctrination begins early in life, and most often leads people down narrow, defensive, self-centered paths. We must begin to ask ourselves to come together again in new, renamed, more efficiently run, productive groups. We have to address the continued need for Americans to connect and share, to work together to challenge the toxic norms of an often dehumanizing society. OWS helped some people, for a time, challenge their social indoctrination. This freed them from rigid, unquestioning schools of thought that lead us blindly into wars, poverty, anger and despair. I often wonder what is in the hearts and minds of police who choose to punch, brutalize and fire projectiles at unarmed citizens before even trying to detain and arrest them? What kind of indoctrination have they had that makes them different from the police who do not commit such immoral acts? What right have they to see enemies where there are none, to make others suffer? We are not ever bound to the kind of personal submission police often seek. That is outside of law and order, and another subject all together. This issue is a sign of social control that the media and government turns away from throughout recent history.

Occupy chose to inhabit public spaces and make a point of allowing, for the first time, unfettered access to every level of debate. This allowed people with varied issues and concerns to get involved as they chose with the issues that impact them. It was incredibly empowering. This was immediately seen as "suspect", deeply troubling. A vast majority of press conveyed grudging amusement and skepticism, wondering what the "agenda" and "message" was behind our openness. The reaction, especially in Right-Wing media was paranoid, maddening, humorous and pathetic. It was as if OWS was an alien invading force, or a Martian landing party. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOUR DEMANDS? That is how unimaginable and uncomfortable it is for corporations and government to digest the "concept" of free-thinking individuals. The majority of vocal GOP reaction was that it's dangerous for Americans to engage in political discussion free from corporate agendas, and Occupy supporters were falsely portrayed as un-American, as a new menace. The entire movement and everyone sympathetic was portrayed to those in the suburban heartland as a "lunatic fringe" hidden deep within the population. So many institutions benefit from making people suspicious of all change that goes beyond simply voting. At the same time, most of the media tragically downplayed unprovoked police violence against protesters and undercounted marchers, asked Americans watching from afar to "go back to sleep, this movement is not serious, and will amount to nothing". The success of an open, tolerant social model that rejected the control of messaging and conventional limitations virtually guaranteed that a sustained, brutal crackdown was to come. The ideals behind Occupy Wall Street were simple and empowering. And it worked for a while, before police, mayors, businesses and opportunism drove deep wedges into the group through sustained, psychological and physical opposition.

Activism is viewed within the US as an archaic fad, one that ended in the 1960s. The world media knows better. OWS was depicted as a "fluke" here in the US, an oddity. They choose to ignore the hard truth that if systemic corruption is unchallenged, the entire nation is headed in a catastrophic direction. Doubtless there were many sleepless nights and strategy meetings in Washington over the implications of people choosing to be free of crippling, controlling ideology. We do not expect much from our government, but we MUST force them to respect the humanity of voters and place voters needs before party or donor ideology. They refuse. Rather than even exploring OWS to see that it was meant to strengthen this nation, it became something that had to be quietly muted, pounded down, and with bottomless resources devoted to these efforts. The entire government and media establishment failed to portray the simple reality that we are just fed up, exploited and angry Americans, trying to be critical, productive and hopeful. And, they had better accept the fact that this was only one movement, a beginning. OWS may have declined, but what replaces it will be far smarter, and have more longevity, because every tool and creative mind is at our disposal to guarantee a more just nation will be born out of effort, not passivity. The not-too-distant future, with all it's climate related peril, will surely force those in power to change or be changed, whether activism is involved or not. That much is certain.

We see time and again that no politician, no political party, no election, and no media will allow itself to be examined closely by citizens in a society that prizes "winning" in ratings and polls, and defeating others at all moral cost. In the Occupy Movement, intelligent, creative, peaceful people started challenging the suffocating, psychological manipulation of corporate and political messaging that have rendered most Americans powerless, resigned, and passive. OWS broke free of all social norms regarding how any minority can "accumulate more and more" at the expense of the majority. OWS changed public discourse and increased scrutiny on corporate abuses, shifting the paradigm from that of "winning" over others as individuals to one that would eventually elevate all people and maintain human dignity. Yes, America, it can happen, we can get along and respect each other, but we have to make a conscious choice for ourselves, and reject the negative, divisive, media driven habits that keep us battling each other first. The fact that police used tactics that kept us battling "them" for so long shows how important control is in this nation. It also shows just how dirty the minority will fight to maintain control (or the appearance of control) regardless of the consequences. Later in October 2011, as people in the movement struggled to survive financially and to avoid the "brutalize-first-and-ask-questions-later" tactics of the NYPD, many of the better angels behind the success of OWS returned reluctantly to life outside the movement, to ponder activism in another less-injurious way. Also, captive to an idealistic but highly cumbersome General Assembly, many people were being shut out, unable to attend, and denied a voice. What was supposed to be a leaderless democracy became a tyranny of personality-driven decision-making. And the cumbersome efforts to prevent leaders from emerging instead drove the strongest activist visionaries away.

For OWS, the repeated violent and still ignored attacks on the camps and protesters began a painful transition that drew everyone remaining into a petty cycle of conflicts with police and local governments. Exhausted, angry and dedicated activists eventually developed a "bunker mentality", hunkered down for a battle that successfully distracted the group from being able to attract followers, and effect change. The hopeful movement slowly collapsed under pressure, becoming a cult of procedure, personality and paranoia. In the absence of the those with more real-world and leadership experience, opportunism, infiltrators, some damaging anarchist ideology rushed in. Many of those left worked to diminish the scope of the movement, seeking to benefit the few, instead of the nation, thus overriding the broader vision of the movement. By late November 2011, the movement, too focused on fighting over camping in public spaces, had imploded. Gone were all visions of open debate, working in a sustained manner on issues. A few controlling, desperate souls wanted to focus on their own small social issues to the exclusion of all else. Most were clinging to inefficient structures of governance, and physically "occupying" space, long after it had outlived it's purpose and drained nearly all resources. That shift in philosophy alienated millions of people who were once so hopeful, and left them with discouraged views of the future of activism. OWS was successfully dismantled by relentless nationwide government and business pressures, police violence, internal selfishness, and inflexibility. A psychological war to crush this specific movement had been won. Still, the violent police opposition, which tapped into bottomless government funds at a time of severe fiscal crisis, sends a chilling message over the nation about our rights, one that most Americans continue to dismiss and ignore.

We also learned from OWS that our once celebrated "Freedoms" are now spelled with a lower case "f". The word "FREE" implies ability to make choices to behave responsibly and without unreasonable restrictions to time, place, methods, content and membership. You are free to assemble "reasonably" all mayors and police maintain, as long taxpayers don't expect much access to what they pay for. Who do taxpayers think they are, acting like they have rights? You may assemble "freely", we are told by our benevolent, wealthy, tax-hungry pols, so long as it is in small, short-lived groups, as long as no one wealthy disagrees with you, your assembly does not utilize public space, does not involve grassy surfaces or flowerbeds, is subject to daily hours of operation and continual police monitoring, you submit to checkpoints, and so long as your assembly does not involve use of things like books, backpacks, picnics, noise, etc. You are free to use your public spaces for quiet contemplation during park operating hours, and as long as there is not intelligent discussion of challenging corrupt business or political practices, and so long as you do not expect to be able to identify the police men encircling you in your free, open public spaces. It's always a great day to celebrate your freedoms!

American's continued, unmet and even oppressed need for connection and discussion, free from the limits and definitions of corporate media, will explode in the faces of those seeking "control"- if open discussions cannot take place. Allowing discussions seems unlikely, since avoidance of issues is what our pols and media do best. So, how do we fill that human need? We must ask ourselves long and hard, and be willing to reignite the flame of peaceful sustained activism to accomplish specific goals while celebrating our rights to do so. It is imperative that are strong when challenging those who seek to "control", and we must use the infinite tools at our disposal to resist sustained efforts to squelch expression with fairness, dignity and the certainty that we are in the right.

In the aftermath, media and politicians move forward as they always have, ignoring American suffering and need, which guarantees continuation of the fight to overcome the issues OWS sought to address. In the US, if an issue "might stir debate" on subjects like universal healthcare, gun control, abortion, crime, poverty or inequality, politicians actively avoid discussions at all cost that Americans have waited for generations to have out in the open. Political cowardice is always rewarded these days with safety from our ubiquitous pollsters. Our media condones and rewards political laziness with non-debates, and passive, unsubstantial storytelling. People are still "free" to attend rallies for politicians if they are invited, but may NOT speak to them. The only letters politicians read in public are those that fit into a script. The only topics they will discuss at news conferences are scripted agenda. You are always free to agree with politicians, but you must always defer to them publicly. To ask politicians hard questions they refuse to answer in any way publicly, to be granted access and actually use it for social good is deemed disrespectful, and will be met with swift condemnation. HOW DARE YOU BRING UP LEGITIMATE CONCERNS THAT DIRECTLY IMPACT YOUR LIFE WHEN YOUR ISSUES CANNOT BE EXPLOITED FOR POLL RESULTS BY A POLITICIAN OR THE MEDIA! HOW DARE YOU! Of course, if you have a sleazy, distracting, non-issue related scandalous video to submit to mainstream media, HAVE AT IT. You will be celebrated. For months.

Finally, what we have learned is that people are free to pass through public spaces, but not linger there. We must not make any noise, not lay down, not carry backpacks, because these are dangerous and can destroy civilization as we know it. Also, any expression there is subject to monitoring by police who are not answerable to you or individually identifiable by you. Activities as innocent as a family or community picnic are now banned in many public spaces, since food cannot be "served". In some places food is no longer allowed, and backpacks are either banned or subject to inspection. Your tax dollars, hard at work. Damage to grass and flowerbeds in public spaces over time has always been equal to cracking paint on an old home, and requires maintenance. But, local governments have criminalized damage of grass, which is what happens when people USE grassy public areas. I'm waiting for "damage to grassy areas" to become a felony offense, as it seems inevitable. Many high-profile people offered to pay for port-a-potties and garbage pick up for Occupy sites, but cites refused this, thus consciously creating sanitation concerns that they could condemn. You're now free to assemble as long as you pay for limited use of private spaces and submit to the inherent restrictions, without exception. Isn't that great? Even our freedoms and the right to consume oxygen in public have been privatized! Awesome. According to local government and police, "Free Assembly" is something best done in venues like rented hotel ballrooms, where you subject yourself to paying a hefty financial price. No matter where you meet "freely", you must also submit yourselves to restrictive hours of operation and rules limiting conduct or content that inhibit and strangle sustained philosophical debate.

In the wake of Occupy Wall Street and it's lingering threat to life, liberty and the grass in public parks, definitions of "unreasonable assembly" are now being clearly defined by a corporate, controlling government view that takes much freedom away from tax-paying citizens. Police, businesses and government will call all activity and expression "unreasonable" if it conflicts with any of those things that might subject government to tax-payer scrutiny or responsibility. Much ado has been made about occupiers damaging grass and flowers in parks, but never of the fact that ending and severely restricting access to public space destroys things far more precious and permanent, it erodes freedom itself. But who cares, right? As long as the flowers look nice, discussion can be oppressed, chased, beaten down, and the country can go to shit. But take cheer, the grass will be green, flowers will bloom, streets and public places will be "safe" from the public. Whew! What a relief.

So, go happily and sit on the grass and eat lunch in your parks, visit coffee shops, libraries, shopping malls, restaurants, and keep talking. Talk to people, ask questions, celebrate your freedoms, and do not allow people to stop you or limit your speech or peaceful activities, just because of fear or ignorance. We must continue to open doors on debate and social change. Change is coming. We must stand our ground peacefully and with dignity, and have a say in our own lives. We must go far beyond what is "expected" of us. Let me know what you think.

Follow and keep in touch on Twitter! BusterBNYC@twitter

The Battle Of Morals And Governance

2012-07-28T22:36:00.000-07:00

This post was originally written early October, 2011, but I never published it. It stresses Universality, the ties that bind us as equal beings on this planet. This was when OWS was a hopeful, welcoming place drawing worldwide praise and attention. Here in the US, there was no praise, only skepticism from the United States mainstream media, which did everything it could to define and "message" the movement, in an effort to separate the efforts of those in the park from those outside the park, though we all suffer from exposure to the same forces.

Day after day, night after night, we come together. We are all equal, ruled by a mutual respect for the humanity of the person sitting or standing next to us. Sad that this is an unusual experience where we remember the words "all men are created equally" but have so rarely experienced this as a part of daily life. We are Americans, truly proud of the Democratic ideals that the founders of the United States envisioned. We are Americans, insisting that these ideals truly apply to all. The class system and societal values that exist in the United States now set human history back hundreds of years. As so many have said, the income inequality that we experience is unsustainable, as proven time and again throughout history

Unemployed, educated, ignored, mocked, and fed up, a broad cross section of the population of the United States gathers on a tiny concrete and stone strip of land in New York City. Here, all who participate work to support each other, representing a vast array of political beliefs. In stark contrast to the ideological zealots in Washington, we all get along. Yes, it can happen, but we have forgotten. Our government has so long been divided by vengeful politics involving personal attacks that hold all legislation hostage since the 1990's. This is not a progressive movement, this is not a conservative movement. We remove politics from our work and our message. More than that, we talk, and we listen with compassion and respect. Conversation is a lost art in the United States.

As I daily walk through the magical space in Lower Manhattan where the peaceful Occupy Wall Street movement has blossomed, I wear a badge that says "press relations" written on it. This draws people to me, separates me from the crowd. Men and women of all ages, races, religions and politics, from all over the world, grab my arm to stop me, to talk to me. I do whatever I can to give them respect, and to thank them for visiting. I stop, I listen. They want to engage another human being, find a sympathetic ear to talk about how the policies of the country have marginalized and diminished them over the years. They express the feeling of powerlessness, of numbed, aching disgust with the financial and government policies that have abused and impoverished them.

Most touching to me are the seniors, the disabled and often homeless vets who come up to me regularly, thanking me and then asking, "What can I do? I have no voice!" There is a heartbreaking terror in the eyes of these proud Americans, who have come from every corner of the city and nation. The oldest vets I met were a group of guys from World War Two who came to express support. These men are rather frail, but very proud and dignified, and embarrassed by the polarization in Washington. These soldiers are the also victims, who have risked their lives for a nation that now favors corporations over human beings. They have paid their taxes and voted all of their lives, and it has not contributed in any way to solving the problems that drive individuals and the nation into deeper crisis. These people have played by all of the rules in the social contract of the United States, only to be treated as a nuisance when they expect the country to be there for them as agreed upon. The social contract is maliciously and arbitrarily voided, coldheartedly stripping all humanity from these decent, frightened human beings. All too often these people, and millions like them, easily fall victim to unscrupulous banks, insurance companies with predatory policies designed to target the most vulnerable.

Hundreds, thousands of grateful, relieved people have risen, left their homes and come to Zucotti Park daily to express a near universal gratitude upon seeing a rebirth of activism in the United States. Many come back over and over again, to share the energy and the company of others who are finding their voices again in a society that has only come to reward financial success. Money is worshipped, and shopping is mandatory in NYC, even when people cannot afford it. Success is defined as wealth, and by having media exposure even if such "success" is at the expense of the integrity of our national ideals. The world around us have witnessed this for decades. Here on the inside, we have lived in an insulated, overconfident bubble. The bubble started to deflate just prior to 9/11, and the last gasp of air escaped as the financial sector collapsed in 2008.

I am one of the marginalized men and women directly impacted by the ongoing stalemate and corruption in Washington. I live four city blocks from Zucotti Park where the occupation takes place. I survive on Social Security disability income, and workers compensation payments. I have damaged lungs, and severely impaired lung capacity which has forever changed my life since I was diagnosed in 2006. I barely skate by each month financially. I take a great deal of medication daily, and last year, I was hospitalized 6 times, for up to two weeks at a time. I was just hospitalized in July of 2011 with a pneumonia.

A fire inside of me was ignited by the game of chicken that Congress recently played with my survival, openly discussing cutting Social Security benefits that I have paid for since I was 15. Cutting everything violently was the GOP corporate solution, like downsizing my life- it is a non-solution to years of corrupt governance and gross mismanagement. It is no entitlement, it is a benefit I have paid for like any insurance policy, and I nearly died for the right to claim a settlement.

The fact is that government has been mismanaged, but the consequences are going to be borne by the people it serves, and not by those responsible for managing it. I vow to do anything and everything within my means to defend myself, and those who come after me in the United States. I am long a political activist, having grown disgusted by politics as I served on Rahm Emanuel's Congressional election, in Chicago, 2002. The behavior and smugness of the candidate and the handlers, the speeches, were so canned, and so false, and so very automatic, that I was outraged. The candidate, being a total diva, did not help matters. As he won his election, the night of his victory party, I walked out. Sickened by the opportunism and artificiality of it all. I found the branded, expensive, calculated, scripted careful, inhumanity of it nauseating. I love my country, but I hate the ideological corporations that the political parties have become. This must change. This is why we are all here in this park.

Please keep in touch on Twitter, at BusterBNYC@twitter

Happy Birthday OWS and American Activism

2012-07-27T03:26:00.004-07:00

Zucotti Park, November 14, 2011, the day before the police raid that destroyed the historic OCCUPY WALL STREET camp. NYPD has helped create laws banning legal acts like eating, serving food, backpacks, books, and laying down in this and other public spaces, all legal in the United States. Police throughout the USA are making sure you cannot assemble publicly, or engage in acts to support public assembly tho assembly, speech and acts needed to support these rights are all protected by the constitution.

Dust off your birthday hats, bake a cake, break out the noise-makers, and celebrate your constitutional rights this September! 9/17/12 is the first anniversary of New American Activism. It's been a year since OWS first set up camp a few blocks from my apartment in Lower Manhattan. Whether you agree with The Occupy Movement or not, you can at least agree that vocal, aggressive activism is sorely needed in the US, and this was a good start. If Americans who were once excited by OWS have walked away only to sit back down, a just and dignified future for all Americans is lost. It is time to rise, celebrate our rights, and resolve to create stronger, leaner, flexible, inclusive groups focused on specific issues and create inevitable change. If we organize, we have infinite many ways to turn whatever ideological and even capitalist tools we choose against the forces that want to maintain an oppressive status quo of inequality. And we can have a great time working together for a greater good.

In the 1960s and 1970s, as in the 1770s It was considered by all but the most conservative as PATRIOTIC, a gift to future generations, to stand up and fight for what you believed in and to build a stronger, more just nation. In the decades that have followed, we've decided to reward laziness by all but celebrity billionaires, and anyone else who challenges status quo is suspect of subverting national security!?!?! Media buys, sells and sustains this viewpoint. It would all be quite laughable, if corporate media didn't consciously feed into this mistrust of people using protected forms of expression in an organized fashion. And, we must laugh, as police, government and others monitor our social media and follow us as we work to create a world that is more fair to all, including the very people who beat, monitor and oppress activists. They will be unwitting partners in enacting needed limits on the powers of others, especially civil servants who trample civil and human rights. Life is hard for all of us. And despite your job, life is difficult, and we must respect that for all. Journalists, police, doctors, single mothers, people on disability, do not work "harder" or more intellectually than anyone else. No one deserves more "respect" or deference than anyone else in a "democratic" society.

We are still only at the beginning of a long-term fight, beating back the corrupting reach of a few wealthy people that pull the purse strings on all media, corporations, political campaigns, lobbying efforts, and our entire government, from the top down. Thanks largely to OWS, insurance companies and massive, corrupt banks are feeling the effects of increased public scrutiny and we must relentlessly increase pressure. OWS and the army of citizen journalists have also turned a critical, unedited, un-doctored lens on activism, systemic police violence and oppression, and have informed the world of painful truths about the United States. In doing a great job, with the dedication and simplicity of CNN in the early days, OWS livestreamers have revealed the impotence and corporate controls of national news media. OWS has accelerated the decline of a weak, hamstrung corporate media, even as some respected journos decry all work outside of mainstream media as " fatally flawed" and unprofessional. These people, many who do fine but carefully contained, innocuous work, are standing on the decks of the sinking Titanic, blaming fellow passengers for the looming disaster, incapable and unwilling to turn a critical eye on their own world views. I love that this criticism comes from journos who abdicated their duties and ignored all of the social issues raised by OWS, the HUGE white elephants in the room for so long before OWS forced them to pay attention to these larger realities. MSM no longer controls all discussion, tho it tries mightily to do so.

OWS, in it's initial, spectacular success, was seen by mayors, police and business leaders nationwide as drawing damaging attention to misdeeds and common practices that directly impact profits, tax income and an ability to operate unimpeded. Without exception, local governments and businesses responded to the damaging effects of free speech to form a network of crushing resistance to inconvenient expression. This resistance could not have been created without the help of strained police forces needing corporate donors to dwindling pension funds. In times of deepening national fiscal crisis, police everywhere found bottomless reserves to expensively, extensively combat peaceful citizens with military force unseen within the US for decades. A universal, nationwide tactic was created, to antagonize, divert, distract, deplete and destroy damaging protest. Governments created a perpetual adversarial relationship between activist citizens and hostile police, all to protect businesses at the expense of the constitution. There was no careful, scholarly debate within local governments over rights of citizens versus "reasonable limits" on expression. The proximity of Zucotti Park to Wall Street and the heavy handed response by police obviously highlighted how important it was for NYC to make the truth-tellers go away at all cost. It was all to allow businesses to continue, without scrutiny, to engage in destructive, speculative practices, and rake in the tax money for NYC.

I am a child of the 60s and 70s, when peaceful, sustained protests, with local chapters of national movements were commonplace, and became instrumental in transforming society. Raising urgent awareness of social causes was a norm of the era, a time when Americans were highly skeptical of government, as most people are now. I will say that the sense of resignation in American people perhaps runs far deeper than ever before. We need to remind people that taking peacefully to the streets did not cause any decline of civilization, nor did it negatively impact quality of life. Instead, the protests enhanced quality of life, increased civic engagement for countless millions, and strengthened tolerance throughout our society. Anti-War activists, Women, African Americans, Gays, all took to the streets of my childhood to demand the media turn an eye on the need for justice an social change. As a result of their efforts, society has benefitted immensely, and yet, so many of the people who directly benefit from protest a generation ago dismiss and belittle activism today, as if "everything's fine". Many of these same people will fight for politically rigid parties that sacrifice citizens humanity and dignity. How times have changed.

After joining the movement in a PR capacity late September 2011, I spent month after month living every moment of my life through the people in Zucotti Park, supporting what were the expressed, inclusive goals of the movement. Also, 24 hours a day for months, I shared with the world media the news, current events, facts of political and police oppression and violence. All of this was at first laughed off as emotional sensationalism, but is now the focus of a huge, nationwide initiative between the ACLU & UN seeking police reforms and protection of press rights and human rights within the United States, especially OWS activists. Mainstream media will ignore this, because it counters their placid messaging to the Americans who live far from urban centers that experience systematic violence and rights violations every hour of the day.

What could have been a more transformational, inspiring event in US history has been managed, fought, crushed, arrested, profiled, filmed, videotaped, GPS monitored, confiscated, detained, retinal scanned, databased, and "interpreted" by political and corporate forces into near extinction. But it didn't work, and activism is alive and well, going underground as well as existing in broad daylight, now using tools and methods OWS long ejected. Instead of exploring an effort responsibly, that could have more quickly brought justice to millions, the media has been complicit in downplaying the suffering of millions in the country for the status quo needs of advertisers, such as banks and oil companies, as well as for the media mogus they work for. This has kept a tight lid on what "is appropriate" content, what to cover on news. This keeps it all safe, innocuous, crippling, and toxic, just the way the sponsors like it. Bank Of America would rather not show you sunny commercials about their humanity and helpfulness after you have just seen people being barricaded, teargassed and beaten outside their banks.

Like so many, I've since distanced myself form Occupy Wall Street due to it's limited scope of thought and behavior. Regardless, I remain incredibly grateful to them for awakening a spirit of activism that is not geared toward election results specifically, since elections only perpetuate corrupt systems at present. It will take sustained, hopeful, open-minded work to get citizens rights and humanity brought back to prominence in society, to transform politics on how we value each other, above the almighty dollar.

It has long troubled me that Barack Obama, who branded himself as a progressive populist, a man who directly benefitted from the activism of the Civil Rights movement, has been sadly silent on the subject of overwhelming violence, disproportionate police force and constitutional rights being trampled systematically across the US. I see he is a good man, but a politically lazy man, easily sacrificing moral imperatives, instead taking the path of least resistance. The Department Of Justice is fully aware of sustained, brutally violent police attacks nationwide, openly "assisted" by DHS. Clearly, if thousands of African Americans were confronted, gassed, fired upon and beaten at gathering places throughout all major cities on a single night the way OWS has been, Obama (and all TV pundits) would scream out and demand justice, thus revealing a double standard on civil rights. Unlike Trayvon Martin, these people are not like Obama's sons, though we are all his family, and he is rather selective in his recognition of that fact. He refuses to speak out against the very same, exhaustively documented violations of human rights and civil rights that he decries overseas as brutal oppression. History repeats itself. The Civil Rights movement had a similar history of political cowardice that cost lives and imprisoned countless out of weakness for decades. What sickens me, is how all criticism of Obama is casually waved off as a slight, *inconvenient truth* by his fanatical supporters. Dems have proven to be a weak, reactive party working silently behind the scenes, not in the open with pride or morals, which disgusts and pushes away progressives live myself. People are fighting right now to strengthen our rights and give a brighter future for all. Anything outside of the corporate-controlled, politically unquestioning norm has been a subject of monitoring and oppression since September 11, 2001. Terror is everywhere and in everyone, apparently, so thinks much of our government. It is not now, nor has it ever been in the hearts and minds of anyone I know, but reality and paranoia seldom make good bedfellows. If our government had any self-awareness or ability to police itself, OWS wouldn't exist.

All of that humanity we see from every single news outlet after tragedy and struggle, such as the shootings in Aurora, was notably absent during the many days of the Occupation of Zucotti Park. "Who are they? What are they? What do they want? Look how they dress?" All chose to ignore that these were just honest, angry Americans, as American and dedicated as any reporter, producer, pundit or politician. Many have lost homes, lost or been denied jobs, some were homeless vets, many were scared seniors worried that a corrupt, heartless Congress would slash their livelihoods rather than act responsibly. OWS revealed just how difficult it was for MSM and Pols to see, identify with and respect the struggles of ordinary Americans. I jumped into the ring when I saw consistent attempts in teh media to diminish the humanity of all of the people people within OWS, portraying a majority of the group as incoherent, unintellectual, bongo-playing, pot-smoking hipsters too lazy to get a job. *I'm disabled by severe lung injury from a job in 2006, and was reinvigorated as an activist in 2011 after DC Budget Talks collapsed, and my disability insurance was threatened with cuts. I worked very hard for the Democrats in Chicago, working slavishly on Rahm Emanuel's election to Congress, after which I decline working on the Obama senate campaign before I moved to NYC in 2004. I was injured in 2006, resulting in multiple, near fatal episodes and 18 hospitalizations thru 2001. My entire future was casually placed in great peril during the budget feud. In OWS, I began to get involved with media actively, as there was not yet an organized "press team" in Late September, 2011. This was just before the famed entrapment and arrest of hundreds on the Brooklyn Bridge. (We have since been offered a few respectful depictions in US media, such as through the work of Keith Olbermann and Charlie Rose, both of whom offered respectful, extended discourse on the issues behind OWS. They were respectful and broad in their respect for the protesters as human beings, unlike most surface scratching, info-tainment media outlets.) Mostly, New York centered press offered cheap, crass takes on protest, and even scoffed at the NEED for protest, towing a pro-busness line (friendly to their sponsors) depicting the group as incoherent, unstable, and always implied a looming danger that I never witnessed, as we welcomed tens of thousands of tourists every weekend into Zucotti Park. These "news professionals" sought to ignore glaring social issues, focus instead on depicting individual protesters, asking hundreds of youngsters "Why are you here protesting?" and acting shocked that they all had different concerns, (you know, like real people from a diverse population). Most troubling throughout the history of the movement, the entire mainstream media, without exception, continues to ignore the open police brutality and mass violations of human and civil rights. If any conflicts were even mentioned in the local or national news, it was always that "cops had no choice" but to be bloody and violent against these "menacing" peaceful, creative, unarmed and unintimidated citizens. This resulted in portraying every police force, especially NYPD as passive, defenseless, helpless victims. Total bias, complete failure of duty of press to question disproportionate, bloody force. When in NYC apparently, NO ONE questions thugs or NYPD, certainly not a cowed corporate press afraid of political retribution. This sad failure to question violence against people exercising their protected rights has dangerous repercussions for all of society, as the rights of protesters are the rights of journalists too, and no one should live under threats of arbitrary, unlawful violence. Eventually, many journalists themselves would succumb to police violence personally, but still corp bosses underplay and enable it. The fact that OWS is not in media any longer is at least partially because media and politicians needed OWS to fade away before mayoral and presidential elections. They refuse to veer from their controlled messaging so desperately required during the "election cycle". TV news would never have to stray from their tired bag of punditry tricks and scripted non-debates that define mainstream media political airtime. God forbid they'd ask any of the questions to pols that the public has wanted to know for years. American news media is largely a closed circle of talking heads, so much said by so few, and to so little effect. A few viral videos of police dragging, pepper spraying unarmed young women who were violating no laws, engaged in "protected expression" caused a nationwide explosion of support for the movement. Then, suddenly and without exception since early October 2011, all national news outlets refuse to show violence against protesters, which is sustained and massive, even as members of the press were threatened, stalked, beaten and arrested for simply being present during police actions. Nationwide, police ensured all press was forced out of camps when evictions took place, news feeds were cut, overhead press choppers switched off, and violence took place far from prying eyes, save for a few brave citizen journos, and people who related their stories of brutality after release. The only threat to public safety ever present was the absolute certainty of police violence against peaceful civil disobedience.

Instead of depicting OWS and supporters as PEOPLE or Americans, after October 2011 everyone was a suddenly a "protester" in a unified message of government and media, which after scenes of violence in London and Middle East has had sinister, socially unacceptable implications. Notably in OWS, trouble and violence was not made. Only hope was created, for a time. In the year since the first pepper spray incidents, our entire mainstream media enables and ignores disproportionate, militarized police violence in the face of declining crime all over the US. Activists, such as those in Anaheim protesting multiple police murders of unarmed young men, are routinely fired upon with rubber bullets, teargas, beanbag projectiles, had military sound cannons aimed at them. Many are struck with guns and fists without provocation, pounded, dragged by the hair, slammed face first into windows, gassed by NYPD, LAPD and most violently by Oakland PD. Frighteningly, California police forces have been augmented in every major attack by various state and federal agencies to crush protest. MSM has suspiciously decided not to show these images, report or explore these facts, probably caving to police pressure not to enflame anger, however well deserved and natural, and out of the global media cowardice. National media continually portrays police as a wall of unquestionably heroic victims, to be pitied as they sustain flesh wounds while breaking bones within the unarmed mass of activists. This is a giant lie used to maintain order and fear of speaking out. In the USA, govt. surveillance and media suppression has revealed that ACTIVISTS and aggressive journalists are now equal to the COMMUNISTS of the 1940s and 50s. The new MacCarthyism is at hand. Police without exception see all expressions of Americans gathering to seek justice as dangerous irresponsible threats, Un-American. This is hysterical, post 9/11 paranoid bullshit running wild. In spite of the lowering of crime throughout the US, police are heavily armed with discarded military equipment, and militarized in ways no cop 30 years ago could have dreamt of. Nationwide police forces equate peaceful images of protest and activism in New York, Seattle, Oakland, Los Angeles streets with the violent scenes of London rioters, and destabilizing, revolutionary mobs in Tahir Square. They see violence and subversion everywhere, while "forgetting" the handful of violent acts nationwide is far eclipsed by the thousands of acts of brutality from police who've already rioted against unarmed, peaceful protesters. Our local and national government use local police now as emboldened branches of the military. This is even more egregious given the overall decline in crime all over the US. Police and government smear these activist patriots, who are speak out with a strong, proven track record of non-violence. All this happens for an entire year now, while New York pols and local governments bemoan the "unfortunate necessity" of managing, silencing assembly, opinion and crushing all open debate. Daily, we are told politely that we must not criticize pols for failure to speak out. That's right. Remember, all pols and journalists are helpless victims, only here to do a bare minimum of work with your tax money, and we can NEVER understand how hard their jobs are. Feel patronized yet? Well, you should. Honestly addressing, presenting issues is always out of their hands, they seek to be exempted from their moral responsibilities as Americans and humans. I love this country, but I hate political, human cowardice. Grow some balls. Many single mothers and homeless vets are far braver than alot of politicians. heavily-armed police and journalists.

I have some useful, real world perspective on the press, and how they covered the story. I was in the park on an official capacity everyday to monitor press presence, welcome them at press table, and rebut any sensational, manipulative attempts to discredit the people there. I had much fair, informed criticism of OWS, and offered it whenever asked, But I did what I could to at least witness the coverage as best I can, without getting directly involved, unless there was a need to question, intervene. All corporate media across the board portrayed Occupy Wall Street as a theater piece, not as a reflection of needed change, and each reporter saw him or herself as a master critic. The worst experience by far was meeting a defensive, condescending Susan Candiotti and her producer from CNN who were CLEARLY doing humanity a favor being there covering a leading story in the world through a corporate, often irresponsible lens. When questioned about the destructive, corporate viewpoint that didn't by any means show the intelligence or thoughtful goals of the movement, I stopped them cold to ask a simple question. THEY have to be in control. All corp media does. I was sick of the sustained "Who are these incoherent hippies, and what do they want" stories, I asked her why they ignored the older, more mature, articulate people n Zucotti for cheap sensationalism, and ignore the obvious, overreaching need for justice and change in society. Well, she and her producer hissed and exploded, acting as if we had a responsibility to comply with them, no matter how diminished this once great news center insisted on presenting the movement. CNN exhibited absolute, self-reverential ego on parade. Unprofessional, patronizing, dismissive. I was there everyday, as every news team from national and international media came at noon and 5pm for their bites, insisting they drive every conversation to avoid the most important topics.Actually, International media, (even those from Italy, France, Belgium, Spain and China) were more interested in the humanity of the gathering and need for connection, the need for the movement. American corp print and broadcast media consistently did so much work to diminish the humanity, the depth of need for debate, the anguish and pain of Americans in Zucotti Park and around the nation. The gathering itself of citizens to connect and share in this park was viewed as some incomprehensible oddity. It was far harder, Ms. Candiotti, to risk home, health and livelihood for thousands to work and stay in that park surrounded by violent, bullying police, than it was to cover it for a corporate news network. It was far harder, and even degrading, but it was done by most for a greater good, a goal so readily dismissed and seen as part of a "suspect" agenda that was never there.

Most ironcally, I was speaking at the New York Press Club the nght of November 15, the very night "Bloomberg's Army" descended on a sleeping Zucotti and trampled human rights, property rights, beat, teargassed and arrested credentialed press, and blocked the entire area. as if a nuclear attack was taking place. A mere four hours before this happened, I was telling NYPress Club members that the violence, and oppression of press was far worse than they imagined, and it was taking place in every major city that had a Occupy Camp in the USA. Many members in the NY press expressed severe doubt, claiming they would have known about the violence nationwide if it had taken place. I told them I monitored livestreams 24 hours a day , stayed awake overnite every night, because police always waited til after midnight to conduct their dozens and dozens of orchestrated raids on camps. Police held coordinated raids, up to six camps would be raided and demolished, with mass police violence, all over the US on the same night. I informed them how they could do the same, and gave them the websites of for a couple of livestreams. before I eft the speaking engagement, I challenged all of them, asked them how they can live with knowing police bullied press nationwide. Police all over the US intimidated and bullied press to leave every scene of tearing down a camp beforehand, threatening them with violence and arrest. They all caved, leaving unarmed, defenseless occupiers without witnesses to record the brutality that ensued. This had gone on for six weeks prior to the demolition of the New York camp. All over California, Seattle, Portland, Arizona, Nashville, Denver, there was spectacular violence. Routinely, overhead network news choppers feeds went black and they flew off just moments before police descended on these peaceful civilians as if they were deadly enemy combatants. This was sometimes the only signal to activists that a raid was coming, when the choppers turned and flew away. NYPress club was shocked, skeptical, but grateful for my point of view. They were somewhat doubtful of some of my reports of violence and oppressive police tactics, until they were all roused from their beds later that same night. Many known local news people were shoved, beaten and threatened trying to cover the eviction of Occupy Wall Street in Zucotti Park just a couple of hours later. Credentialed press was arrested, stripped of credentials, a routine threat that NYPD continually levels at all press covering the movement. Since my discussion, and the arrests, beating harassment of credentialed journalists, NYPress Club now has a group that fights the NYPD abuse of press and violation of the constitution that allows a free press unfettered access. I am very proud of that. When I went down to the barricades during the raid, Ray Kelly was there supervising, and ALL police illegally blacked out their badges. I saw alot of cop violence against unarmed kids, and bullying of the press. I lost total respect for entire police force and city government that night. They deserve no respect, and certainly not submission.

I spent months living through the movement, sharing with the world media the facts of political and police oppression and violence that was at first laughed off, but is now the focus of a huge, ongoing ACLU, UN involved initiative seeking police reforms and protection of press rights within the United States, and protection for protest within OWS. I am so proud of that involvement, of the ability to tell the world the truth about the systemic violence and oppression of the movement nationwide, and to discuss how social media was harnessed with great effect by OWS in reaching new supporters.

FOOTNOTES: History will ensure Michael Bloomberg and Ray Kelly are remembered for massive human rights and civil rights violations. Faced with over-reaching, hysterical reactions, law-abiding citizens are essentially compelled to totally disregard these men and all others like them in government capacities the US. We must totally disregard and clog the courts with fights challenging all Police directives concerning controlling constitutionally protected public behavior, and not to submit to denial of personal sovereignty soley to crush assembly and debate. If New York's mayor or police cared about health and safety, the subways, streets and sidewalks of New York City would be clean of urine, feces, rats, garbage, beggars, police crime and corporate corruption. They have no interest in that. Mayor Bloomberg's deep relationship with the board members of Brookfield Property, (owners of the land that is Zucotti Park), is just one small example of the power of one of the richest men in the world using intimidating wealth and influence in creating a closed circle of government. His world insists on total and complete personal control over citizens, with an absolute, blind allegiance to business at literally all cost, even when it damages society itself. He best exemplifies the need for sweeping government and business ethics reform. He is a worst case example.

BRAVO OCCUPY WALL STREET!

Dusting Off The Art Inside Myself

2012-06-28T01:41:00.001-07:00

I am wide awake at 2:30, asthma and some interactions with people troubling me. I am escaping into these words, and a beautiful old film. I'm watching Funny Face, Audrey Hepburn, Fred Astaire and the amazing Kay Thompson. Truth be told, I have done a dozen or more musicals, and this is making me miss that very, very much. It's a beautiful way to express yourself, and a beautiful way to share. Singing and even dancing with others, with an orchestra playing for you is transforming. Working together, giving a collaborative expression to a audience is like taking flight in a private jet. It's liberating, and you will never feel more alive than you are in that moment of giving to an audience.

Wanna know my deepest fear? Well, I'm much more comfortable confronting a famous politician, a pundit, newsmakers in the media over social issues and justice than I am confronting my own future, and what I still really want for myself. It's not self pity or even anger, it's just a fact that I don't know how to dream anymore, much less envision a future where what I want and need matters a damn. I lost me, and gave up on me a while ago. Didn't have much of a choice. So, I have been rattling cages, and nerves, for years now instead of doing what I've wanted to do.

When I see a timeless film, I am reminded that I'm not anywhere near finished as an artist, that my heart is still beating, my soul is still stirring, my untapped reservoir of skills and talent are ready to erupt like a volcano. Writing is wonderful, but it's just a small part of me, a small pressure valve. The toughest part of being me is how I struggle to allow myself to have sustainable hope for myself again, allowing myself to dream that I deserve to have a place among professional artists that I consider to be my peers. Though age and time may conspire against me, I ain't dead yet, and I've forgotten my own power, (beyond running my big mouth).... Investing in myself after not doing it for so long is unfathomably difficult and challenging. Still, Art is magic for me. Growing up with so much pain and loneliness, Art is what kept me alive. It was my only source of oxygen and light. I could turn my mind away during beatings, lonely days and nights and I could be transported into a life outside of the pain, into a life of possibility and belief in myself. I mentally escaped and fed my heart and soul by reading, studying film, singing, studying plays, dissecting performances, by soaking up technique from every great film and play I could get my hands on. Art literally was the only thing that tied me to this world as a child. It was my hope, my joy, and a way to share, be accepted, loved, respected and nurtured. I feel that my life, the part that belonged to me, died the last time I set foot on a stage. I've loved every minute of my life that I've spent on stage, or in front of a camera. And I have loved every minute of rehearsal, exploring the best way to create something meaningful to give. Just as I don't suffer fools regarding social justice online, I enjoy the visceral experience of acting in heavy, emotional works like Shakespeare tragedies, and modern dramas. Personally, I find sophisticated comedy much more difficult. But great musicals transcend time and emotion, soaring through it, then over it, then beyond it. Music can linger in emotion, in an unforgettable melody that lives longer in memory than any particular spoken words, laughter or blocking in a play.

In an attempt to channel my simmering passions, these last few years I've buried myself in activism, and trying to give a voice to those who have none. I've enjoyed speaking as myself for a change without censorship, and not speaking scripted lines as a "character". For me, it has been a rewarding but tiny substitute for changing the world through Art. People tend to find TRUTH much more palatable when it is wrapped up in Art. Speaking out over the last year has only made me more aware of my need to connect, and to become a working artist again. I had such great hopes, such success throughout the 80s, incredible praise and encouragement. I worked constantly, several projects a year for a decade, and then again in the 90s to strong critical reviews. After a series of misfortunes, I had to put all of myself, my goals, dreams, desires on the shelf. Eventually, I had to abandon the very things that kept me sane, alive engaged and even interested in life. I had to throw my dreams, and my soul into the garbage, and doing so pushed me to the brink of madness and self destruction. My entire identity was gone. Along the way, I had to disconnect myself from the pain of letting myself slip into uncertainty, and I lost much of my ability to experience my own emotions. Does this make sense? The truth is that I don't even know how to dream anymore. I think its sad that many people don't realize that there's a huge difference between living in fantasy and dreaming of your goals. I am working on learning how to dream again, and it is brutally tough at the moment. I desperately need to stimulate my heart and soul, to reignite my dreams, or to create new ones. But I find myself rather afraid to commit to even trying to make myself happy, and that stops me before I begin. Even so, I am not an old shoe that has outworn it's usefulness. I am in my prime, and I am not ready for curtain calls just yet.

I have worked hard the last 12 years challenging injustice, selfishness, helping people, and now I'm staring down the fact that the time has come for me to nurture myself. I'm struggling with a mighty beast, unsure of who or what I am becoming, as I approach my 49th birthday. I am haunted by the promise of the ghosts in my past, and by how many times I have been stopped brutally from following my heart. I long ago turned my eyes externally and have become grossly uncomfortable turning my gaze inward on myself, because too many times the answer to my prayers has been NO. I don't accept NO any longer.

It's ironic, but I used to see myself as a person who would never give up. But exhausted by misfortune, I did give up on finding love, getting married, having kids of my own, a home of my own, a comfortable future, and I gave up on my career. Up until this year, life has been a roller coaster of survival challenges, and wrestling with my own mortality. The ride seems to be ending, all of the steepest hills behind me now. At long last there is some calm. For the first time in decades really, I have the time and inclination to ask myself what I want out of life. But I do not recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I am very afraid to explore this current version of "me", and I have no sense of how to make an honest appraisal of who I am, what I have to work with here in 2012. Just asking myself what I WANT from life seems unfair, even cruel. I fear I will forever be a ghost of the person I was growing into in the 1980s. The acclaim, my potential as an artist and a man, the window of opportunity is long dead and gone.

I have absolutely no idea what is left of "me". If you have any ideas, or if you see me wandering in the streets, please let me know! Please keep in touch on Twitter, at BusterBNYC@twitter

What Wonders Will My Future Hold

2012-06-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

I have had many realizations in these last few weeks. They fall on me like snow on a frozen pond. Since I have moved, and freed myself from the burden of many habits, my soul is open and receptive to each new idea. I am happy to be in a holding pattern, and stepping as far back from all of my ideas about myself, justice and society as I can. What I continue to learn fills me with amazement, and some certainty about the choices that I must make.

I am not as far removed as I would like from the influence of the mental, spiritual and emotional toxins I have absorbed in my life, let alone within the last year. And everyday I learn something about myself, the character of man, and about how the world really works. Also, I learn how it does not, and cannot work. I am reminded every single day that it is only in stillness that I am able to become aware of some of the most wonderful, even obvious truths that have been hidden inside myself.

I have allowed myself to daydream, even fantasize about a future here in Miami Beach of philanthropy, producing and appearing in theater again. And yet, as soon as the thoughts ran through my mind, (and I found myself allowing them to blossom) as soon as I envisioned a path of action I could have easily followed, I began to endure a string of nasty experiences that made me stop dead in my tracks. This has forced me to ask myself some of the hardest questions I have put to myself.

I have long despaired over the tendency of Americans to isolate themselves in their homes, communities and beliefs. Even more, I despair over a lack of simple friendly, neighborly interaction. This is the isolation I speak of, and , sadly, it does spill over into our politics, so it does, indeed, affect the entire world. Yes, simply because we are alive, tho blithely unconcerned about it, we directly impact all life on Earth, and shape the future of the human race. Faith in human beings "to be good" is not the same as facing the reality of our behaviors and their consequences. Now in 2012, we think we are so evolved. We do everything we can to manage opinion, manage perception of action, manage expectations, but we cannot seem to manage our souls. More than any other form of isolation, the most damaging kind is that from the awareness of our own actions, and indeed responsibilities.

I am seriously reconsidering a long visit to Paris that I had postponed in 2005, only to take the job in New York that nearly killed me. Eventually, I can see myself moving to Europe, for over time I increasingly feel I cannot witness the continued decline of discourse and the erosion of tolerance in this country. The world is far too rich, exciting and beautiful to go unseen. While the values the people in Europe seem strange to us, it is simply because we lack the history they have, and ability to reflect on ourselves. They have these, because they are the cradle of civilization. I see the United States, it's isolation, smugness and intolerance dragging the rest of the world down with it, due to our insidious reach in popular culture. We judge everyone on their morals but we cannot do that for ourselves. And that will bring much peril. It has already started taking a toll on society.

I have felt the social sting of American isolationism, and I am not talking about politics. I am speaking of the way we consider, treat, value and respect each other as individuals. We communicate so poorly, and we have lowered our expectations to such a degree that we tolerate everything. We accept the unacceptable everyday in our society, suffering, neglect, and we see people as disposable if they oppose our goals. I've observed social norms for some time. With my trust issues, due to my "difficult" upbringing, I have been without circles of friends, and without love for much of my life. This has given me a ringside seat to our society, and has revealed much. I am speaking out about the ever-diminishing kindness that Americans show to each other, and our total disregard for the needs, wants and humanity of our fellow human beings.

In America, we are isolated by much more than oceans on either side, and we live completely disinterested in the lessons that history has already taught the rest of the world. We have in us all the good that any humans have ever had, but we refuse to harness it. Instead we are trained well to be distracted by media messaging and "selling techniques" that keep us behaving in a convenient, lazy manner. Other nations are not, yet, so influenced, because they know more, have endured more, and tried more than we ever can. We arrogantly think "they don't know what they are doing" just because they don't have our system of government, or a Walmart in every town. Yet, we must consider that most Europeans value open debate, protest, friendship, family, and quality of life. They actually favor a greater good for society and a respect for history, rather than living lives devoted to buying new toys. That is because their countries have seen horrific conflicts we cannot even imagine. Our failure to imagine, sadly, equals a failure to prepare for calamity. Didn't we learn this on September 11, 2001? It seems we have learned precious little if one looks at our actions. We certainly do not talk as a society about even beginning to address the issues that keep people divided, suffering and enraged.

Now, as a society, we say we shouldn't discuss religion or politics. But not doing so has drawn lines in the sand that no one dares cross openly, and so much distance has grown over time, that we can barely even tolerate a difference of opinion, belief, thought, lifestyle, or even race. Actions across the divides of beliefs are now strictly underground, without expression, and they burn, doing unseen damage to the fabric of society. We are now outright hostile and hateful in this country. As a nation we buy so many, many things that drain us of needed resources and insight, to distract us from addressing our differences. Over time, we become walled into prisons of our own making. I think that perhaps, to save myself and to restore my faith in others, that simply looking at life through the prism of beliefs in this nation may not be enough to find happiness or fulfillment.

Stay tuned. I am not sure what the future holds. But I do know it will be much more exciting and rewarding than I could have planned previously.

Please keep in touch on Twitter, at BusterBNYC@twitter

An OWS Open Letter To Law Enforcement Agencies and Robert DeNiro

2012-05-01T11:27:00.003-07:00

In a poor neighborhood in New York City, a well dressed African American mother steps out of her front door to begin her day. She is an American Hero, living her life with dignity and bravery without guns, weapons, or corporate sponsorship. She has no powerful unions behind her, no brotherhood or sisterhood to fight for her against injustice. She is armed with integrity, morality, compassion, and enough anger to propel her into action. As she steps out into the daylight, she looks both ways, making sure there are no suspicious characters. She notices an NYPD squad car driving very slowly up her block, past her apartment door. She trembles for a moment as she puts her keys in her purse. At that moment, she hopes her teen-age boys, both star athletes and good students, remember what she has told them about how to act if they are stopped by police, which could happen simply because they are walking down the street. She worries that her sons may not live long enough to fulfill their promise. She worries about the prejudice and hatred she sees everyday. Her oldest son was already picked up by police once, walking home at night, because he reached in his pocket to pull out an ipod just as an NYPD squad car that had been monitoring him approached. An officer drew his gun, told the boy to drop his ipod. She doesn't dwell on the fact that he could have ben shot. For her, and for her boys, it is just a fact of daily life. After her son was detained and taken into custody, the child was released without charge. Of course he was. He was 16. In her childhood, this young woman grew up with a respect of authority. As an adult, she now fears police, and does not see them as authorities, just arbitrary, unaccountable bullies. Bullies that can kill with impunity.

This proud woman has called in sick today. Realizing she is not really protected, neither by the NYPD or the mayor, she is taking this day a small action, so innocuous and defiant, that no one can see what will happen to her. She is angry that police allow open drug trafficking in broad daylight throughout her Washington Heights neighborhood. When she was burglarized, no police report was filed. Her home had been ransacked, and the police mocked her, implied she was a slob, and left her own home in disarray when they came to her door. She is mad that she cannot allow her children to play in parks near the George Washington Bridge because of guns and gangs controlling the entire neighborhood. Gangs supply drugs openly 24 hours a day, to people who drive across from New Jersey, pick up their goods, and go back home. Its a fast turnaround. She thinks it is ironic that violent gangs operate with the same impunity and encouragement as Wall Street firms that destroyed the economy, and the lives of millions of Americans. She wonders how much the police know of the deeply rooted drug and gun crimes around her home, and she also wonders how many of them are possibly involved, since there is no visible improvement. Last year, two men were shot on the corner in front of her house. She wants to move, but can't afford it. Crime seems only to be getting worse. She knows police resources are drained by protecting bank buildings, the richest, lowest crime neighborhoods, and crushing OWS protest for the last year. She is repulsed by what she sees and hears in her city, a city she has loved and called home for her entire life. Armed with her wits and a strong moral compass, she is far, far braver than most in any uniform can claim to be.

An hour later, she arrives is in downtown Manhattan, getting off the train at Wall Street. She looks around, and walks along just outside the police barricades. She is in the belly of The Beast. She is, as always, taken aback by the staggering police presence, the assault weapons, the financial resources spent to protect bankers and businessmen from seeing, hearing or witnessing the outrage of the Americans to whom they have brought so much suffering and injustice. Police are everywhere, including the obnoxious Hipster Cop, and the Wall Street regular, overfed, overreaching thugs who always let you know much they hate having to deal with people, and just how much they hate OWS.

She rests for a moment on public bench, on her way to an Occupy Wall Street protest that will march from Zucotti Park to Union Square. The march will be protesting police brutality, and how it is used to defend and even promote continued income inequality. The police are watching her. She doesn't care, she is sitting on a bench in a public place. She knows about the massive donations to Police funds from Chase and other Wall Street firms all around her that buy a great deal of protection from the public outrage the banks have brought upon themselves. Today she vows to make a difference. She takes a sip from the water bottle in her purse and places it on the bench.

A young man sits beside her. He is tired, thin, not well dressed, but he smiles politely and says hello. The Police move in. "You have to move" they say. "You can't sit here. Move along." Dozens of cops slowly creep towards the bench from all directions. "We told you to move" ... The young man gently and firmly replies "I am doing nothing wrong. I am sitting on a public bench in a public place. I am staying here" As he protests, a policeman takes out a camera and videotapes the man, and the woman. She says gently "What is the issue, officer? This is a public bench, Can't we just sit here?" "NO. You Can't.We told you to move, and this is the last time I will ask" Two dozen police are now encircling the pair on the bench. Spooked the lady rises and says "Come on" to the young man. He states "No. It is my right to sit on this bench. What you are doing is illegal." "The cops bark out " Lock him up. Get him outta here. " He is picked up, zip cuffed and dragged, calmly, around the corner and out of sight. The woman protests. A policeman shoves her, as observers around yell "Cameras! Cameras! We need you to film this right now!" The policeman shoves her first with his chest them with his hands. A police lady, bellowing in her trained masculine monotone yells" We told you to move" and grabs the woman's arm. The woman reaches up reflexively, touching the officers sleeve. Female officer "DID YOU JUST TOUCH ME? Did you just touch me?" The male officer jumps in, wrestles the woman to the ground as she screams, pins her down, purposely painfully twisting her arms behind her back, putting a knee in the small of her back while the lady officer places her boot firmly on the woman's face, grinding it into the pavement. She is arrested, and charged with assaulting an officer. She was forced to submit to a retinal scan, and entered, along with the thousands and thousands of peaceful protesters, into a government counter terrorism database. For sitting on a bench.

When doing law enforcement, and fighting real crime, (and often crime within its own ranks), I applaud police. They do great work. But a large segment I do not, will not, and have no respect for. In NYPD many shrug, say "I'm just following orders" and then bash people in the head for being in a park. Cowardly spineless tools of evil. We have laughably heroic, repugnant post 9/11 TV versions of NYC police life, like BLUE BLOODS, LAW AND ORDER, or THE ROOKIES, and other crap, a new one produced by DeNiro, WILL THEY EVER HAVE THE INTEGRITY BALLS OR VORACITY TO SHOW THE REAL PUBLIC FACE of police in the USA? When will you TV producers devote over a years worth of episodes on TV cop shows that will realistically show librarians being punched in the face for sitting on a bench or standing on a sidewalk, young and old people being tear gassed, tased, shot with rubber bullets, beaten, dragged along the ground by their hair, having their heads bashed into windows by NYPD? New York's Finest Criminals? There have been months of sustained violence, crimes, rights abuses and bloody incidents perpetrated by police that SHOCK THE WORLD but get no attention here. Because TV, MSM and producers have no balls. Show that Mr DeNiro and redeem yourself, and your integrity as an artist. I'm from Chicago, and I saw the 1968 convention police riot live. I also saw the same horseshit live everyday throughout the land since last October in major cities like Seattle, Portland, Oakland, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Chicago, Denver, Nashville, Miami, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, you name it. But you wont touch that, will you Mr DeNiro? On 9/11 and beyond, many people were "heroes" that weren't paid to be heroes, and that continues to this day. Doctors, teachers, firefighters, people living in poverty, seniors who built this nation and are now robbed by it, vets who fought for us and get so little in return, all are just as if not more heroic than cops. It takes no courage to be paid, pick up weapons to fight a peaceful unarmed foe. It takes no courage to be wealthy, to idolize people unrealistically and without reason more than the millions and billions of other brave souls on this Earth.

The overall intenion of the criminalization of protest, the demonization of speech and assembly is clear. In a tactic as old as Karl Rove or perhaps Dick Cheney, FBI chose today, May Day, to announce an anarchist plot to blow up a bridge, In a carefully timed coincidence, they routinely trot out NEW TERROR, NEW HOMEGROWN THREATS just as people are about to act independently. They want the public to see all protest as a danger to national security, when the danger to our national security has been going on in boardrooms and government halls for decades. It is an old trick, bait and switch, and a laughably predictable one. OMG! ***They want you all to fear young people meeting and discussing ideas that might make this country a better and more just place. ***Apparently justice not metered by courts or a voting box is a threat to police, government, society, gerbils, puppies, kittens, apple pie, FOX News, Billionaires that KNOW EVERYTHING you stupid poor people don't, and all that is good in America! Lock and load your guns people, cower in fear as you place your hands over your hearts and weep! While police throughout the country instigate and incite every type of violence they say they seek to avoid, look at our own police, nationwide. They are no more heroes than the men, women and children living in shitty neighborhoods that keep our nation divided.

Consider the size and scope of the NYPD alone, as an example over the last couple of decades, the criminal activity there versus the criminalized peaceful citizens of OWS and other activists groups that our government monitors and seks to disperse.. This same scrutiny clearly applies to the violent police in Oakland, Los Angeles and Chicago. In past years and currently, NYPD uniformed officers there are involved in numerous reports AND CONVICTIONS of rapes, use of military crowd dispersal weapons against peaceful civilians, beatings that result in death while in custody, torture, sex scandals, tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice, murders, domestic abuse, wrongful deaths, ticket fixing, drug crimes, gun trafficking crimes, collusion with gangs, you name it. Not to mention intimidation and racial profiling in our inner cities. Every violent crime and violation of rights imaginable has been done by police within the force, yet our police and governments want to focus on "protecting" Americans from thought, actions and ideas that founded this nation- because they might inhibit government and corporations from manipulating you into a deeper hole from which there is no escape? They want to steer Americans into benign obedience and controlled expression, falsely believing it maintains peace. Every soldier who ever died for American freedoms and rights should rise up from their graves and remove every weapon from every officers hand until they take an oath to serve the people, not to control, intimidate or antagonize them. Too many militarized, paranoid, twitchy and hostile Police now feel an US vs THEM war is going on. And they started it.

It takes a "certain person" to want to bully and force submission from citizens. Altruistic law enforcement has gone by the wayside, replace by increased stress on controlling populations, using military tactics on public gatherings and speech, controlling behavior, chasing, stalking, monitoring and intimidating citizens into "playing by the rules" that were never written, and never will be. The rules change at the whim of those with enough money to inspire loyalty and fear from those seeking power and paychecks.

The children on our streets, who witness firsthand or online these cowardly, criminal acts are the real victims, seeing a much darker, controlled and sinister side of society that will inform their opinions of the rightful role of government. NYPD demands fear and submission, skirts all laws, and cherry picks which federal agencies it will inform of its activities. It has a vast array of new toys and military equipment, thanks to the federal government.

Just another day in New York City..... Freedom of Assembly, Freedom of Expression, freedom of taxpayers to use their own property is now controlled by the NYPD and DHS in every way. Submit to control, and overall behavioral management, or be arrested, intimidated, stalked, and put into a counter terrorism database.

These same things, and much, much worse have happened to teenaged girls, politicians, students, grandmothers, grandfathers, military war vets, and even retired police who support the Occupy movement. and all other activists organizations, now labeled as a terrorist threat by DHS and all lawenforcement agencies. Even animal rights groups and environmental groups are heavily monitored and thwarted by government agencies.

It will stop when Americans put a stop to police oppression and give a crushing, critical rebuke to all of the overreaching tactics used to oppress, manage, control, stifle, intimidate and monitor behavior, speech, and the right to gather in public places.

Is this the country you want your children to see as the future? A country guided openly and subversively by fear? Or do we want a country of hope and cooperation? What will it be? Are you waiting for someone to tell you what the future will be? They are telling you now.

Please keep in touch on Twitter, at BusterBNYC@twitter

A Walk On The Beach

2012-04-25T21:29:00.000-07:00

I now begin my days with a sunrise walk on the calm white sands of Miami Beach, a million miles from the chaotic, narrow streets of Lower Manhattan. For now, I am no longer in the midst of throngs of energized protesters, speaking to the world press about the need for battling corruption, or fighting for social change. Instead, my morning companions are the tide, flocks of seagulls, a few determined early joggers, and a predictable couple of older men combing the sand with their metal detectors, searching for treasure. The peace, and the tremendous beauty of the tropical beach is my treasure. In many ways, I have struck it rich.

Suddenly, I have found a serenity, and a refuge that has brought me perhaps the greatest clarity of my life. It took several weeks of spiritual detox to remove the stressed conditioning I acquired in New York, and in my adrenaline fueled months reporting to the world on behalf of Occupy Wall Street. Hell, this place is so free from those familiar stresses that most days I feel like I live in a permanent vacation. I no longer have to worry about seeing 60 year old librarians punched in the face while sitting in a park by overweight cops. For now, I am free from seeing teenaged girls beaten and bloodied, or dragged by their hair along the ground and stomped in the face by the boots of the NYPD. I made what may have appeared to have been a very rash, sudden decision to leave New York, a city I still love, a city I recently swore that I would never leave. Only through finding peace, have I been able to strip away much of the intensity of emotion and rage that clouded my expression. I hope to have a much clearer voice going forward in all aspects of my life. My care and concern for my fellow travelers on Earth has only deepened in recent weeks.

Aside from the crushing expenses of living in NYC and the stress of my injury sustained there in '06, I came to realize in January that I had become trapped in a life of stress and striving for relevance from which there was only one escape. Leaving. During my time in New York, I met the most amazing people, activists, veterans, great artists, newsmakers, musicians, actors, international royalty, architects, "stars" and incredibly fascinating people. But meeting them, interacting with them, even running among them, I found myself never really sharing or getting close to knowing any of them. I was never allowed entry into the lives of the inspiring, amazing souls I think of as my creative and intellectual peers. I realized I would be forever kept at arm's length from the connection I so desperately sought with the very people I could best relate to. New York, like Twitter, gives the illusion of attainability and "sharing". But, that kind proximity does not include a measurable depth of connection to the people you interact with.

Oh, New York is a fun, expensive, tantalizing place to live, and above all, shop. At it's best, New York is a glorified shopping mall, overloaded with franchises, big-box stores, and cliche boutiques, from Madison Avenue on the Upper East Side all the way down to Chinatown. Still, New York is not much more than that-unless, of course, you are independently wealthy. I am not so blessed. Tourists don't much care that George Washington was sworn in as President in Lower Manhattan, or that many sights mentioned in Edith Wharton books are still hidden there. To me, New York is a faded star, living off the legacy of a former vitality and lost cultural greatness. Now, long past her prime, and in the midst of historic reinvention, she lacks a sense of self, or a real soul. It is an ever fading shadow of it's former self, and now relies of tourism and shopping to stay afloat. Oh well, at least the airports are somewhat convenient.

A single man, bursting with creativity, abilities and independent ideas is the last thing New York needs or wants. So, I chose freedom from stress, from the absurdly unjustifiable high-cost of living. I also knew I had to get far, far away from the violence I saw and heard of daily against innocent, law-abiding Americans, from the NYPD and Mike Bloomberg. The governance of the city, the overreaching, even evil abuse of citizens and the violation of human rights is breathtaking. By living there, and not raising a voice to challenge it, all New Yorkers, rich and poor, are complicit. I could no longer be a part of the diseased values New York City holds so dear. Most people just hunker down in the homes they have hollowed out for themselves, blinders firmly in place that insulate them from social responsibility. A large percentage of New Yorkers, and Americans, have the financial means to make a difference in this world, but too often don't even see the needs of their millions of neighbors. I did see the needs. And everyday, I saw more and more injustice, and I am more and more driven to do what I can for my fellow humans. I saw so much it made me angry, at times it tore me up inside. But it has given me fuel that will last throughout my lifetime.

So, I left New York on February 8th, and I have not looked back. I was liberated. I sold everything I owned, save for a few pictures and my laptop. I arrived in Miami Beach as I had arrived in New York eight years earlier, with very little, a totally clean slate, and a vast trove of experience on a world stage to quietly tinker with in my own space and time. I knew no one in my new city, carrying with me two suitcases, a traumatized cat named Napoleon, and 5 boxes of memories. It has become clear that the best way for me to make a difference is to be somewhat physically removed from the front lines, to maintain a vital role as an active observer and custodian, not just a critic. To the best of my ability, I am going to devote myself to covering and commenting on issues of importance to me and to humanity from a more humane, stable base of operations. Above all else I have resolved to be kinder to myself in the process of helping others, something I have sorely neglected, and it has cost me dearly.

I am returning to writing, and will be exploring other venues for expressing my views as well. I have my critical eye shaply focused on the same issues of social justice I advocated in months past.

Keep in touch on Twitter, at BusterBNYC@twitter

A Personal Thank You To Mayor Bloomberg and Rupert Murdoch

2011-11-06T00:10:00.000-07:00

Thank you, Mike Bloomberg, for your continued protection of a pedestrian walkway from pedestrians. FINALLY someone stepped up to the plate and closed this enormous gap in our security! A grateful nation applauds your courageous blockade of Wall Street! Everyday, as I walk past Zucotti Park, I thank my lucky stars that YOU were here. Lord knows, any other mayor would have never been intellectually, morally or financially as knowledgeable or capable of protecting the people of New York from the people of New York. I hope your friends know that they can come out from under the table now. They are at long last safe from the ungrateful, ignorant American Citizens who have yet to be directly blessed by your financial generosity and patronage.

The cobblestones of Wall Street and Broad Street, a wide open pedestrian walkway and major tourist attraction, are safe from democratic assembly that could impact the way you and your friends manipulate a system that has been your cash cow.You are right- the unsightly presence of the great unwashed in the Occupy Wall Street Mob, who just REFUSE to stop speaking freely and assembling peacefully, is destroying the quality of life for everyone and causing enormous public safety concerns! As you so wisely predicted, businesses, banks and respectable citizens are lining up in droves to flee Manhattan through the Holland Tunnel. I mean, have you seen the way these idealistic, deluded protesters have recklessly stood in the way of police guns, and have been intentionally hit by batons, tear gas canisters and rubber bullets all over the country? Those idiotic protesters are always standing right in the path of projectiles, even when the Oakland Police were aiming guns at their heads! What morons. How dare they stand on sidewalks and streets! Don't they know the sidewalks and streets of the USA belong to poor overworked mayors and police departments to arbitrarily close at their will? You would think the ordinary citizens had actually PAID FOR the right to be on sidewalks, streets and in parks!!!! Idiots! And the vets? After going abroad and fighting for the rights of Americans to be shoved around, censored and falsely portrayed in Murdoch's lying partisan propaganda machine - who do they think they are? They act like they are entitled to wave the Bill of Rights around like they OWN IT! They must be stopped!

Those crazy, crazy guys should feel lucky that only two veterans, that we know of, have been viciously brutalized by police actions. When Scott Olsen is recovered from his head injuries, I hope the police remind him of how thankful he should be that they just didn't kill him for the brazen criminal act of just standing there! As if he had the right to do it! He's not even a millionaire! I hope you keep it up, Napoleon Bloomberg, and encourage the NYPD to continue mocking protesters and illegally hiding their names from the citizens they are sworn to protect! I mean, they aren't REALLY sworn to protect citizens are they?*wink wink*

Mayor Bloomberg, you clearly seem to be the ONLY man capable of leading this city, and you've already declared yourself as the Greatest Mayor New York has ever had... Would you please explain to the people who owe you their lives, and whose duty it was to vote for you, why they are idiots to think they deserve more protection than streets and businesses? Seriously, the citizens of the United States and New York City are downright delusional! They have to be taught! And telling them the truth wont help, so please continue rejecting 311 calls from Zucotti Park, and continue ordering NYPD to stand down at the park and to ignore the crimes people report as they do per your orders and Little Mayor Kelly. I mean if the park is actually protected by police, you can't go on TV and radio and lie about how the protesters don't report crime! And when you take the generators away in harassing behavior, and you do not allow port-a-potties that so many celebrities have offered to provide (because you don't want these people to have sanitation), you create the distractions and much needed safety concerns that didn't exist! Now you can set about the important work of portraying these lawless, fornicating animals the way they should be smeared! I meant portrayed, sorry.

You know, I support OWS and go to Zucotti everyday. I cannot tell you how many times I have been raped and murdered, urinated on, smeared with feces and told that the group hates Israel. Mr. Murdoch - if you have a second to lift your head up from counting your pile of gold coins - that's what I'm supposed to say, right? Maybe I should ask Breitbart. With your legal troubles, Mr Murdoch, and the huge ethical questions swirling around your integrity and your businesses, I really shouldn't be troubling you right now. I'm sorry. That was pretty low of me, wasn't it. And, I applaud the fearless investigative journalism you have insisted on at FOX for delving deep into the British Hacking Scandal, and your near ouster at NewsCorp. By objective, relentless investigation you reveal your high moral standing as a media mogul. Truth above all else, even personal agenda- so brave, so very inspiring.

Oh, Rupert, Rupert, Rupert.....You truly inspire billions of people all around the world through your work. And your close relations with Mayor Bloomberg are touching. Thank you for helping him spread the RIGHT kind of propaganda. It would be awful if the Post or Wall Street Journal focused on the movement of Occupy Wall Street, and it's gathering momentum. Psst- between you and me, I think I saw a few protesters raping the carriage horses outside of Central Park! In broad daylight! the American People need to know this!!! Is there still time to get that on the front page of tomorrow's Post? It would be heartbreaking waste of an opportunity if people actually saw this group as the broadly supported movement internationally that it is. Why haven't the police started killing them yet? And why hasn't Homeland Security started to "disappear" people yet? Guantanamo is probably too nice for these jobless, lazy, pot-smoking, oversexed hippies anyway. Both of you men are so right to protect the American People from the truth! Why don't the people in middle America get it through their stupid heads that Businesses run the show, and the politicians here! The only thing Real Americans need to do is sit in front of the TVs, keep their money in big banks, and do alot of shopping, right? The lazy unemployed bastards are always just ignoring the millions of unfilled jobs here in the USA. Disgusting socialist pigs. Only businessmen and millionaires make good policy, everyone should know that by now? How could anyone not living off of Wall Street know anything? Duh....

In closing, I don't know why you two men, Mayor Bloomberg and Rupert Murdoch, don't just build an electric fence around Zucotti Park? Wait- why not build it around every bank, park and street entrance? Someone has to keep the Americans out of America! Actually, Bloomberg could treat them all to pizza, or better yet, a last meal from Cipriani's! Then, you can line them up and shoot them all against the walls of the buildings at Wall & Broad Streets! As a great lesson to future generations! Do it near the shrapnel marks on the walls from that early 20th Century Anarchist bombing at the stock exchange that killed people! Because *wink wink* we all know that's what these people are here for, right? I do wish these mongrels would get on with it and just violently riot already. The police must be exhausted from having to do all their own rioting in this country! That is an unfair burden to place on our public *wink wink* servants! The NYPD deserves a spa day and mani-pedis as an expression of thanks, paid for by the Occupy Wall Street Movement! I hope those ungrateful arrested, beaten protesters are sued and forced to pay every cent of a week-long spa retreat!
Ungrateful bastards. Bill of Rights? Human Rights? Don't make me laugh. All that pot must have given them some sense of entitlement. Losers.

Please keep in touch on Twitter, at BusterBNYC@twitter

America - A Nation Bloodied By Police

2011-10-26T23:21:00.000-07:00

On this quiet Fall morning, I turned on my laptop, as I always do, to see what is going on in the world. While the computer warmed up, I fed my cat, shaved, washed up, and got dressed. I was a little groggy, having been up the night before, horrified and repulsed by the violence at Occupy Oakland against peaceful citizens by police and law enforcement from 16 agencies. As a press relations person and spokesperson for Occupy Wall Street, I find myself standing in the midst of history. I had purposely decided not to watch video of people being brutalized in Oakland that I knew would be upsetting before going to bed, but I did see images of people seriously wounded by rubber bullets, and a truly disturbing picture of a woman in a wheelchair engulfed in a cloud of teargas.

To be clear, I support police in fighting crime, but not in violently fighting against the people to whom they are merely servants, using protected expression. There is intentionally no time stamp on the rights granted in the constitution. The parade of monolithic problems facing this country have festered for generations, and yet to assemble and engage in public discourse must be stopped, violently, as if the world, human life will deteriorate into chaos. Police, media and other agencies nationwide have created unwritten, unchallenged laws, allowing them to portray using these rights as an "inconvenience" or "public safety issue", and therefore indicting the innocent, and absolving the guilty. This is borne out of complacency and fear. When the people protesting in the 60's cried out to challenge authority, authority was not merely government or police, it was institutional silence, corruption, laziness, fear. Authority also represented laws which long stood to marginalize women, minorities, and anyone who questioned any government edicts. Out of laziness, it seems, we are wanting to be lead by others, allowing a dangerous, arbitrary consolidation of power to "control" how we express and respect or dismiss ideas, each other, and all too often, truth itself.

I decided, after grabbing a cup of coffee that I would try to delve into some of the graphic images, and was confronted with one of the most disturbing images I have ever seen in my lifetime. I saw an Iraq War Vet shot in the face with a projectile by Oakland Police. His crime? Standing on a street in the United States Of America, exercising rights of free assembly and speech, protected acts recognized by the United Nations and the United States Constitution. At least, they were once recognized in the United States. Our family is bleeding in the streets, while our politicians, police and other public servants, media and religious leaders stand by silently, wiping their bloody feet on the US Constitution and Bill Of Rights. And, they lie, boldfaced lie, to justify their acts. Who is going to challenge them, right? Isn't the world safer when the police can mobilize, brutalize an entire population with just a few minutes notice and with total impunity? So comforting.

President Obama, Vice President Biden, Hillary Clinton, all elected and public officials, religious leaders, have been silent, and therefore complicit in the violent acts. The media has been deadly silent, in an Orwellian, surreal fashion as if to dismiss every event. Yet this is all too familiar. Press will say "But the police say the protesters were violent". We are violently abused is the truth. NO ONE will challenge a POLICE line, because, heaven knows, they have n*e*v*e*r made mistakes that have caused injury or taken a life. GOD FORBID! We noticed the same thing happening in other nations around the world this year. Their media was blacked out, vetted incredibly and consciously. TV portrayed sunny scenes of propaganda as bullets flew past the bleeding, abused citizens dying in the streets.

The tactics, the types of forces, the huge mass of resources poured into fighting proven peaceful protests since the Occupy Movement began in NYC in September are staggering. A peaceful group of American citizens, some old, some young, some middle aged of all political beliefs, religions, races, professions and levels of education are in the group in every city and every town in America. The simple goals of the group are the stuff of Fifth Grade Social Studies. It's about civic responsibilities, not letting power be consolidated in too few people, not to allow government to function beyond it's intended structure and means. It reminds us ALL that we have an obligation to actively defend democracy, our freedom, which is thwarted the moment you become complacent and turn away. And we have, clearly, been turned away far, far too long.

The movement I support simply has provided safe public, transparent places for people to gather, discuss how to work toward common solutions with our constitution to combat the incestuous relationships between wealth, politics, government, finance and business that have thrown us into a spiral of unending inequity and corruption. The Occupy Movement seeks to provide an open and transparent forum to discuss ideas, to get people in thinking for themselves, to rediscover the joy of respectful public debate, and to set an example of how people can get along if they relate to each other as equals on a HUMAN level first, and not as potential consumers to be sold goods or legislation, or as potential adversaries politically. We are all, simply, people, all affected by weather, economics, government and many other factors.

Yet, merely assembling, having intelligent discussions, just existing has been seen as such an insidious threat, so dangerous and radical, that these assemblies must be crushed using all brutal force available. The amount of press, on-air and in print, that has been devoted to actively portraying the people involved, myself included as unclear, uninformed, unintelligent, dirty, drug-abusing, bongo-playing hippies with foolish idealism, is a disservice to the nation. I know, we are simply terrifying right? We are as terrifying as a box of kittens. One that is very often beaten to a bloody pulp by OUR public servants. The ones who serve us demand OUR service to them, blind acceptance and allegiance at all times, or face violence, smearing tactics, and total removal. When did we lose the democracy we preach so hypocritically around the globe?

I do support police, and when they fight crime, I support them fully. Police are NOT doing their job when they turn on the people from whom they draw their salaries with brutality, and dehumanizing destruction. It is NOT ANYONE'S JOB to crack open the skulls of our veterans, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and parents. It is NOT ANYONE'S JOB to gas children, people in wheelchairs, and to try to intimidate, threaten extreme physical harm if they do not move as instructed from public spaces they are constitutionally allowed to occupy. Particularly disgusting is any law preventing MEDIA from covering mass arrests, and laws or actions preventing police to be photographed, or ID'd when doing brutal acts against peaceful, unarmed civilians. They are as accountable to law as any citizen, and any laws allowing them to shield themselves must be stricken. IMMEDIATELY. And police can use their own minds, without fear of betraying a violence prone band of brothers. Only a coward will execute an order that is clearly in violation of every law, every right recognized in the civilized world. Next time you raise your fist or mace or a baton, picture yourself swinging it at your mother, your kids. America now enforces local curfews and small ordinances with teargas, rubber bullets and beanbags often fired directly at the heads of people in Oakland. This is your law enforcement, America. These- THESE violent criminals are your public servants, and you are paying for them. Are you happy?

Don't you feel safer knowing that you are protected from people having peaceful discussions and gathering in public spaces? You know, THEM? "Those" people... Ewww..... They're not like us, they probably deserved to be beaten, maced, arrested without cause because they don't look like US, right? Above all, you MUST be suspicious of ALL people, because life is a playground, and EVERYONE that isn't exactly like you is going to steal all of your cookies! Right, FOXNEWS? LOAD THE GUNS! The people are coming to steal your cookies now! Oh my GOD! Call Rupert Murdoch! He'll save us! Aren't you glad that you are being protected from thinking for yourself? Aren't you glad the politicians, media and corporations LIKE it when you live as they direct you to live? It's easier like that, isn't it?

Aren't you happy to know that violating your local park curfew is punishable by incredible brutality that subverts the US Constitution? You are safe now from having intelligent, kind, gentle people interacting in public. What a relief! But the fact that there are so many kind, intelligent, considerate people who care about their country so much that they gather at length- isn't that SCARY? The police, and Right Wing fearful media tell you to fear all intelligent discussion or assembly for any reason- because you MUST be AFRAID of OTHER PEOPLE! They might infect you with kindness, intelligence, insight, and compassion. That cannot be allowed to flourish in this land! Apparently. When has discussion about our own rights been scary?

Well, the world is changing, and together, free peopel everywhere are taking control of their own destinies because the government founded to serve them serves itself, only! It's kind of uor local, stae and federal governments to allow us too pay taxes and be abused by any public servant that chooses to do so, with complete impunity!! WOO HOO!

After I say HAPPY HALLOWEEN to you all, go trick or treating, and just don't conjur up any evil spirits, you know like peaceful protesters, or worse- Satan/RupertMurdoch!

I have to hope for the best as I saw police walking into Zucotti and hour ago with hundreds plastic zip ties. Meanwhile, the whole world literally watches, and thank GOD. We have done rather well to expose even more social ills and inequities than anyone expected. The Human Rights and Constitutional issues alone are breathtaking, and on them rest all we need to accomplish to have any integrity in this world.

Not such bad work for a group of, as FOX NEWS would call us, Evil, Communist, Radical, Subversive, Dirty, Leftwing Extremist, Anti-Semitic, Illiterate, Guitar Strumming, Pot-Smoking, Rapist, Bongo Playing Hippies, Eating Like Kings, Too Lazy To Work, etc. Not bad for a days work. Die, FOX News, NewsCorp! You represent the very worst, the insidious evil, paranoid, fascist bullshit that the United States has fought since 1776. You embody every ill the Constitution was designed to protect us from, like LIES, GREED, MALICIOUSNESS and HATE. Your hacking scandal- hacking the lines of dead people and victims of terrorism.... how have you covered that on FOX? Being fair and balanced, you must have given that story and the near ouster of Rupert alot of airtime. Uh oh...Look out! I see the walls starting to tumble down around you!!! About damned time. Good riddance to paranoid, fascist, smearing trash.

Please keep in touch on Twitter, at BusterBNYC@twitter

The Best In Humanity Staring DownThe Worst In Humanity-Insideous Evil

2011-10-18T21:26:00.000-07:00

Everday, as peaceful protesters assemble in local public spaces, the urgent need for reform becomes clearer. What is needed goes far deeper than simple economic equality, or the relationship between business, money and government. It involves no longer allowing branches of our system or businesses that we patronize to function in such a closed way, with so much impunity, that they can routinely violate the constitutional rights of peaceful customers or taxpaying citizens by using violence, physical and financial abuse, censorship and other pressures to preserve their own self interests.

These practices CAN NO LONGER STAND at the expense of the citizens to whom they owe their very existence. Our bloated political system, as it is, remains a completely ineffective way to affect change. All citizens and consumers have to drive their own economic and political cars in this country where they want it to go, when they want it to go, and in a way that serves their needs. In doing so, they can and will strip the banks, businesses and politicians of their powers to lord over folks who are abused and violated by their arrogance, selfishness, and rampant greed masked in the comic guise of service. Start serving, stop worrying about your longevity. Have some moral fortitude or find yourself a new species to consort with. Enough.

In the United States, "Big Banks" have been enabled to rig their customer agreements, in the most microscopic of print, to make it impossible for you to close your own bank accounts if you are a part of a protest!!! Even my brother in-law, who has been part of a family-owned bank business for generations, was angered and disgusted by this action. He was here with me when the first known "violators of this policy" were apprehended and imprisoned by the bank that "served" them. This past Saturday, 24 peaceful customers were illegally detained in the bank and held till the arrival of NYPD who were seen on film dragging a screaming female customer back into the bank. YES! They were arrested by NYPD for asking to close their accounts at CITIBANK in NYC near NYU. There is NO LAW BROKEN. In a farcically written, sanitized release, CITIBANK tells the media that customers were charged with Illegal Trespass. What is illegal? Clearly they see it as illegal for people to use their own power as consumers in this country to guide their own destiny. Awwwwwwww. Poor widdle banks....The BANK HOLDS YOU IN A DEATH GRIP BECAUSE FDIC AND LAW ALLOWS IT. Banks are public places, where you think they would welcome all as good neighbors and potential customers. They are not restricted by any law at any time to customers only. Yet, if you disagree with the bank's policies and want to put your money in a different bank of your choice, they can and will STOP YOU, and even call the police, at their discretion. They cannot ever be allowed more right to do this than any grocery store would have the right to arrest you, just because you refuse to shop there. Everything about these practices, and so many others that have become commonplace in recent years, violates the constitution, even when there is no legal or real need to do so to protect the American People. The insidious evil of "common practice" is about to be crushed under the feet of hundreds of thousands of angry, marching citizens. In this democracy, the people are waking up and leading their own destiny to demand change, or they make it for themselves. There is NO other way. Our government stopped representing the voters in favor of corporations and the wealthy long ago. Enough.

Many things, even places, with NO constitutional rights, are being protected as if a state of emergency has been declared. They are being protected from a group of kind, gentle, articulate, educated people who are tired of being taken advantage of. Places like Wall Street, banks are protected before the safety and constitutional rights of the peaceful American Taxpayers. All abusive, excessive force, has been portrayed as necessary, though there has not been a single manifestation of that necessity. And it is wasting millions of tax dollars on police overtime, when half the presence is needed to protect and control the movement from breaking any major laws. On a daily basis, in any US city, banks are shown no more or less respect than they have been by peaceful protesters, who have a right to STAND STILL on a sidewalk in front of a bank as long as people can enter it. If you don't keep moving, you will be arrested. Yet no one is arrested for standing in front of the very same bank in the absence of protesters. Too bad!! Read the constitution, NYPD and Commisssioner Kelly, and Mayor Bloomberg! No exclusion exists in the United States constitution for police to make arbitrary decisions in a safe environment to inhibit the right to gather and speak, even stand on a publicly paid for sidewalk as millions do daily all over the world. ENOUGH.

The iron curtain that encloses NYPD can and must be ripped down. Sunlight must finally be allowed into this dark, fraternal brotherhood through extensive civilian oversight and interaction, Oversight will come in a scale the likes of which they have never "allowed" their employers, the citizens. They always forget WE are the boss of THEM. They hide badges, faces, to hide from being identified because they are violating constitutional rights that have consequences against them. They routinely arrest and detain innocent civilans without reading rights to any of them. Court injunctions must be issued to halt certain practices in the absence of a clear and tangible danger. They cannot any longer be allowed selective infringement on human rights. NYPD has been ridiculously heavy-handed dealing with all forms of protest throughout recent history. NYPD has a staggering, legendary inability to meaningfully police itself. We can and we must police NYPD -far better than it ever could. THE END, Commissioner Kelly. If you don't like a job with transparency, then by all means, get a job out of the public sector. Just trust you, right? Forget it. You will work at the will of the people who pay you, and in no other way. ENOUGH.

The branches of our government, in concert with media, have downplayed, remained silent on a very troubling trend of government and police activity that, in the 1960s, sparked outrage. We are witnessing, before our eyes, a collision of forces involving human rights, government, law enforcement, big business and financial institutions. We are now denied access to our own streets and roadways that we taxpayers pay for and maintain, cannot assemble publicly without unconstitutional violence and arrests that are routinely becoming a new normal. Police, mayors, federal authorities decide to limit and prohibit a staggering array of activity that usurps our rights as citizens. Instead of going to the George Washington Bridge or having a heavy enough presence in Washington Heights daily to stop the stunningly open drug deals that go on daily, instead of focusing on crime, this gathering has been demonized and sledgehammered in every possible way by NYPD with the blessing and full awareness of Commissioner Kelly and Mayor Bloomberg.

NO ONE. Not one media outlet really gave due coverage to the probably federally assisted, coordinated police demolitions and evictions that took place last Friday night throughout the USA in up to 6 or 7 cities, all that we are aware of. On Saturday evening, and in the following days, many more people were thrown violently out of their camps, arrested in large, quiet and cooperative numbers, to be dragged screaming and bloodied by police in full riot or "combat" gear that has never been needed. It is obscene, and NO ONE has ever explained why such drastic measures have been taken. American war veterans of all ages, their flags destroyed and trampled, were taken violently into custody, and there are images of police in full riot gear with their hands around the throats of young women. No one reported on the nationwide coordinated government attacks against peaceful unarmed civilians, and the destruction of their property. It is no coincidence that a 6 or 7 city sweep took place last Friday Morning, when Occupy Wall Street was supposed to be "temporarily moved" for park cleaning. The people were not going to be allowed to bring in anything but the clothes on their backs if they returned. It was a cheaply veiled attempt at eviction,. Mayor Bloomberg and Brookfield Properties were rightly browbeaten by public officials and celebrities, many of whom were willing to face arrest to protect the constitutional rights of these protesters. They say they enforce ridiculous "no tent" or "no sleeping bag ordinances", to circumvent people's rights to assemble - to place time, location and comfort restrictions on assembly that were purposely NOT PLACED in the constitution. If there is a NEED for public assembly, the government cannot void the constitution by deciding to endanger the welfare of those assembled. It is all smoke and mirrors, and must be challenged vigorously by a cowering corporate media, and by the courts that are also supposed to uphold the constitution above all else. Mayor Bloomberg has also whined the city loses business because of the protests. Bullshit! Name the businesses. Zucotti Park has hosted thousands of people and tourists and media daily from all over the world, many of whom come to study the operations of this historic peaceful movement, so they can replicate it in other countries. Businesses from stores to restaurants and food vendors have seen a fantastic 24hr BOOM in business in Lower Manhattan that has lasted for a month and will be sorely missed when the park returns to normal. No one reports this. Rather than looking at and recognizing it as an opportunity to be an example of freedom that can inspire the world, Bloomberg and NYPD want to make it intentionally difficult for this gathering to occur. The park was mercifully prevented from evicting these people and a resulting catastrophe for the image of NYC and the United States. Indeed, the way my fellow protesters have been depicted and betrayed by their public servants exposes egregious injustice, and has left NYC stained forever with repeated violations of of the constitution that can never be cleansed.

We are this country, the collective we. We are the boss of everyone in elected office or public service in any capacity. The end. And we are working hard to make things better to further strengthen our constitution. When you undermine it, while we employ you, at our will, as our servants, you undermine the sacrifice of those who have fought and died for hundreds of years to defend the rights we have. They are not social exercises. They are necessary to democracy- to preserve it -and to keep it as it was intended to be kept. We are in Zucotti Park and around the country to ensure that NO ONE in public service ever forgets who really runs this country, this city. The citizens do. You are one of us. So join us. Fight us at your peril, and the peril of the constitution. ENOUGH!

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The Mission Of Occupy Wall Street- A Rebuttal to David Brooks, NYT

2011-10-11T11:17:00.000-07:00

Mr David Brooks

With all due respect, you have clearly watched the OWS movement from your armchair, pining for your long awaited soundbite. Keep waiting. We are not right, we are not left. We are the American People. People is a name for actual "human beings" , humans being rarely considered in DC. Human beings are affected by the Washington beltway bubble-heads and their patrons, employers,donors, and the companies they want to work for when they leave government. There is an obvious message you miss/dismiss wholly. But people around the world do recognize this, without govt feeding them carefully scripted lines, without corporate funding, without mass distraction, paranoia, or tiresome critique and the silly need for putting everything into a box that the media, and people like you, deem "appropriate" and "understandable". We will not endorse or accept endorsment from GOP, DEMS or any other political party trying to hitch a ride on this group. If needed, we will denounce any efforts to do so. Self-determination is what makes us successful. Wake up.

We are NOT AGAINST: Banks, Business, Corporations or Government. We are against corruption, we are against wealthy people and corporations subverting the election process with their funds and self interest, we are against any industry insider ever participating in drafting legislation, and will see that laws are enacted to make these actions illegals and impossible in the future. All conflicts of interest, tax evasion, corporate abuse, corporate fraud will have legal and ethical responsibilities that will be enforced and overseen by citizens as well as by government more than is provided for at this time. Without these changes enacted and enforced with participation from the people, the system will not be able to adequately police itself. The income disparity will continue to grow until there is chaos and anarchy in our streets, instead of the democratic, peaceful and needed movement we have now.

Have you spoken with people in Zucotti Park? Or are you afraid you might soil your tie with dirt from the people who you perceive as ineffective, low-balling weaklings? Or is it just too hot out? Seen images of people beating drums? Everyone needs to blow off steam, especially those who are risking their livelihoods 24/7 to stand up for love of country and love of humanity before the love of media or money. Some have lost their homes and all possessions while in Zucotti. But that's their fault, right? Well the unemployed bankers and lawyers working, sleeping in the park, the unemployed, disabled vets there understand what we are doing. It's not just a social exercise. We are a functional, mutually respectful group in that park that listens to each other, looks out for each other, helps each other and defends each other, even if we disagree. Washington should learn from this! Please help me invite them down to watch how human beings can interact and cooperate!

We are forming the largest permanent citizen government watchdog group in world history. If systemic problems could be solved simply with voting and calling pols in Washington, it would already be done. Battle lines have long been drawn, by our own elected officials, and by people holding purse strings in our economy. The American people will no longer follow like sheep. Self determination is essential in an essential element in a Democracy. Those in comfortable positions now watching nervously behind the battle lines are a tiny fraction of the population, so winning this battle for moral and ethical responsibility is guaranteed. Until total systemic change is addressed transparently, and enacted, our election process is little more than a corporate product that changes names, but never the system. There has never been incentive to change the system.. Elections are now a parade of corporate-prepackaged, robotic, PR-messaged people who are out to serve the needs of a party corporation more than serve the people of the United States. Even the candidates don't seem to see that they are a commercial product, or they dont care, as long as they are a part of having influence in Washington. Candidates are to us delegitimized by amassing corp donors and huge warchests that are from anything but public funds. Corporations are made of people who are already able to participate in the election process. They can not have multiple representation. It is illegal and unconstitutional.

Anytime any politician claims to speak for "the American People" they are not being truthful, even if their heart is in the right place as individuals. We are not truthfully represented in policy or legislation and THAT is being changed. The people are reclaiming their power in participating fully in the Democratic process, as they are obligated to. If our forefathers simply voted and took incremental changes in replacing and repairing unfair governance, we would still be ruled by Britain! Active participation and demonstration is happening because it must. This is the message the world understands, but governments and people feeding economically and socially from "the system" are incapable of comprehending.

What good are laws that are selectively enforced, rigged and let perpetrators of massive fraud and abuse that plunge millions into danger go free while peaceful protesters are arrested for using a constitutional right to assemble in a park at the expense of no one? Govt is more concerned with using laws to clear parks and public meeting places, which have no constitutional rights, than in protecting the constitution? In selective law enforcement and selective concern over the welfare of the public, our government shows itself daily to be ineffective, and inept. Politicians and officials are dangerously unaware of the rights of the people whose flag they wrap themselves in for photo ops and fear mongering. the misplaced attention and energy may spark outrage and violence, but it will not be from #OWS. We do not incite or condone violence. We support police who protect us while a tiny minority with poor leadership seek to use violence against peaceful people.

Forcing change in our system of government and forcing ethical and legal accountability is crucial to all businesses and people that do business, that operate in the USA if we are to survive. It is not rich against poor. It is not people against business. It is not people against government. It is about seeing that those in power change the laws, or the lawmakers will be changed by the people at their will. It is our right and obligation to defend ourselves when our survival, and our constitutional rights are continually abused and flouted by those seeking to represent us. Enough.

We are at the castle gates. How will you react when we get there? Will you defend true democracy? Or will you merely cower in a corner hoarding all of the ill gained riches and continue to blame each individual for the failings of society?

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The Genie Is Out Of The Bottle

2011-10-02T17:14:00.000-07:00

To affect change and start public discussion, they don't need to be more than a voice, one that inspires others to raise their own and become a part of a larger process in forcing change. They seek to become an inspiring, unavoidable presence. They are the physical manifestation of infinite frustrations and crushing burden that have risen from the ashes of the ongoing financial crisis. It is neither a liberal or conservative gathering, but a gathering of people concerned for their own survival and for the survival of the USA.

Their presence reminds everyone that complacency and indifference, in addition to greed, have largely placed us as a nation in this difficult position. These are people who vote, have families, and went to school, did what was expected to contribute to society, and yet there are no jobs, crushing debt, and total dysfunction in our government. The citizens themselves are lost amongst political opportunism. The voice of the people has been outbid and bought out by the corporations and individuals who pay them to legislate to their benefit.

The people from all over that have joined the Occupy Wall Street movement have been the butt of criticism, and derided as "not serious", "not focused", "having no clear solutions", or most dismissively, as "a bunch of hippies". Enough. The critics just don't get it, or have their own ideas based on working within a system that maintains the status quo. This is a system that has already failed a growing number of Americans. Most are too young to remember the influence of public demonstrations in the 1960s and 1970s, that influence policy within the US and abroad to this day and beyond.

The future direction of the financial practices and policies of this nation is not something that can be untangled and solved by a single movement. It is not something that can be "branded", and, above all, it is a movement of a group of PEOPLE, not of publicly visible leaders as we traditionally expect. It has no visible leaders, and while people chip in with expertise, signage, food, and other needed items, they do so on their own, not for control, but to contribute to a larger effort. And IT IS WORKING with garnering more and more support daily. I can remember in the 60s, no matter how noble antiwar protesters were, they were derided as unpatriotic, scattered hippies, and seen as people on the fringe. Eventually the movements that started small in major cities spread like fire across the nation, on city streets and on college campuses.That was when the movement gained critical mass, and the public outcry, the flaws with national policy became clearly exposed.

What makes many people skeptical is the lack of a single message, a single clear, commercially honed agenda. What becomes clear after talking to them and marching among them, is that they want to remain a group of individuals, each expressing their own legitimate frustrations, with no stars or touchstones within the group. To stay a group of individuals is the entire point. the discussion has started on how each person has been impacted by the financial policies that lead us into chaos. Others see differing solutions, different points of view. Here, in a nutshell, is the message of the protesters: Fix the way the government and financial sectors operate, so that the systems offer opportunities to prosper to all Americans, not to a small, elite minority.

I have walked through the protesters camped at Zucotti Park, and read the signs, spoken to many. There are many points of view present, and even small disagreements among the crowd about what they represent as individuals. BUT that is a true reflection of the population. All of us have different points of view, different goals and different needs as human beings. But we are all influenced by the same forces, and that is why they are all together in this park, in this city, in this nation. We have turned to mind-rotting media, and shopping for gratification, and have become so indifferent that many Americans abdicate their rights to vote, and forfeit their voices publicly. Why demonstrate, right? Trusting the system has betrayed us all, and there are many who are fine with that. They are the few, those insulated by money and position to the effects of the continuing economic woes.

You don't have to like Occupy Wall Street as a particular movement or even understand them. Still, if you don't wake up and participate more than in the inconvenience of going infrequently to a ballot box, you deserve all the hardship you experience at the hands of others. You do have to respect any American who exercises their right to freely assemble, and to speak out against injustice that truly affects us all.

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Remembering A Beautiful Life Lost On An August Night

2011-08-09T18:45:00.000-07:00

Heartbreakingly beautiful, sweet and well liked, she lived at a time when being extremely beautiful might open doors and get you some security, but it was also synonymous with being "stupid" or "good for one thing". She seemed to know these things, accept them, and work within the limitations she had forced on her by society and those who knew her, and guided her career. Few that weren't close to her expected or wanted much more from her than for her to simply be there, at work, and to "be beautiful". She was also very much a woman of her time, and thus a modern young woman in every way. She loved children, animals, and followed politics.

In death, she has been a victim far longer than she was allowed to live. She is still a woman deserving respect she has never really enjoyed. More respect and even media fascination has been given to her killers than to this woman so dehumanized by crime and by the press that she cries out to be left alone, if not remembered only as a human being. To victimize a murder victim after her death is as cowardly as punching an infant. It's inhuman. When they cannot defend themselves, as she cannot, someone needs to stand up. I stand, happily, for victims, that cannot stand for themselves. We know more of the crime that took her than we do about HER. Many are happy with that. For myself, as an American who has been a victim of crime, and has lost brothers, a sister and her baby, I am deeply disgusted by what has been done to the name and memory of this young woman who lived and died during my lifetime. Once I saw her humanity, I have followed her family and their efforts to have justice. Once I saw her beauty on film, and learned that this stunning woman was the one killed so terribly, I could not forget her. And I never have.

She was only 26 when she was killed. So young. Like any young girl, and my sisters in the 1960's, when skirts were shortening, she wanted to be on the edge of style and wear the shortest, newest looks. Her style and beauty kept a flock of photographers following her every move. She regularly graced fashion magazines, and there are thousands of images of her still online. She was one of the most photographed women in her day, though that fact has been largely forgotten. Her perfect face and figure would inspire hair and makeup trends, even a fashion doll that is still sold today. And though long gone, she still inspires fashion designers with her chic and elegant ease. Just Google her fashion photographs, and you will see why people still remember her for her style and beauty. What seemed like good fortune seemed to fall into her lap, and she appreciated it, and showed true kindness to most everyone. If you do some research and try to find what she thought of fame in her lifetime, she did not take it, or herself, too seriously. The most important things to her seemed to be growing as a person, and having a family and friends that challenged and accepted her. She was everywhere, in magazines, on TV, and in films. She was a highly visible, stylish, trendsetting woman whose looks and style are as timeless today as they were at the time of her death. Naive, genuine, intelligent, funny, trusting, and loyal are words used to describe her by those who knew her best.

She felt her fame and fortune was fleeting, and seemed, publicly, fine if her career ended at a young age. She did not hold herself in high esteem as an actress, and knew that others didn't. Still, if she was going to work, she wanted to be good, to earn her way, while her good fortune lasted. I for one, seem to think her work on film shows promise, radiating vulnerability. Her natural beauty, and her vulnerability would take her to fame, and ultimately lead her to an early end that is still as tragic as it is sensational. Much has been made of her fate, but so little is known truly about her, save for her marriage to Roman Polanski, and her handful of memorable appearances in some hard to find films. The single biggest mistake Sharon Tate would make in her life was moving into a house she loved, to have the child she always dreamed of having. Before returning from Europe just before she died, she had posed for magazines surrounded by baby clothing and had her home filled with everything her baby would need. Sadly, these photos would only be seen after her death.

This was an era when people drove cars with fins, hippies used to be everywhere, music was energetic, upbeat, and thoughtful. The Vietnam War was on television everday, and American Bandstand was a staple of Saturday TV watching, The Beatles ruled the world, and kids still went Trick Or Treating on Halloween, trusting their neighbors. Neighbors looked out for each other, and helped each other out. People really did borrow eggs, a cup of sugar, come over every morning for a cup of coffee and to catch up on local gossip. At night, it was not at all uncommon in my Chicago suburb of Wilmette to find houses with an unlocked door, and open windows to let in a summer breeze. Lock your door? Why? Who was going to try to come in? We were all perfectly safe.

Suddenly, people began to question everything. Doors were locked, windows were double locked, kids had to be comforted. Me among them. And hippies, who had always scared me because they weren't neat and tidy like people on TV, became suspect of every evil in society. A vague discomfort and mistrust evolved into a social rejection and renunciation of a group of people who were trying to experiment with our freedom to try new things, new ways of thinking.

On August 9th, 1969, the Manson Murders hit the airwaves, and the country was in shock. Five innocent people were murdered brutally in Los Angeles. It was such a horrific scene, just the vague descriptions of what happened stopped people in their tracks. There were smiling pictures of the beautiful blonde, the most famous victim, everywhere on the news. I was too young to understand what had happened, or death, but when I saw the tension and shock register on my Mom's face, I became stressed and afraid. Apparently, there were people entering people's homes late at night, and killing them, like in the movies. Why? Who would do this? If my parents were shaken, were they safe? Were we safe? Who were the bad people? The next night when two more people were brutally murdered in Los Angeles, the fear of social unrest manifesting into violence became all too real. We had seen riots,the deaths of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, as well as the riots with police brutality in Chicago at the 1968 convention. People were easily put on edge. A world that had seemed orderly since World War II was suddenly crumbling underneath us.

What I do remember, clearly, was that people were so shocked that this lovely young woman, Sharon Tate, was taken so terribly and just days away from giving birth. My mom, having had 7 kids, seemed really repulsed buy this when it came out. All women did, I think. But few defended her in the face of a merciless press who suddenly started blaming the victims for their own murders. They were clutching at straws, unable to find a motive for the slayings that were so shocking in their gore and violence. So, they reported rumors, sensational tabloid claims. This young woman was accused of leading sex orgies, belonging to a satanic cult, and having regular drug parties that included people on the fringe of Hollywood and beyond. All of this was said openly even as her family and friends grieved. It was all impossible, but a hungry public ate it up, and there are those who, to this day, take those early lies as fact. The press even knowingly linked pictures of Sharon Tate in her first lead film, Eye Of The Devil, where she wore black robes, and passed them off as real photos of her in a satanic ritual. When the pictures were proven fake, no retraction was done. The intense suffering of her family, and anyone who knew the murder victims, was compounded by the horrific exploitation of the press, and by slow, clumsy police work.

Sadly, the press took a sense of ownership and entitlement with Sharon Tate's name, her identity, and her legacy. They diminished the life of this beautiful young woman, her child, her family, and her friends. Even in death, she was widely remembered for extraordinary beauty, but had little respect beyond that. Sharon Tate, the commodity, the object was gone. She would forever be known as a subject of morbid fascination, not as a human, but as a bloodied corpse, an oddity that people couldn't read enough of in the papers. She became a footnote in history, second only to the name of the man who ordered her murder, a man whose name I will not mention again, Enough has been said of him.

An extraordinary, kind, even flawed young woman and her child were killed senselessly, along with several others. She had an instant transformation t from being an icon of beauty, glamour and style, to and icon of horror. Her name is still mentioned only in hushed tones and gasps, forever linked to a deranged murderer and his followers. She would never be known as just a vibrant young woman without the words "brutally murdered", "butchered", "slaughtered", "mutilated", "slashed", "torture" and "carnage" attached to her. In those days, the press was unchallenged and allowed to run with the sensationalism and lies of an unprecedented crime, one that changed prosecution and public fascination forever. Everything about the crime itself was terrifying, and could not have been manufactured more horribly. In 2011, people still have problems shaking off urban legend, vicious rumors and outright lies to get to the truth of the this human being. Some people too easily revel in the horror, follow the CRIME like it is a celebrity in and of itself, because the press enables it. They celebrate and commemorate the gore of the crime, focus on the killers, making the victims secondary. When the anniversary of the crime rolls around, the media relates the details of the crime, and the killers, but not the details of the lives of those lost. The internet and online "forums" and crime followers now replace the schoolyard rumors and common gossip that once thrived while I was in school just after the killers were convicted.

Whatever her flaws, her truth, I see a beauty of spirit. I read and hear about it when I research this woman who touched my heart. In 1980, after I lost my own sister Cathy at 19, and her baby, I began to identify with the family of Sharon Tate, and cannot wish them, her friends, anything but peace. I am saddened and disgusted by how easily people still defame her memory, even celebrate her death in the name of pop culture. Some that knew her are still too traumatized to speak publicly about her, still feeling the pain of her death. I don't blame them. I feel that way about my own sister. She could have been my sister. Or your sister. Or your friend. How would you feel if your dead sister's name and memory were dragged through the mud?

Rest In Peace, Sharon. You deserve it. I see you as a touching, beautiful and well loved human being.

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My Night Locked In A Graveyard

2011-08-05T04:59:00.000-07:00

Almost four years ago, on the evening of September 11, 2007, I found myself locked in the graveyard at Trinity Church in Lower Manhattan. It came on a day that marked a somber anniversary for New York City, and a quiet turning point in my life. The events of that day created an awareness and appreciation for life that I have to this day, inspiring me to challenge limitations and take action. The irony of being locked in a graveyard on 9/11 in Lower Manhattan was never lost on me.

I was wearing my dark navy wool 2pc suit that day, tailored in England, that I had found in a resale shop. It fit me like a glove, and I felt like a million bucks in it. I still have it and wear it. I had on some black Gucci loafers and the new leather briefcase I bought to carry to work at Saks Fifth Avenue. I often look to my clothing to help costume me, to help lift my mood and view of myself. It helps to elevate my spirit out of the mundane world of trying to keep myself busy and going to doctors. My doctor had taken me off of work and placed me on disability, for what up until then was supposed to be a few months of recuperation. I had tried to return to work after being hospitalized and changing jobs, but found myself getting sicker over time and making more trips to the hospital. I was finding out that my days of Gucci loafers, great suits and briefcases were over.

At this point in my medical treatment, I was thoroughly confused and totally unaware of where I was headed. I was supposed to be getting better all of the time, but I wasn't. I hadn't worked for months. No one was sure why. Numerous doctors had been consulted in my treatment. I grew to take the doctors at their word. My lung doc had promised me that I'd be alright to return to work by Fall, after taking me off of work at Saks in March of 2007. However, all of my tests came back with worse than expected results, showing a hypersensitivity in my airways to fibers, and any known allergens. So this day, I went for what I thought was a routine visit to the doctor. I thought all of the bombs had been dropped. I had one last, lingering surprise.

I staggered out of NYU Medical Center on 34th Street, into a slow, steady drizzle. I was shaking and in shock, the tears rolling down my cheeks fell into the raindrops. They vanished on my face as they fell. The sky was crying too. Once again clouds had moved into my view to make a statement, to share a moment with me. Were they crying with me, or were they crying for me? What did they know that I did not? Where was I going now? What was I going to do? What would become of me? Was I going to die? My doctor could not tell when I asked her that question. Was I going to live, or die soon? The sky wouldn't tell me. It just offered gentle rain that hid my tears and slowly turned my suit into a heavy, wet layer of wool.

Any of the questions I had about what the quality of my life was going to be like, what my future held, had just been bluntly answered. I would likely NEVER work again in my life. I was almost turning 43, and my work life, my career, my goals were over.Over. I stood at the southeast corner of 33rd and 1st Avenue, for the duration of a couple of light changes, people bumping into me while I tried to decide what to do. I was truly dazed. It was September 11th, the city was in mourning. And it was just five days from my birthday, September 16th. I felt like Heaven was closing all of the doors and windows I had used to catch glimpses of my future, a brighter future. The ability to gaze out these windows and plan, and hope, and work hard, were all that kept me going and motivated throughout my entire life. And suddenly, there was only darkness. An uncertain, grey mass enshrouded me, and a voice in my head told me to head to Lower Manhattan. It pulled me, taking me downtown, to be among the mourners at Ground Zero. I could commune with them. I could lose myself in the quiet dignity of the city at that moment in time. So I started, haltingly, stumbling toward the train in the rain, crying, in quiet fits, and bumping into people with my briefcase. I never opened my umbrella. I just walked, staring ahead as best as I could, trying not to make eye contact with another human being in the four blocks between the hospital and the 6 train stop at Park Avenue. I had no clear goal of where I wanted to go when I got downtown, I just knew I belonged there. I thought I might stay until the beautiful tribute in lights went on that night, the two stunning shafts of light that burst up to the stratosphere from near where the towers stood. I'd seen them from a distance, the most simple and stirring sight I had ever seen.

All the way downtown on the train, I just sat stone faced and rigid. I could only ask myself one question-is life as I know it really over? It ran on a loop over and over in my mind. The trains were quiet. It was late afternoon, about 4pm. On every anniversary of September 11, and the days leading up to it, New York becomes a reflective, still, and deeply moving place. There is a different energy. People move more slowly, more thoughtfully, and I was lost in that fog. I mechanically walked off the train at Brooklyn Bridge station, and slowly made it up the stairs, and out into daylight.

It had stopped raining when I walked out of the subway and cut through a deserted City Hall Park. It would normally be bustling with people eating, tourists taking pictures, pigeons, but this day, the park was wet from the rain, and hushed. The events that had taken place only two blocks from there echoed through the silence of that moment, and, drew me closer to Ground Zero. I walked down Vesey Street, and past St Paul's Chapel, which was right across from where the towers had stood. I could see policemen, barricades, crowds slowly quietly lingering. In my trance, I moved into the crowd, slowly, worked my way in like a ribbon through a maze of humanity. As soon as I got to Church Street, I was confronted first by police, then by a screaming and exasperating group of 9/11 conspiracy theorists. They were yelling and screaming the crackpot theories at every mourner, every policeman, every soul who dared to come down and pay their respects that day. I was never so repulsed by people in New York in my life. The police clearly resented it, but had to protect them and keep peace.

I moved through the lunatics and away from them, finally bursting uncontrollably into sobs, screaming at them to "Shut up! Shut up! None of you know the truth! None of you were there! How dare you mock the dead!" ...I just pushed myself through, they backed off from me, and I walked slowly up to the fence, the famous fence around Ground Zero. The hole. The pit. The giant, gaping wound in the Earth that stood open too long. As I reached the simple linked fence, I started to see a familiar sight. Flowers. Pictures. Long stem roses and carnations of every color from earlier that day, from grieving family and friends of the lost, woven into the links singly, or in bunches. There were dozens and dozens of pictures of loved ones running the length of Church Street. These were faces looking at me, of human beings no longer alive who vanished on 9/11. The names, what floor they were on in Tower One or Tower Two, all left with messages of love and heartbreak. I saw them, they saw me, and I moved among them silently, in awe.

There was a crowd of hushed and respectful mourners there, though the official ceremonies had ended that morning, and most of the families were likely away. But a few held out, talking to media, or among themselves, wearing badges, with framed photos of the lost in their hands. I stayed in my mental fog, wandering along Church Street, across from Century Twenty One, gazing at every flower, every picture on the fence. I had avoided Ground Zero on the anniversaries before. It was just too intense, too much for me. But not this time. I felt a sense of identity there. I touched every picture, every flower, offering my heart as a blessing to them. The people who left these momentoes knew grief and mourning as I did. These were the lost, and it felt absolutely right for me to be there. I wondered if I wasn't leaving this world. The dreams I'd held onto my whole life, from the world of the living , from a child desperate to make a life, were being snuffed out. And there was nothing I could do but watch it happen. But, I could cry, openly, in New York on 9/11. I had to, and it afforded me a dignity I would have lost any other day. And so I did cry.

I reached the corner of Liberty Street and Church, and asked a policeman where the twin towers of light were going to be at night. He told me it would be a few hours, but they would be a few blocks south, by Rector Street. He could see my tears. He took a second, told me I should walk down Broadway, and hang out til the time came. So, I took a left then a right on Broadway, and came upon the fence of Trinity Church. My suit was still damp, starting to dry off, and the sky was slowly brightening, the clouds thinning. I pressed myself onto the fence, staring through the gates at the gravestones, hundreds of years old, and the serene grass, flowered paths, the peaceful resting places of the long dead. I noticed there were park-like wooden benches to sit on and reflect. Perfect, I thought, What better place to stop and contemplate the end of my life than sitting on a bench inside a cemetery? The dead would understand. They would respect me, and leave me in peace. I wandered in through the front gate by the church entrance. They held no mystery, and no surprises for me. The graveyard, too, was eerily quiet. A few people walked through on the way to trains home, or just to pause. Everyone that was nearby was hushed. There were more policeman in Lower Manhattan that day than there were civilians once you got close to wall Street.

My eyes fixed on a few gravestones. I looked at them, many of them having died in the early 18th Century. I wondered how they lived. I was staring at at grave, directly across from a bench, when suddenly, I could hold it in no longer. MY knees buckled, and I doubled over. I felt my way onto the set of the bench, and I began bawling, howling, as I have never had in my life. It was the most intense emotional release I had ever experienced. My body was so shaken and wracked with convulsions, I lost control of the sounds and movements I made. I howled like an animal, I have no idea how long, and dissolved into tears. Decades of stress, worries, fears, trauma, loss, death, pain, hope, failure, near misses, loneliness, abuse and now this.... I was losing my own life to something no one could treat, understand or fix. I was so damaged, I was a time-bomb. The clock was ticking, and I had no idea how much time was on the clock.

I was on that bench for hours. I doubled over, most of the time. I could not sit up. A few times, I would see quiet young businessmen in suits and ties, silently and respectfully cross right in front of me. They gave me space. Police, tourists, all gave me a birth. Suddenly, after a long time, I noticed that there was total stillness, total silence. I was still crying, more quietly over time, but the sun had come out just before sunset, and as I turned around to look back at Broadway, no one was on the street. It was deserted. I had no idea how much time had passed. All I saw were policemen in the distance, and the church was empty. I sat there on the bench, straightening up, wiping tears on my sleeves, and looking in the direction of where the Twin Towers had stood. They were gone. All those lives were taken so viciously. Yet there I was, sitting in a graveyard, just blocks away from one of the most horrific events in modern history, and I was crying, wondering when I might be joining them in my own grave. Johnny, Cathy, Her baby, Bob, then me. Why not? Nothing else made sense, why should this? My life had never seemed fair, never been kind. It all seemed to fit. And I began to feel a sense of acceptance come over me. I couldn't cry much more.

I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket, and saw that more than two hours had passed! I was in shock. I was on that bench for two hours? Crying in a graveyard on 9/11 for two hours? No way! I could see the sun had gotten low in the sky, and realized I had been completely unconscious of the world around me.

I rose slowly from my bench, sighed heavily a few dozen times, and walked toward the gate where I had entered, just a few feet away. It was closed, and locked! I went to the side door of the church. The church was dark, and locked. I went to the rear entry to church and to the entry to the grounds on Trinity Place. They were all locked. What the hell had happened? Didn't anyone see me sitting there? Couldn't they hear me wailing? I was just a few feet from the front gate!

I stood there, facing Broadway, when it really hit me. The full absurd irony of being locked in a graveyard on 9/11 shook me up, and I found myself laughing. Of course! It was comic in it's absurdity.Why not? Everything about me was surreal, why shouldn't this moment be just as over-the-top as any other event in my life? I stood there, like a prisoner in my nice navy suit and clutching my briefcase, and suddenly I was laughing and smiling. My entire energy had changed in an instant. Now, how was I going to get out?

I was wandering around the grounds when my phone rang suddenly. It was my friend Joao, from Portugal. I was supposed to meet him for dinner and totally forgot! Jeez. I picked up the phone, and told him where I was, locked in a graveyard and looking for a way out. He laughed his head off and told me not to worry about it.

Well, I spent several minutes reviewing my options. Of course, the best option was to climb over the fence. But, the fence is about seven feet tall, with sharp iron spikes on the top, and I didn't want to totally trash my suit! I thought I would try the church one more time, and knocked on all of the doors, even tapped my umbrella on several of the stained glass windows. And I waited. And waited. No one came.

Well, I walked up to the front of the church, where there were several silver metal tables and chairs in a sitting area for lunch crowds and tourists. I started moving tables together, and pushed them up against the fence. I then stacked two chairs on the table, and started to climb up, to try to get over the fence, It wasn't that easy, and I spied policemen down the block. I stopped, and thought that I might actually get arrested for breaking in. It was, after all, 9/11, and police had a clear zero-tolerance policy for such shenanigans. I climbed down, leaving the pile of tables and chairs intact as my last resort. After a few minutes of wandering around the doors and windows of the church, My phone rang again. It was Joao, still laughing, wondering if I had gotten out yet. No, I was still in lockup! I let him go, and decided to give teh church one last try. I ran up to a side door and banged as loud as I could, yelling and screaming to see if anyone was inside. No answer.

I went again to the stained glass windows beside the church, and pounded as hard as I dare with my umbrella handle, yelling, and screaming for help. I was shocked. I heard a noise! I saw a light loving inside. In a gfew seconds, a side door flung open,. and a very nice uniformed guard simply said" Church is closed"..... I said, Yes, I know. I was out here in the cemetery by the gate and I was locked in" "What? Oh, I'm sorry. You want to go out, huh?" he asked. "Yes, please. This has been something I am not going to forget. Thank you for your help" "No problem. I'll get you out of here in just a minute. Sorry bout that, Sir."... He took out his set of keys, walked up to the front gate and unlocked it for me. I apologized for stacking up the chairs and tables, and he told me he'd take care of that.

I thanked the kind guard, and stepped through the gate. For now, my time in the graveyard was over. I was a bit shaken and moved by what had happened. I stared through the gates at the bench where I had sat so unconsciously for hours. The metaphor of fighting to stay alive, to free myself from death, was clear. I realized I was still fighting hard to free myself from obstacles, and that instinct would serve me through the new phase of my life that was beginning. I was still fighting to get out, free myself from traps, whether mental and emotional roadblocks, or graveyard fences. I was, for a time free.

My phone rang one last time. It was Joao, again, still laughing, asking me if I still wanted to get together for dinner. Exhausted, and smiling, I decided not to tempt fate. I would just go home and grab some Chinese food by my apartment, Chicken Lo Mein, a little spicy, my usual order. I ended the call and walked, smiling, toward the A-Train, taking my scarred lungs, my tear stained face, and my healing heart with me.

A few weeks later, on the Upper West Side, I went to a support group for people dealing with depression. There, I told the group of my ordeal of being locked in the graveyard, and all that lead up to it. Sure enough, one man calmly said, "Oh, that's funny. I work at Trinity Church! I have the keys. I could have let you out. I must have just left for the day" .... All I could think to myself was "No kidding".... Only in New York, folks.
This story is a centerpiece in my memoir, LOCKED IN A GRAVEYARD.
You can send me feedback on this story and others at BusterBnyc@twitter, and by watching MY FABULOUS DISABILITY webseries on Youtube. I'd love to hear from you.

Those Crazy Greeks

2011-07-23T07:07:00.000-07:00

I was first married at the age of four or five to a girl named Sandra. She had bedroom eyes, and luscious, full, pouting lips. Angelina Jolie at five, basically. The ceremonies were done with great solemnity and in deadly seriousness,with Sandra in a formal lace communion dress and veil, and I usually wore a little white tux jacket and bowtie that she happened to have in her closet. Her mother had seen me as a toddler, liked the way our family seemed "respectable" and thought I was cute enough to be a good prospect to marry her daughter, then still in diapers. So, even as a toddler, I was a marked man. My deeply rooted trauma from this bizarre ritual may be the secret behind being single in my forties. Not sure..

Her mother officiated over the services, having bribed me to partake in each of the multiple ceremonies with a Hershey Bar. She kept them for me in a huge "cut plastic" bowl she had on top of her fridge. And she knew that my mother almost never allowed us to have sweets except after dinner, and rarely candy. I was an easy mark. The mother would stand there in her housedress, reading the wedding vows usually read at church. I must have married Sandra at least fifteen or sixteen times over the span of two years. Ah, Sandra. Sweet, funny, demented and slightly sadistic Sandra....She already had the full-blown fiery Greek temper that came with her heritage. Her family exemplified the best, and the very worst of the stereotypes you can imagine for a suburban Greek-American family. She had the spirit and worldiness of a woman of 25, and was without a doubt one of the most manipulative people I have ever met. Surely she developed these to cope with her family's rather strange, uh, "lifestyle".... Much of what I ever learned about "human anatomy", sex, shoplifting, abuse, psychological torture that was truly horrible, and lies, I learned in that house. It was strange, the house was five doors down the street from mine, and it had previously been lived in by my paternal grandparents. This family moved in once my grandparents moved to Florida. The house, built in the early fifties, was an exact copy of ours. Same floor plan, everything. There was something normal, sleazy and terribly scary that seemed to draw me there as a child, because our house was so regimented and tidy, we were extremely well-behaved nerds as kids.

I can still smell the plastic slipcovers that covered EVERTHING in the living areas of her home. they also bred pure breed Persian Cats. They were beautiful but didn't like me and I grew to be scared of the cats. I can still remember the burp my skin made when I peeled myself off of her couch and dining room chairs. Yes, there were even plastic runners on the floor throughout the place, and you had to take your shoes off so you wouldn't get the runners dirty. Yes, that's right. I was told the plastic went away when company came over, but I can never recall them having company, unless it was a doctor tending to the mother's hypochondria or an injury done to one of the kids. Oh, and there were plenty of regular visits from police, usually for the illegal acts of her two older brothers, or for the family screaming matches that could be heard from the street.

I can still remember her mother, circa 1968, like it was yesterday. She was a former department store and photographer's model (she never let you forget that). She had a HUGE lit photograph of herself in her short, crinoline wedding dress in a gaudy gilded frame that matched the gaudy gilded furniture that shone brightly in the light reflected off of the sea of slipcovers and shiny runners. Most days I visited Sandra for play dates, the light over her portrait was the only one turned on.... I remember her brassy long blonde hair, slightly ratty,and the times she would answer my knock on the door wearing a black lace pointy bra, a black half slip, a sleeping mask pulled over her forehead, sunglasses, a cigarette dangling from her lip, and a scotch and soda in one hand. I had never seen anyone but my Mom, who was extremely prudish, in a slip, much less drinking at ten in the morning. So when she answered to door like this, I was shocked. My little jaw must have slammed against the concrete stoop. She just stared at me blankly, in a pill and booze induced haze, saying flatly, "What's the matter Billy? C'mon... Haven't you seen your mommy in a slip before, Jesus Christ... " Then she would scream like a wailing animal in death throes "SANDRA! Billy Buster is here to play with you! So get your little butt over here NOW! Don't make me tell you again. Mommy has to go lie down. She's having one of her sick headaches...." Yes. You're getting the picture. A total psycho and shipwreck... But wait, there's more.

The Father was a tall, dark, handsome Greek God of a man, usually in slacks and a tight polo shirt. He was rarely around, but could be seen almost once or twice a week in his driveway, lovingly washing and polishing his enormous late 60's red Cadillac convertible, with a white roof, and white upholstery. It was beautiful. He owned a hugely successful beauty shop in Wilmette and was usually at work. He seemed a kind and gentle man, and had the strangest wife and kids. He was always very nice to me. Now I wonder.

Aside from Sandra, who had to be separated from me in school because she would "act out" when I was in class, there were her two criminally inclined teenage brothers who truly saw me, a sweet, shy, well mannered boy, as a target for constant harassment, abuse, and deeply hurtful humiliation. I always prayed they would not be home if I went to see Sandra, and they knew I would not come in the house if they were there. So they would hide in or near the house until I had entered.

Back to the Mother, briefly, before I delve deeply into the brothers, That will be a post all it's own. Most visits, after I entered the house, she would retreat to her bedroom watching TV, lying down on her bed in her lingerie, moaning and downing pills in bottles on her nightstand. She took what she called "nerve pills" anytime the kids acted up, anytime she moved a muscle, breathed or walked. She was a total and complete wasteland, and I thought she was so lurid that she was intensely fascinating. And everytime I left, she insisted I come sit next to her in bed, give her a hug and a kiss goodbye.... "Don't be afraid to touch a woman in her undies" she used to say. I cringe thinking of this scary shit and it's effect on a young child. I was partially paralyzed in fear, and it all held a very Freudian fascination for me, everything about this sick family.

Sandra got every toy she ever wanted, every week there were stacks of new dolls, books, crayons,coloring books, and every type of Easy Bake Oven ever made. We were charged with the thrill of a new discovery when we accidentally discovered that if you got the heated lightbulb wet in the oven, it would explode. I KNOW! COOL? RIGHT? So, I remember days when the Mom was outside or in the basement, Sandra and I would fill up her squirt guns, turn on all the lamps in the house until the bulbs were hot, then we would spray each one with cold water until it exploded! It was thrilling. My mother was horrified when I told her what I did at Sandra's that day. We would repeat the bulb shattering from time to time when we ran out of things to do or we got on each others nerves.

One of my favorite, telling experiences about the mother was the day she got permission from my mom to drive me and Sandra to Old Orchard Shopping Center for some shopping for Sandra. What could go wrong, right? Shopping in those days meant wearing something nice. And in order to make the appropriate spectacle, that day the mother put on a red and white crinoline dress with a HUGE brimmed white hat, gloves, and matching purse and shoes. Women used to wear dresses to go shopping when I was a kid. Men wore "good clothes". She looked like a model for the only time I can remember, and had fixed her often smeared makeup. She looked like a movie star! I was impressed. Sandra and I climbed into the glorious red and white Cadillac, a rare treat. We got safely buckled in the backseat, and with the mother in her flashy red and white ensemble, it was quite a sight. I remember riding in the back, gripping the seat for dear life, as she raced recklessly through the streets of our quiet suburb and got onto the highway to the mall.

This woman, dressed to kill and feeling no pain, swerved in and out of traffic like a bat-out-of-hell, and infuriated everyone on her side of the road. Tempers flared, horns were honked, and I heard the first torrent of obscenities I had ever heard in my life. "You son of a bitch! Don't you honk at me you fucking bastard! I have the right of way! Don't stick your middle finger up at me! I'm a lady! Yeah, well FUCK YOU AND YOUR KIDS!"... I was in awe of this woman. What planet had she come from? I didn't know God made people like that! I certainly never saw anyone like her at church, or our tidy elementary school. Was she being bad? Or, more of a capital offense, RUDE? GASP! Or was she an adult woman standing up for herself? In my world, the lady is always right and gets the right of way! What the hell did I know.

ANYWAY, we pulled into the parking lot, and went first into Marshall Fields, where we went, where else, to Lingerie. I wanted to die, and hid under a round rack of bras so I wouldn't be seen there among the naughties. After an appalling amount of time, we went to dress department, where she had them page a store model to "show her dresses".... The young model was very pretty, and must have patiently tried on and shown her 15 or 20 dresses and gowns. "This girl doesn't know how to walk in a dress. She walks like a cow" came the voice from under the big hat. She stood up, went to the water fountain, popped another "nerve pill" and we were off the SHOE department, for more torture. Then it was on to the next store, Montgomery Ward, empty handed. Of course she stopped at the jewelry department on the way out, where the clerks all knew her... I wanted to die. A couple of hours had passed, so we stopped at the bakery which was by an exit and got a huge cookie. Not too bad, I thought... Nice of her.

Once we walked in Montgomery Ward's, we made a beeline to the toy department. There I saw something that made me shudder, and I would never forget. They were casually walking through toys, Sandra picked out 40 or 50 things she wanted, and the mother pulled me aside, told me to keep my mouth shut, and pay attention. She was going to show me how to get lots of toys, and to have fun doing it. She was more alert and focused than I had ever seen her. Sandra approached her with a Barbie in her hand, out of the box. "I want it" she whined and pouted... Mother said- "Well, put it in my purse like I taught you. fast. Watch, Billy. Watch her do it...." Sandra stooped in front of the purse, and with the grace of a cheetah on the prowl, crouched over it for a split second. The doll was tucked in her purse so fast I didn't even see it. This didn't make sense. Then suddenly, the lightbulb in my head lit up. I was frozen, THEY WERE STEALING! It made sense that Sandra had so many new toys all the time. Sandra skipped away, and in minutes, had rolled up a coloring book and a little Golden Book and tucked them all in the purse. "Come on, Billy. Let's pick something out for you!" She took me by the hand and dragged me to the GI JOEs. She pulled one out of the box and dared me to stuff it in her purse. To be like them, cooperate, and have fun doing it. I couldn't. I just couldn't. I knew it was beyond wrong, it was a crime. I told her, parroting what my mom had told me, "Sandy, I can't take that. Mom says it's stealing when you take something and don;t pay for it. You could go to jail! You don't want to go to jail, do you? I don't wanna go to jail..." Sandra's temper turned on a dime, like her mother. She THREW the GI JOE several feet, and yelled at the top of her voice, "Mom, we have to take Billy home, He isn't any fun. He's a tattletale crybaby!" The mother came over, assured me that what they were doing wasn't wrong, and they spent alot of money there. Sandra suddenly hated me, and wouldn't come near me. "Let's take him home" she kept pleading. The mother pulled me aside, and made me swear not to tell my mother. I promised, scared she would murder me and hide my body in a trash can.... "Come on, Mommy needs to get some makeup... See, and you can watch me pay for it..." So we stopped by the makeup counter and she got some $5 worth of junk, and while she was paying for it, I saw her take some items off a shelf, and like a pro, tucked them into the pockets on the side of her dress, and some in her purse. WOW. That purse must have weighed a TON by then.

On the way home, I was scared, Sandra threatened to beat me up if I told on them. She stared at me with an intense hatred, like I saw the real her, a child woman, for the first time. She was scary. EXORCIST scary. She and the mom were in the front seat bragging about the junk they stole, and I was in the backseat, by myself. Sweating. I thought I was going to pee my pants, I was so nervous and scared. They gave me a deck of cards, as if it was bribing me, making me one of them with dirty hands.

I remember getting home, and ran to tell my Mom, because, after all, I really was a little tattletale. First I stared by asking her questions like, "Mommy, what's a son of a bitch?" "Where did you hear those words?" "Sandy's Mom.... What's a motherfucker and an asshole?" You get the picture. My mother turned WHITER than anyone I have ever seen. Her little rigid Catholic heart was MORTIFIED. She never cussed in front of us, and after I ran through the long list of obscenities I heard, she said. "looks like I need to get on the phone and have a little talk with her mother....

I paused, and we went to the kitchen to get me something to eat. That was where I told her about Montgomery Ward. "I saw Sandra put a doll in her Mom's purse. And a coloring book, and crayons, and her Mom took lots of makeup and gave some to Sandy in the car...They didn't pay for any of it Mommy...." She asked me where I got the deck of cards, and I told her exactly how I got it. After my mother turned BLUE WHITE, and asked me if I could have been mistaken, maybe Sandra was being bad, as she was known to be (which begs the question WHY WAS I ALLOWED TO PLAY WITH THE LITTLE WITCH?). Her mother couldn't POSSIBLY have taken things, much less taught Sandy how to do it! "Oh, but she did Mommy. You want us to tell the truth when we see something bad!"... My mom took a while to exhale so deeply that I thought she would entirely deflate. Then she said, "I think your father and I need to have a little talk.... Right now, I don't want you to play with Sandy anymore. If she comes to the door, tell her you can't go out and play.

SO, after dinner, I heard my Mom break the details to my dad, and then, my after a second grilling, they picked up the phone, to talk to Sandra's mom. Of course she denied saying those"bad words" because She "WAS A LADY! How dare I make up such lies. Billy was being a filthy little liar!" and of course, she NEVER took a thing from the store. Sandy wanted a doll, and was told to put it back which she did, according to the mother. And when asked how I got the deck of cards, the mother flatly told my parents, in a rage' Billy took it!" I saw him take it and put it in his pocket! He's a shoplifter, and I don't ever want him to come over again. How dare that little shit Billy tell all those LIES and try to get them in trouble!".... Well, my dad said he was going to call Montgomery wards and ask them if there were any empty toy boxes. The mother hung up the phone. I was a wreck, I knew I had seen something that scared me in these people very deeply. I was, rightly, scared of retribution.... And boy did I get it, later. Next post. This is EXHAUSTING recounting my brush with criminals.

Even though my dad couldn't stand me, and we had many issues, even at this young age, he and my Mom trusted me completely. They knew I would never take anything. I said "please" "Excuse me" and "I'm sorry" to everything, even apologizing for things I hadn't done. Yes, I was a hopeless goody-goody, as well as a reliable tattetale. My parents told me I did the right thing, and if I WAS ever caught stealing, they were going to take me back to the store to return everything, then they would "hand me to the police, who would lock me up and throw away the keys. Because that's what they do with bad little boys"... It was just a stupid story, I k new, but they meant I would be SEVERELY punished. I believed that part, and that I would never steal, because that meant I would go to hell, right? Well forget that shit....

Stay tuned for further adventures with the crazy Greeks. We've only touched the tip of the iceberg.

My Date With Buddha

2011-04-24T21:54:00.000-07:00

Most people think the word Buddha means a person, or a figure, when the word actually means enlightenment, awakening.

It’s a miracle. I had a totally peaceful Easter Sunday. I cannot remember when, excluding when I was a small child, that I felt relaxed for an entire day. It’s been like that. I had the most serene, quiet, wonderful walk through Lower Manhattan to the Battery Park promenade, and it was glorious.The miracle is, if you have ready my blog, that I have really found a true contentment these last few weeks. I took a long break from writing to clear my head of all the woe in the world, the questions I have about the direction of my life, and my incessant worrying about being single. The last issue being the most pressing issue I have dealt with in my adult life.

I saw a tremendous change in my friends Caron and her husband Mike, who have both been studying Buddhism. Mike was always a quiet, kind person who was looking for a way to focus his mind. Caron was the most diligent person I’ve met in a years. Yet she has always been under huge amounts of internal stress regarding her work. She would obsess over it, had to be perfect, had to be three steps ahead of her frazzled bosses in the fashion industry. While she’s been married to Mike she has rarely seemed happy, at peace, or content. The stress from work and about future weighed on her greatly. She was always putting in overtime, and wearing herself down. Mike started studying Buddhism many months ago, and finally encouraged his wife to begin studying. And once she did, she was transformed. Her energy was calm, her mind clear, and her body at peace. I was stunned by the difference it made in them.

For myself, I truly feel as if I’d exhausted many traditional fixes for clearing the clouds in my own life. I have read every book I could get my hands on, and with my health at last stable for NOW, I needed to give myself goals-but what? I was left with little confidence that I could choose a path to pursue that wouldn’t be turned to chaos and disappointment by my health. It’s happened so much I’ve all but given up. But with new doctors, new treatment, I feel better than I have in years. I am seeing that I may have a future after all that I don’t find too restrictive to be satisfying.

I made a date with Buddha, and decided to go book hunting. I found the first amazing book, and started reading about the concepts, the wisdom behind Buddha. I instantly felt a connection to it. All the debris in my head got shaken up and suddenly fell into an order I could deal with. The calm, the meditation, the mindfulness, the openness it demands, all came easily to me. Most striking, I latched instantly onto the concept of “emptiness” they speak of in Buddhism as the essential state you need to achieve to reach enlightenment. BOOM! Suddenly, all the lights in my dim bulb had been flipped on. Just three days after I bought the book I was forced to test and use all of these concepts. I found myself dealing with extreme stress from construction crews that suddenly started ripping up the road right in front of my window on several successive evenings until 2am. Disclaimer: I was not, am not, and don’t expect to be perfect. I try to deal with my flaws as I can, one by one. But I dealt rather well with this situation which, previously, might have stressed me into some tranquilizers and additional therapy, or a heart attack. And, because of my persistent efforts and pressure on the city, they stopped working nights! It was a small, but important, victory in my book. I also had to deal with a couple of meatheaded jocks who were working on The Good Wife with me at the same time. These guys were truly repugnant, and trying to “out-guido” each other with their tales of toughness, crudeness, etc. Just not the most accepting guys. I would guess these guys were within 5 years of my age. Anyway, I was passing the table, and one of them made a crack about me being a little “light in my loafers” because of a remark I tossed after one of their jokes. Having head it, I decided to try to just sit with them and be with these thugs and try to separate myself from getting angry. It worked. They were smoking whenever they could, and were getting up to smoke, and I stopped them. I told them they should quit and take better care of themselves. They just laughed, one said “it’s the ones that don’t smoke that always die first”… Then I told them my Brother and Father had both died of lung cancer and disease. They shut up, and looked at each other, and apologized to me. It was awesome. I looked them straight in the eyes and sat with them for a few minutes before moving on. It was a good experiment for me. I was relaxed and disarmed them.

I have used this on and on again in life the last few weeks. Sometimes, I slip into my old “less than serene state” and get cranky. We all do. So, I bought another book on Buddhism, and started reading it. The more I read, the more I saw it was making a difference for me, and I was energized. Even when I am about to get sidewalk rage, I relax. Yes, I am THAT person, this has been a huge problem for me. Crowds blocking sidewalks stress me out. First instinct used to be to grunt, moan, mumble obscenities (still happens) but less often. Some people are definitely jack-asses. But I cannot let it affect me. Still, I know that until I get my own jetpack, it’s going to happen.

I told Caron and Mike about how well things were going, what a huge change that reading on Buddhism had made in my life in just a couple of short weeks. They were thrilled. So, they invited me to go to Buddhism classes with them. I have gone to two classes. They meet every Thursday evening in the East Village near Astor Place. I love it.

Since I started to let go of stress, many things have fallen into place. I have been offered a consulting gig at a local theater company in PR and marketing, I am helping The Secret City artists organization produce fundraising events, and I am also auditioning again. Acting, singing, I am going for it. I want to have plans that fill a year. I have lived week by week without a calendar since 2007, on my last day of work. No schedule to keep, no daily routine at all, and every effort I made to get started on a routine of my own I saw dwindling to nothing. I was reaching a panic state by early this year. I had reached out to so many organizations, so many people to seek involvement, and nothing came of any of those efforts. The Secret City offered me my first real social outings in months, and it was like a breath of fresh air.

I have plans now. I am building my own schedule with others. Now, I’m pursuing my interests again because I feel that after years of horror I can do so again. It may seem small, but I can’t exaggerate the importance of work. Stillness brings decay, isolation, rot, depression, sadness and horrible doubts that, once established, are not easily gotten rid of. I am even exercising after a year of hiatus/apathy. If I had nothing planned to look forward to, who cared? I was on a steady spiral down. I am so thankful I was able to put on the brakes and stop the decline.

Now, I seek to tackle making a commitment to the dating game. I have had some prospects, nothing strong, but I am terribly out of practice, still working on my shaky self-confidence in that arena. Baby steps. But, I am moving in a great direction. Thank you, Buddhism. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, have done it without you.

Gravity Is An Indifferent Jerk

2011-03-20T22:27:00.000-07:00

When I was about 18 or 19, I really began my love affair with sunny days, with gazing up at clouds. I always mention the sky in my writings, the play of color and light from the days of my youth stay with me like photographs. I had long been fascinated by weather, and used to be obsessed with what gave types of clouds their distinctive appearances. I was, among other things, a weather geek.

Eventually, I would look up to them, almost like praying to them. I had worked to survive and feed my family when I was 15 or 16, and by the time a few years past, and I was getting some small control over my life, I started setting my own goals. Acting was the one I'd always wanted, and I added singing to that. I still have those dreams, at my age. They wont stop. When I was younger, I would look for signs, in the world, in the weather, as if God was speaking to me, to see if I was making a good decision. From counting the time that passed between seeing lightning and hearing thunder, to the time it took for a cloud to pass before the sun, I asked for signs, regularly. I had no one to share my thoughts with, everyone thought I was already a non-starter, and I had ZERO encouragement to pursue acting, and my late brother mocked me when I sang.

The sun, the clouds, the rain, the moon, the stars all were there for me, all spoke to me. The clouds literally spoke to me. Like life, they morphed and changed shape before my eyes. And, like the things I loved in my life, they didn't last. I had to ask them during their moment in the sky what I should do. I got great encouragement from clouds, especially. And it lasted for years. When I was mocked by mere mortals for my choices, I sat satisfied,. knowing I had communicated with something my family wouldn't understand. A larger force had spoken to me, and confirmed the path I had chosen. And for years, tho lonely and difficult, everything clicked, and I got all of the support and encouragement I had ever sought as an actor from casting directors, reviewers, and audiences. One thing I didn't seek, didn't know or even understand was love. I didn't seek it. I thought it would come with success. Of course, that failed me. I never asked for anyone for myself, because I had never had anyone for myself. So I got no one for myself.

I still get great comfort from Nature, the sea especially, the light on the water and the trees. The wind that blows around me, and touches my cheek speaks to me. I still have the wind. But nothing else speaks directly to me, as it once did. I lost my ability to be inspired in my 30's. I had dreams of my own, that were crushed by a series of accidents and misfortunes from 1993 to 1997, and I dealt with the after affects until 2000. I had 3 closed head injuries from a car accident, an assault, and a work injury that left my memory scrambled, I had seizures, blackouts, etc. As I was healing from my last head injury, I was struck by a car in Chicago, and thrown under a bus from the impact in Fall of 2000. I realized I needed to get the hell out of Chicago at that point. I think it was bad luck to me, and the events bore that out.

A long time ago I started to accept that absurd things happened in ,my life, and that is just the way it was. since Childhood. I was living the life of Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickelby, with alot more bodily harm thrown in. It was then I lost my ability to think for a couple of years. My memories were gone, and my ability to dream was dead, for a while. I fought it, but three head injuries and the misfortunes won. For a time. Yet, inspite of all that's happened before or since, I am alive, alert, my abilities are fully intact, my dreams are still intact, and my heart is still intact. Still, I admit, I haven't had much experience with love, and I have much to learn, still. At my ripe old age, I am still as green as can be. Never married, I had a long relationship with a married woman in my 20's that ended very badly (of course) but I learned a great deal. Shouldn't be hard to be this honest, but it is. It's all me, all real.

Have you ever had a night where whisperings of the past kept you awake? Sure, we all have. Sometimes, it is enough to make you shut down to accepting anymore whisperings, anymore awareness. Like a crowded bus, the doors close, we simply cannot fit, or process, any additional thoughts. And so, we are lured into rest, escape, even sleep. I admit I have spent far too much time lately sleeping, and not enough moving in our world. The dreams that haunt me and motivate parts of me are those of a young man. I still have gifts galore to share and offer, but I struggle with time and my odds every single day. I could use some encouragement.

Gravity holds us to the earth, but when we stand, we become a part of the sky, a seemingly limitless sense of possibility still comes with every new day. The sky that wraps our world also wraps us, exhausts our reach. As our planet spins, we see new clouds, sun and stars. We are a part of the Infinite- aren't we? But gravity is an indifferent jerk, and as we age, it has a more dramatic effect on us. We are pulled slowly toward the earth and reach less into the sky. Our minds still comprehend the vastness, but the Earth seems to want to claim us, as it will. It can pull our minds, and our bodies. Everything depends on how strong our reach has become, and what we have to anchor us to the sky.

Where do dreams go when they die? Do they get pulled with us to Earth? Or do they simply vanish within us? I believe in dreams, for they have saved me, propelled me through life from success to success. Oh, they are still alive, breathing, still in plain sight and forever in my mind. They remain, as always, just out of reach. I've not forgotten how to dream, but I admit that I have forgotten how to realize my dreams. I get pulled everyday closer to Earth, but my mind, my heart and my soul are still clutching my dreams, both past and present. My closeness to them and to others, now, comes with a safe distance. Always distance, never within reach.

Yet I am 47 and editing my first independent film. I am making plans to record my first CD, with 3 songs. Years of vocal training and singing onstage have gone to waste, but I will be recorded at last. But the question of love remains for me. Still I feel I am accomplishing too little. I don't have the security a successful career would have provided. Do I believe in love? Of course, and I see it, for others. As a child, love meant abuse, rejection, humiliation, abandonment and even death. I don't know what love means as a middle aged man. I still hope to find it out, but I am somewhat discouraged that I am still single at 47, and when I sense someone is attracted to me, I shut tight like a book. It's a scary risk for me to take- that someone could love, want, need and respect me. I know that I can do it, but can it happen to me? After all these years, it haunts my days and nights, without end. And so I sleep. And sleep. And sleep. Withdrawals from 5 years on steroids complicate things greatly. They mess with your heart, mind, mood, body, etc. So far 6 weeks without prednisone!

Still, like a robot, I am fighting harder than ever to see where my dreams go, to let them live, and to see whether my love for others will bring someone to me. I want it more than I have ever wanted anything, and I need it, but don't really invest hope or expectation anymore. If it is meant to be, it will come. I have moved several times, changed my entire life, gone through Hell many times, and come out the other side. My life experience has made me awkward, and timid, yet empathetic and strong in so many ways. I have my writing. I have had no luck acting lately, haven't explored singing yet, and so I make my own opportunities.

What else is there to do? I think I may try to speak to the clouds tomorrow. I hope they remember me. It's been a long time.

When the news is too much to bear

2011-03-12T16:32:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning, at the urgings of my cat, which is not unusual. I am not by nature a morning person, never really have been. I woke up, turned on the TV and was instantly transfixed and horrified by the pictures coming out of Japan.

The aerial coverage of the tsunamis sweeping over miles of open countryside in Japan, carrying away ships, planes, entire villages, even burning buildings- I will never forget these images. I saw gas refineries exploding, villages swept away with no warning, and chunks of office buildings falling into the streets as terrified people ran for cover. And after the warnings of tsunamis expected to reach our shores, there came a final ominous message, at least one, and now many nuclear reactors were in states of emergency in the region around Tokyo. There are some 30 million people in and around the city of Tokyo. Aside from the untold thousands dead from the 8.9 earthquake, and the catastrophic waves that followed, there is now a looming threat of nuclear catastrophe.

I sat unable to remove myself from the news for a while, just realizing the world is a very transient, unstable place, and finding a moment of peace is it's own reward, and feeling safe for a while is, perhaps, the best any of us can do. With that in mind, I got dressed, determined to go outside, block out this depressing stream of disasters, uprisings, killings and horror. I had to go for a walk, try to clear my head, and get other thoughts and images in my mind.

I headed out, walking down past the Stock Exchange and onto Broadway, then down to Battery Park. I dodged the traffic lights, and found the park relatively empty on a sunny afternoon. The sunlight was brilliant off the water, and I could see a huge cruise ship across the harbor in Bayonne, just past the Statue of Liberty.I was walking along, looking at the small groups of tourists, the families from all over the world, the young couple holding hands. I grew sad, my thoughts turned to the distant past when I had hands to hold, people of my own to share an afternoon walk with. Suddenly, as I happened upon a well situated bench, my heart grew even heavier. Perhaps going for a walk wasn't the best of ideas on this day. When my heart turns and feels it's loneliness, I find it hard to detach myself from the feeling easily.

I had on my darkest sunglasses, sitting there staring out at the sea, looking at the gulls, the ferries going to Staten Island, and I felt a cold, crisp wind blow. There was a familiar smell, the sea air- reminded my of the smell of Lake Michigan, which was fresh water. I wondered why I was feeling nostalgic at that moment. Suddenly I was transported back to my childhood- a new set of memories had been stirred. I don't know why- I was suddenly six years old, walking down the street with my mother on a cool Fall day, and I remembered how excited I was about the approach of Halloween. I had colored pictures in school and wanted to put them on the windows, Frankenstein and Dracula, the Mummy, haunted houses, ghosts. This was at a time when I didnt know how haunted by ghosts I would become.

Halloween was a big deal to me, as it was any kid. Next to Christmas, it was my favorite time of year. I liked costumes, but HATED rubber masks, clowns, etc. If I couldn't see who you really were I was terrified. The year before I went screaming home on Halloween when purposely terrified by one of the Scher boys who was wearing a rubber Magilla Gorilla mask. OMG was I scared, I almost wet myself as I ran home. I never forgot that. And to this day, I still hate clowns. Anyway, I was eagerly awaiting the day the week before Halloween when my mom would let me put my scary drawings on the windows in the kitchen. She had some Hallmark cardboard cutouts of witches on brooms, and pumpkins, and a black cat, and a haunted house that she would tape to the windows, to show the neighborhood kids we were cool with Halloween. Seeing those things in the windows when I came home from school always made me smile, so glad to be home. And the cardboard witch looked friendly, not like the mean witch in the Wizard of Oz, who sent me hiding behind a chair each year before Easter when it came on TV. I could barely stand to look at her. She embodied horror to me. Those were in the days when the networks still announced they were broadcasting shows in COLOR, or "in living color"....

Anyway the memories didn't stay long. I remember walking with my mom, asking her if it was time to put my drawings in the window. Halloween was still two weeks away, too early, but I thought if I put my drawings up, I could speed things up and it would get here faster. But, alas, my mom said no. I would have to wait another week. But I do remember stopping to pick up leaves that had started falling from the trees on our street. I think they were oak leaves, crisp and brown and smelling like Fall.

Suddenly the memories were gone, and I was still sitting there on my bench, watching the people go by, and still alone. But IT HAD HAPPENED. I had been, briefly, transported from this world, into a smaller, kinder world, the world of a six year old boy who liked drawing pictures from his imagination, and who loved stories of goodness and truth winning the day. In the intervening 41 years, I have found that goodness and truth won't save you from hardships, but they do help you get through them, and while they won't stop calamities, they will help you understand them.

It looks like a nuclear meltdown is inevitable at this point at one of the affected nuclear reactors in Japan. It seems so incomprehensible, after so much horror, that there will be another element of terror added to the lives of the people there, to the world. I struggle with the enormous scope of the challenges faced in Japan, even as war rages in Afghanistan, as Libyans and so many others fight to be free, as Mexicans are killed in drug wars, as there is so much pain and suffering in this country for so many reasons.

After all, what do we really know? We don't know what we don't know, but we don't know what is staring us in the face, because we choose not to see it. I have hope, but it is, a little, dimmed lately.

Fashion Week- Reflections On Old Inspiration and New Laziness

2011-02-16T16:13:00.000-08:00

FASHION. The word conjures up mixed messages these days. I strolled along Madison Avenue today, and Fifth Avenue, finally walking through my old stomping grounds, Saks Fifth Avenue, where I worked as a personal Shopper a few years ago. I loved it. I still dress clients and friends of mine. I enjoy it! The newly remodeled store was somewhat like a museum in spots. The beautiful clothes beautifully hung like fabulous little soldiers, handbags and shoes in agonizing perfection taunting every woman who passed them by. The staff was extremely eager to help and I stopped to speak to some of the familiar faces that I saw. The fabulous few customers I saw, some with their hair streaked to match their fox furs, were flipping over the platform reptile shoes faster than pancakes at IHOP, to gasp at the prices. From Chanel to Armani, Donna Karen to Calvin Klein, Zac Posen to Gucci, it was pretty quiet. By quiet, I mean dead. This is the post Christmas slump, and also Fashion Week. The Fashionistas are running in their hooker heels into the tents as I type this.

FASHION. Big business. Personal. Subjective. Is it style? Is it taste? Is it something ethereal we are gifted by some set of "Important" designers and editors because we cannot decide for ourselves what is worthy to put on our bodies? I know many people in fashion, designers and the people who work for designers. Very often successful, known designers are as genuine and real as anyone. And, also, with some frequency, the people that work for and with them get swept up in the drama and pretense of working for "a name", they become boorish snobs and act as if they themselves are a kind of royalty. THEY'RE NOT. I've seen a bunch of these snobs come and go, and they usually end up working in stores like Barnie's, or Bloomingdale's.

Fashion has become, in truth, a baby that is born in the offices of trend forecasters overseas, who are contracted by the designers and the companies that own designer labels a full year ahead to forecast colors, textures and prints so that all the designers will be unified in a base of presentation for a particular season.
And, I hate to speak of it, we've all heard the nightmare scenarios of teenagers dumpster diving and being used as Trend Spotters in parks and around college campuses in NYC, London, Paris and Tokyo. These augment collections with accents, certain "must have accessories" etc. Once the designers have had their breakdowns, and the collections are drawn up, they are computerized and emailed to garment factories from China to Mauritius to be made into samples, and then finals. The final, edited collections after Fashion Week is over and orders are placed result in a tsunami of fabrics and notions from overseas, not to mention millions of hours of manual and machine labor mostly Chinese.

Never mind all of that unpleasant detail when confronted with mountains of magazines and hours of TV programs devoted to Award Ceremony Dresses, Hits and Misses decided by the most OUTRAGEOUS examples of dubious men and women to be found anywhere. Just shuttup about the goddam award dresses already! Sweet Baby Jesus! Not everyone gives the gigantic crap about them that the media believes. What percentage of the public lives vicariously through the clothing of celebrities? GET A LIFE. Anyway....We all have eyes, thank you very much. We can see nice versus tacky all by ourselves! Yet, thanks to vanity sizing, and the bad memories of oversized clothes from the 80's, many adults aren't quite sure what a real "fit" is supposed to look and feel like. Sigh.... And, apparently, just about anybody can call themselves a "Stylist". I would like some minimum and MAXIMUM standards of taste and style to be met before the words style and taste can be thrown around. In the 90's everyone was a "Decorator." Sigh...

Today FASHION IS A BUSINESS like banking. The currency is clothes. Clothes are a commodity. Look at the warehousing at Old Navy if you doubt that, where clothes are stacked like bales of hay. Sure, creativity is a part of it, the ability to remix the same elements and silhouettes and color palettes over and over. But creativity is NOT the bulk of it, nor Fashion itself. It's about making the EASIEST buck. There are no dictators left. We the consumers, with the magazines, and the stores, and the media, dictate what will be made available for purchase, how it will be displayed, and how much of it will be sold.

We are all Fashionistas. The business has basically eaten itself alive, priced itself out of the USA decades ago, and it will never be the same. Independents are going to succeed, I think, the same way independent films have done so well against studio films in recent years. Fashion's glamorous shell struggles heroically, vainly for self-preservation. Any designer who or editor who says "we have democratized Fashion" really means that Fashion has died. It clings to rituals, and it's old view of it's role in society- the importance of the designer and the fashion show in today's world. But all are struggling to change with the times.

When I was designing and was researching the everyday styles of the 1950's for school kids in the 50's, I used to look at the yearbooks of my parents, both of whom graduated High School in the 1950's and just wonder. I would look at the hair, the clothes, and even the yearbooks themselves. They reflected a pride, and a word I am going to use very often in this post, as RESPECT for time, for place, and for themselves that we laugh at now. I refuse, we all should refuse to turn a blind eye to the tasteless, disrespectful and crass behavior and styles that go hand in hand these days. Thanks to the pervasiveness of the trash culture of Hip Hop, the failure of the dying Fashion Industry to call it out and face it, and the public for rolling over, we are living in a world of ever increasing crassness and sloppiness, where standards of behavior and standards of fashion have gone hand in hand for over a century. Anyone who calls an attempt at raising kids in a world that doesn't overly sexualize kids and cheapen women in media and in life is an absolute neanderthal.

Now everyday at every job is Casual Workday, and for many people, work clothes involve sneakers, jeans, and logo t-shirts, as if the entire country worked either at a casual community bank or Chucky Cheese. The bland, barely varied clothes at Gap and Banana Republic and J Crew are so numbing, they are the identity destroying uniform of men throughout the corporate world now. Shudder. The saddest of all, to me, a guy who as a kid got dressed in a suit to go to church or have family pictures taken, is to see kids in jeans, t-shirts, team jerseys and hip-hop clothes at funerals. The parents are in "good jeans" and their very best sneakers, sometimes a tie, and it makes me sad. Not that everyone should follow the way that I was raised, but that the life of the person that was lost didn't deserve the respect of these people making an extra effort that went beyond what they would have worn to school or a concert. And proper clothing that respects an occasion isn't expensive. Thrift stores abound.

And, we can thank the fashion industry, pop culture, the media, and fear of calling out bad taste as we used to for fear of being called racists or elitists. Respect knows no colors, races or creeds. Stretched clothes, popped booties (sigh) and undulating rolls of fat are not only tasteless, they are just disrespectful to everyone, not the least of which the wearer. The bulging Kardashians are setting us back another decade in taste and style, jiggling toward the abyss as we speak.

My first thought especially looking at my Mom's yearbook pictures was how mature, how much of a LADY she looked like. She really looked beautiful. Girls wearing jeans were"looked down upon" and every other girl wore skirts, dresses, suits, dressy slacks, and the hair and makeup was right out of the movies. For proms, these girls, in my opinion, were sexy, sophisticated, and as glamorous as girls going to the Oscars are today. The men wore tuxes, and white dinner jackets, when appropriate. Sometimes, for the Ball, they wore tails. Knowing when to wear white tie and vest or black tie and vest were just a part of growing up. The pictures of my parent's wedding in 1955 were typical, a dramatic wedding gown, the women in hats, gloves, dressed to kill and the guys in snappy suits or tuxes, depending on time of day. Nowadays people wear their "good jeans" maybe a blazer. " Women wear "dressy sweater set" etc. And, a few girls look like they are looking for love at reasonable rates with dresses that put the HOOCH in hoochie-momma. And then, the stripper shoes. Don't. Just don't. Somewhere between the idealized past and the sleazy present, there is a happy medium. Lets look for it together, huh?

Normal Is For Sissies

2011-02-03T23:25:00.000-08:00

If blogging has taught me one thing, it is that I am definitely unique. I like that. It did more than confirm for me my suspicions that I am a bit of an individual. I am now much respectful and proud of the individual I have become. I have always been different, lived a different reality. We all are different. But my experiences kinda went off the measurable scale of social norms when I was just a little kid. It sucked for the kid, and young man, but now that the thick cloud of dust from the last few years has settled, I can see more clearly than ever, and feel pretty darned good. I also see more clearly my own sense of right and wrong, and more clearly defined morals that have come through expression in the blog. I have more strength in my convictions than ever before.

Yep, I believe it. This is going to be a good year. Many areas of my life where there has been stagnation are starting to improve in many ways, in almost every way. I have met some truly wonderful people, I have found some new things I can do with my passions, and I have found a few places where I can contribute and make a difference. I have had an unbelievably positive response to the blog, and to my writing. I feel rather blessed right now, and am grateful to everyone for their kind thoughts, and stubborn goodwill. I have heard very kind remarks about the script I finished last year, AT WAR WITH GEORGIA, and tho the film that was shot is still in editing, I am thrilled. The filming went really well, due to the exceptional group of actors and the fantastic location. It was shot at the Soldier's, Sailor"s and Airman's Club on Lexington near Grand Central. Since the play/film takes place in 1943 New York, and the building's decor was perfect in every detail, I was very lucky to find and rent it.

The things I have done throughout my life, good and bad, are all making an alarming amount of sense at the moment. I have never had any patience, which I think has been my "Achilles Heel". I've often wanted to either blast and push my way through problems and life by force of will, or just throw in the towel and give up on the whole show. Finally, at 47, the bits and pieces I have learned about life, the Arts, people, my passions and my weaknesses are all coming together to form a far better present than I have known for a few years at least. Not all of the last few years was gloom and doom, but the gloom overtook the good at one point, and held on tight. Dealing with depression has been a battle and a half, and it clouds you so that every decision you make must be questioned, reviewed and rethought to make sure that your depression isn't managing your life, that you are capable of real judgement. I also have a really good, dedicated therapist I owe my life to.

I have been lucky enough to do some great things, meet some extraordinary people since I got to NYC in 2004. I've met and worked with true royalty, stars from TV, Film, Theater, News, Politics, some people of great wit and little means, people of little wit and incredible wealth, and the most stunning array of smart, funny, curious people I have ever encountered. Yes, I've met many of the biggest assholes in the world, too. New York attracts them, but I like diversity so it's OK. And then my life stopped. The health problems I have faced since '06 have felt like an insurmountable mountain for years. But, suddenly, I am at the top of the mountain, still in control of my destiny, and able to head down into a green valley of opportunity I wondered if I would ever see. Here it is before me! And I am more alive than ever.

I was singing this weekend for the first time in "like totally" a bazillion years. And ya know what? I can still sing the shit outta some music, Ya'll! That was a revelation to me. I havent let myself dwell much on what I want out of life. I have stripped life down for years now to what I have to do,a bare minimum, to stay focused. With my manic energy and passion, it has been very difficult, and a painful life lesson to pare down my goals and expectations.Grandiosity has always been so much more attractive to me. Acting, singing, my work and my pleasure for so many years, just vanished after I moved to NYC. And, I lost my spine, my focus to take on health issues. Then I lost myself. Completely. Have barely had a toe in the water. I couldn't see any of myself in my own life, I only saw someone I didn't know or recognize. My EMC card stares me down when I open my wallet, mocking me, telling me I am the World's Oldest Living Membership Candidate. I am still a few points shy of being in EQUITY, the Stage Actor's Union. Sigh.... That one is outta my control, and hardly seems worth chasing as reports of Spiderman cast members falling from the rafters fill the press. The reality of theater today is that the opportunities are shrinking, and there are going to be fewer and fewer as time goes on. The kind of theater I enjoy and aspire to is traditional, character driven work that is now only available to TV and Film stars. 27 years in the business and I had to work for years in a non-union state, and then have some misfortune once I got to Chicago and NYC. Such is life. Eh! I did alot, I did it well, and I am very proud of the body of my work. We shall see where the road takes us. I don't want to build the road anymore. I am more of a follower, something I wasn't capable of being years ago.

Anyway, a couple of days ago, I actually opened up my chords, warmed up vocally, started singing with Mary Travers (one of my musical muses), then went on to some Sinatra, some Ella, then I took on some show music (I know, annoying as hell) and was able to keep up with A Little Night Music. Damn, I miss doing that show. It's a beautiful, musically complex work, calls for some fierce training. It was 20 years ago, I looked like I was 18, and it feels like yesterday. I was a little shaky on the high B flat, but I got it. I still got it. Sigh. I am hoping to finally go back to Memphis (which I thought I would NEVER say) within a few months to cut a few songs at Ardent Studios. My best friend and world-class singer Susan Marshall records there and in LA, and her husband is a recording engineer. they've offered to help me, and I can finally shorten my bucket list and record some songs I had all but given up on. I am finally going to do it. Seems unreal. But I am happy. Happy is a word I use sparingly in life. And, right now, I am happier than I have been in a long time.

I think the best thing that has come from the last year has been my return to writing on a regular basis. I can't believe the direction it has brought to my life, and the discipline. This blog has shocked me by being a very useful tool for connecting with others in unexpected ways. Spouting of on my opinions is, well, far too easy, and it has engaged me with many passionate people who agree or disagree completely with me. That is fine. I respect that. The most remarkable thing is how well people have responded to the true and painful stories of my life that I have put into this. It was not my intention to put so much truth, and unpleasant detail into the blog. I am working on a book about my unusual life, my many journeys, that will be a series of prosaic sketches, humorous stories, and - YES, OPINION.

I really was surprised that I was even able to get through revealing so much about my youth. There is much here that I have never expressed to anyone publicly, just my closest friends. But, I think because my Father passed away in November and I had just found out about the loss of my brother in law, Mike, to a gun, I was in a state of shock. The past was in need of being addressed, and I needed to purge some old toxins, badly. Once I started addressing memories, i found I couldn't control what I needed to express. It just came pouring out. And, it has really helped. Each and every one of you reading this is a part of a healing, like it or not. You are at the very least witnessing the rebirth of a tired old soul, and I cannot ever adequately express my gratitude. Cheers. I promise to mention all of you in my next Award Speech.

Winter Grey- Not Just The Skies

2011-01-29T19:00:00.000-08:00

I have a grey mist before my eyes! Grey watercolor skies, cold winds, snow sticking to every branch on the trees. Central Park was gorgeous today. I decided to stay inside most of yesterday, after going to the store to get groceries and coming back with pants wet to my knees, my coat soaked along the bottom, and my feet cold and wet. By this afternoon, I was definitely in need of some human company. My orange Tabby, Napoleon, is nearing 2 years old, and has lots of energy for play. He has saved me from total isolation and hiding myself by working on the computer on many days. But, there are days I spend so much time with him I fear that I will soon turn into a creature that can only interact with cats, and not people. Yes, I am feeling the midpoint Winter strain on my spirit. To be honest, my spirit is dressed in grey for many other reasons. Mid-Life issues are begging to be addressed. I am trying to break the ice and meet new people in NYC. That is the hardest thing to do here.

Today the temps were bearable, the sky appropriately opaque, and I decided to bundle up and do some wandering. I needed to find something to further stir my soul.. I am coming out of a bit of seasonal depression that has not helped my feeling of isolation. Having a flu, and some terrible weather have not helped matters much. Since I have stopped working due to my lung condition a few years ago, life has been a little unstructured. so I really have to go out of my rather "dull" neighborhood in Lower Manhattan and look for interaction. I get this via the A-Train, mostly. Sometimes the 4/5 trains. I usually head anywhere between 42nd Street Grand Central and 86th Street and Lex, to wander along the park, Madison, or 5th Avenue.

How do I get myself to thoroughly embrace the challenges in my life, and to throw myself into action? I mix, mingle, interact, wander, watch, see, hear, and absorb. Or, at least I try to do those things. I found myself on a familiar routine at first, got off the train at Columbus Circle, and went for a walk toward The Plaza on the other side of Central Park. I was walking near 7th Avenue, when a huge chunk of ice fell from the highrise above me, and crashed onto the awning I was standing under. Wow. It could have crushed my head! I drew a deep breath, and walked along the sidewalk, dodging people, looking across the street to the park, and being enthralled with what I saw. It was a pristine wilderness. A beautiful blanket of 19 inches of snow had just fallen, the paths were not clear, and no one was really walking in the park, save for on the drives. It was like a gorgeous winter scene from Doctor Zhivago.

I went into the Plaza, and down to the new Food Court, and to Todd English for a coffee. I love that place. I hung out for a while, in a huge, overstuffed chair and popped in my earphones, seeking some inspiration. I found none, just felt a feeling of wintry loneliness come over me. I wanted someone to share the day with, to share the beauty of the world with, but I was alone, sitting in a chair, watching people go by at The Plaza. Something about sitting in one of the world's most fabulous hotels makes you feel especially alone. People from all over the world milling around, French families, groups of Japanese businessmen, Italians, Spaniards, and New Yorkers swirled around me. I wondered if they saw me, if I entered their minds.

My Ipod finally died,and I got up a short time later, went up the escalator to street level, and went back outside.As I walked around to the front of the Plaza, and crossed Central Park South to walk along the outer wall of the park, I was really drawn into the scene. Here, the sidewalks had not been cleared, and though wide, there was only a narrow, icy path for teh throngs of tourists, mothers with baby carriages, families to walk on. It was VERY frustrating. I didn't have snow boots, so I was trying to navigate the packed, icy snow with smooth soled shoes. It didn't work well, and I almost fell, or was pushed over, a few times. But the magic of Central Park was very powerful yesterday, and people from everywhere were stopping to take pictures. The drifts af snow were about three feet high, there was snow piled high on the wall around the park, so getting a good view was very hard. But there must have been thousands of pictures being snapped all around me. I climbed into a couple of wells deep in the snow where others had climbed before me, and took some dramatic pictures on my Android.

As I crossed the street, to get to the clearer sidewalk on the South side of the street, I looked down at the street, making sure I didn't get my feet stuck in any deep black puddles where salt had melted the snow and pooled it at intersections. It wasn't easy to avoid the puddles, so I jumped, dodged, walked around those that I could. As I did so, I realized just how much time was spent with my head down, not really looking at the faces of people around me when I was out on the street. After living alone, working in isolation, and staying home too much to safeguard my health, I found myself truly not even thinking much of the time about meeting new people, and smiling at anyone, etc. I can do it on the best of days, but on an average day, I tend to not even let it enter my mind. Funny. I am a man who can get onstage in front of hundreds of strangers and talk to them like old friends. But, when it comes to getting to know people for my own life, frankly, I SUCK at meeting people. Joking? No problem. Breaking ice? Not too hard. Having a conversation? FORGET IT! DATING? Are you kidding me? I haven't had a date really since 06 when I got injured at work. Now that I no longer work, and deal with the changes in my life, I lost my self-confidence as an individual. I am finding my voice as a writer, and with asserting my opinions when I feel they can be useful.

I still have my "boyish good looks" (or so I've been told) and I seek to re-enter the dating world for the first time in years. After the illness, losing my brother, and very recently my father, I have been kind of blindsided emotionally, and it has taken every bit of time and attention to stay balanced physically with my lung damage, and to keep my spirits from having to be scraped off the floor. That has been the hard part. I gave up my work life and related identity and expectations, and letting go of dreams that have propelled me through life was revelatory. That took years. It freed me from constant regret, feeling I was never doing enough, and that is something I was not expecting to feel - freedom. But with freedom comes a lack of direction, something I have never had. I have always been a goal-oriented being, and suddenly, I was stripped as bare as the trees in Central Park, and feeling a bit frozen. But, I am now experiencing stirrings that are new to me, that aren't anchored in the past as much as they are new, needing to be explored, questioned, and tested for their merits. I feel like. I am a bit terrified to re-enter the social world without a clear ability to define myself. I dont have teh pat answers to the NYC screening questions that everyone asks when you go out- "So, where are you from?", "What do you do?", " Where do you live?", "Do you rent or own?", etc....It is tiring. But, that is NYC. Love the city, just wonder how anyone here ever connects. Still, I have a somewhat tainted view, based on little experience, and with low expectations. I will get over it, I am told, the more I get "out there" and interact.

My goals, finding some writer-friendly groups, (not how too, thank you very much), but social. Also, seeking some non-profits that touch my heart that I can help raise funds for without draining myself in the process of trying to do good in the world. I am trying to work on some that stop gun violence, and that help kids. We shall see what if anything comes of this. The people, so far, are rather scattered. Anyway, the sky is grey, there is snow on the ground, but Spring isn't too far off. Spring is the time for renewal, and rebirth-allegedly.
I am ready to take root, grow some new leaves, and find my place in the garden. I am seeking people to grow beside me, relax in my shade, and to sway in the breeze together. I am hopeful that sometime this year, my efforts to find some new friends and like-minded artists here will "take root".

Does the Work He Does Make The Man?

2011-01-04T16:40:00.000-08:00

How do we define ourselves? I hope it is by the way we interact with others, by the kindness we show, the help we offer those in need, and the basic beliefs that we stand for and live by. At this point in my life, I hope it is with simplicity and kindness to myself that I can define myself to the world. Still, I fall into the trap so many of us do by defining much of myself by my JOB, the body of work I have done and will do. Having those accomplishments to take pride in is a great way to tell people what you are about, your hopes and dreams, your values. Since I stopped working in full-time 2007, every attempt to define myself has proven futile. Much of my life has been spent in an uneasy alignment with The Arts. Drawing, painting, designing, writing, acting, directing, producing, all stood ready to take the time and energy I couldn't pour into my own family or relationships, and the recognition and applause I achieved were often the only human interaction I had on a meaningful level.

I have worked in Film and Television, Theater, in Chicago, New York and Memphis. I have performed before audiences of thousands. From Shakespeare to Noel Coward, I have played many dream roles. I have stood on fashion runways in to standing ovations from crowds for shows I have put together. I have dressed thousands of people from Opera singers to Broadway and Film stars, heads of International Corporations, to brides ( including one who told me "Make me look slutty")people who have lost their luggage. I have studied voice for years and sung Classical, Jazz, Folk, Rock, and the part of Henrik in A Little Night Music, my favorite musical role. That is my favorite piece of musical theater, melancholy and beautiful. I have been blessed with critical praise for my work as an actor, director, producer, writer, and designer of sets and costumes, and have a handful of citations and awards. Since 1983, when I was a pup working in theater in Germantown, Tennessee, I have appeared in hundreds upon hundreds of performances, sometimes several each day. I have run my own theater company, directed dozens of productions, and am working on my first indie film. I have written three theatrical scripts that have been produced, and I have won awards for my production design. Dear Lord, have I done all of this? Have I been so fortunate as to work with hundreds and thousands of incredibly talented people in an array of mediums? Indeed, I have done this, and much, much, more. But despite all I have done, and all the humans around me, I have been an unknown person, a skilled worker among many who didn’t get to know many people well. I have lived a life happily buried, head down, fearfully in my work. I learned survival rather than social skills, yet I can converse with all but the faint of heart. My heart holds fewer friends dear than I would like, and a broken trail of relationships and misfires. But those precious friends I do have, that I have been able to carry and count on through the years, are gold to me.

Every area of the Arts, save for Acting or Singing, (now, writing) they were just tools to me. I used thses tools to elevate myself, give me hope, and to find acceptance. I simply found that the Arts brought me attention I couldn't get any other way, so I latched onto it, and never let go. I got hugs and praise I never got at home. I got applause. Yet, it was all empty. I never gave a rat's ass about any of them. If I "used" the Arts, and I did use them because they were the only available resources I had, I worked mercilessly to be the best that I could be, as good as anyone else. Otherwise, I resented every single moment of the work that I did, even if I didn't realize it at the time.That is the honest truth. For so many reasons, from being in bad relationships to feeling trapped and desperate, I would reach out to other mediums to assert my presence when, for a time, I felt I might be able to use them to make a name for myself, to stay alive. So I have been a jack-of-all-trades, master of none (well, master of a few), and never focused clearly on my own goals and dreams. In spite of having talent, skill, brainpower and relentless drive, my need to adapt to trauma, and reinvent myself completely has trumped everything I have ever wanted, from relationships to the kind of success everyone has always told me I am capable of. Knowing in my heart that I was capable of great things, and doing good in this world is the only thing that kept me alive in a world of chaos and pain as a child. This encouragement really came from nowhere else. Just me. At 47, I am stopped in my tracks, for a time, and afforded the opportunity to be nothing but truthful, and to strip away the years of lies, false identities and sadness. I feel happy to be clearer in my mind than ever about who I am, and what I do. I can remember when I didn't have a clue.

One day while I was a child in Kindergarten in at Avoca West Elementary School in Wilmette Illnions, I was coloring pictures next to a girl named Marcie Spiegelman. She was a pretty little brunette, skinny as a rail, and I could tell she liked me, because she once hit me and hid my shoes until I cried. Mom said that was a sure sign of affection. Anyway, I was noticing that my apple was not as neat as hers, nor as realistic, and she was coloring perfectly within the lines. "How boring", I thought, but being a competitive person, I resolved to match her efforts after the teacher complimented her. So, I applied all of my concentration and effort, and suddenly, according to the teacher, I had colored a "superior" apple, complete with worm. Basking in the glow of my accomplishment and the accolades, I took the picture home to show my Mom who was very pleased. It went right up on the refrigerator. And thus began my lifelong association with the Arts. Mrs. Stollerow, my teacher, started me on my path. I feel bad that I threw up on her on my birthday in 1968, but I can't rewrite history. I also started writing essays, stories and 90 page novels, handing them in to my perplexed English teachers, unsolicited, for loads of extra credit, and went into my own little creative bubble.

It wasn't long after that that someone at school decided I had real talent as a visual artist, and that was the label I wore from Grade School throughout High School. My family was being torn apart by alcoholism, death, mental illness, and the only way I could cope was retreating into a world of perfection I could create by drawing frighteningly detailed pictures of houses, trees, the Titanic Disaster, ships, trucks, planes, zeppelins, and even people. I sketched for years on my own, with no training. This lead me to painting and sculpture, and for years I entered art contests, egged on by a friend, but never won a damned thing. By the time I started High School I had given up on ever winning anything, figured I wasn't very good after all. That all changed in my freshman year. I went to the first day of Art I Class, and found a quiet corner. I was very much anorexic, a frequent victim of bullying, felt awful about myself, worthless, and was being destroyed by the horrors at home. I drew as little attention to myself as possible.Mr Calrton, the affable teacher, asked us to draw a tire he had placed on a tree stump on one of the tables. I did, and was the first to finish. He pulled me to his desk for a talk. "Wow. I have never seen anything like this. This is exceptional. Have you always drawn like this?" I nodded, a bit shocked that he liked it so much. "If you can draw like this, you can paint like crazy. I can tell. You are far in advance of any of my students, so I want to put you with the Seniors and see what you are capable of". And, that was that. Suddenly, I was hanging with the Seniors, the major Art/English nerds at Germantown High School. I liked those nerds! They were great to me, loved my work, and I felt respected for the first time in my entire life. Suddenly, I was winning regional and national awards in the Scholastic Arts Competition, which was kinda a big deal, and would do so throughout high school.

My childhood at home created a fearful, fatalistic kid. On one hand, I was dealing with the adult topics like the death of my brother and best friend John from Cancer.I struggled without help, while also dealing with terror, abuse and emotional starvation. I was beaten by an older brother, just as I was humiliated by my dad. My Bob older brother was severely ill mentally, kept telling me he hated me, I was a little faggot, I was garbage, he repeatedly told me that he was going to kill me, and I had to have sense beaten into me. By the age of 5, I was being called a faggot by my Dad, repeatedly humiliated, beaten regularly by my brother,and without much intervention. My family was already blowing apart at the seams. My young brother, my Johnny, was dying of Leukemia, my parents were tense and drained, and my Dad just seemed to dislike me, never took to me, ignored me, pretended I didn't exist. All I ever wanted was to be treated like every other kid, play games, learn baseball, but he wouldn't teach me. He took every chance he could to let me know what a failure and a disappointment I was, and that he hated my creativity, which was somewhat encouraged by my Mom. So, so many things made me a different creature, a different thinker, gave me a different world view than my contemporaries. I began wishing I would die after I was about 8 or 9, lying in bed every night for years, wishing that God would take me in my sleep so I wouldn't have to be in a world where I was so hated, not wanted, didn't even exist. The beatings didn't stop until I was about 14, and I had no sanctuary. The Arts gave me some shelter, and a possible future. I had an identity as and artist, I had none as a person.

Oh, how I wanted to make friends, but I really had none growing up. Not until I was in High School did I have any success. I was, in many ways, a ferile child. I have remained so in some ways, until recently.

Like a hungry bird sitting beside you in a park, wanting food but fearful of people, throughout my life I’d made approaches, even gotten close to you, and at times found myself in grave danger as a result. It has been out of an unmet need to make contact, and the primitive instinct to eat to stay alive. My life has been one of instinctive survival, one without much guidance, without much love or physical contact, yet without fear of challenges, but with terror of accomplishments. I have not been without hope, or without a vision. Most importantly, I have always, always been guided by a superb moral compass that has been functioning and protected me since before I can remember. It has always been there. I am also blessed, or cursed, with a memory that, save for some head-traumas I have suffered, retains a great deal of my life. I have intact memories from when I was a toddler in the playpen to my current age of 47 years old. Much to the dismay of my family, I remember everything, in startling clarity and detail. I never cultivated it. It is just a quirky part of me I have learned to accept. Memories are tricky things, and they must be respected and handled carefully. Memories are also like weapons to some, to be avoided at all cost. This is because the truth, for many people, is too dangerous or overwhelming to address.

What a ride this has been. My work life has been interesting, varied, as maddening and chaotic as growing up at home. My personal life is an entirely different beast altogether. My personal life is largely a ghost town. It consists of a four decade long stream of steady misfortune, deaths, abandonment, struggles, abuse, and finally a breathtaking list of personal injuries and illness. The resulting experience is one that up until very recently, I have not been able to understand. Yet with my Father’s passing in November, 2010, I finally got a clear sense of how my life was front-loaded, why all of this had to be, and why I found myself in the middle of so many storms NOT of my choosing. I just didn’t stand a chance at a stable life with love and family, not with the losses and the abuse I suffered starting around the age of 5. Growing up surrounded by madness, and some incredible bad fortune, rendered all of that impossible and placed an innocent child into 40 years of hardship. Charles Dickens might have written my life story.

In every aspect, my life outside of work has been something I still struggle to accept as mine. I very nearly moved away, changed my name, and changed, at least, the superficial ties to my family, my past, and my pain. I often hoped this “bad dream:” would end with waking one day. “Do I want to own this?” I have often asked myself. Well, I waited for decades before accepting it, and it became clear when I was only a small child that no one else was willing to adopt my life or the load that I bear. My life has been excruciating and steadfast in its resolve to break and then remake me over and over again. But the beauty I have been able to create and share out of my life and the constant struggle stands as a record that I WAS HERE. Work was my life for decades, since I was 15 and I was forced to go to work to survive. After experiencing abandonment and starvation, work was my way out of misery. Without knowing how to love or be loved, work and the sense of identity that came from it is all I had. I learned as a child that I could command attention and respect from my work, even from the very people who tormented and tortured me, body and soul. That was my revenge, to succeed.

I'd Kill For A Diet Coke

2011-01-02T00:03:00.000-08:00

I am a very lucky guy. I stand 5'8", brown hair, blue eyes, in good shape, 40 chest, 31 waist, and proportionate. I am 47 years old, look much younger, and act like a kid much of the time. This is a little blurb about how my life changed dramatically a few years back. It tells how I went from a guy with limitless potential and manic energy, bouncing from restaurants and clubs, to a near total stop in a few months. With some poorly timed decisions, and a bit of bad luck, I went from struggling with incredible adversity to being gifted a new life. The gift was not really handed to me, I had to work hard, and see the very depths of my soul to find it. Do I live with some limitations? Sure, but I don't really care for those. So, I say, "screw those."

On the clear, cool morning of May 8, 2006, I landed in the ER at NYU Medical Center with tremendous difficulty breathing. I fully expected to be treated with medication, patted on the back, told to take it easy, and allowed to return to work later that day. I figured I could just PUSH my way through being sick, as I had throughout my life, and come out the other end. I’d had some flare-ups of severe asthma, which I had as a child, but had been dormant since I was about 18. I was now 42 years old, and I hadn’t been near an ER for breathing problems since 1981. It was, at best, a seasonal inconvenience until this episode. I had been in New York from Chicago exactly 3 years, and was incredibly happy here, once I got past the hurdles of finding a good living situation, a decent job (my last one the company went bankrupt and let me go on the spot) and meeting people. New York has felt like my spiritual home since the moment I first set foot on her streets.

This was my third ER visit in just a few months, since I started a corporate retail position with a reputable private fashion brand based in Brooklyn. The work was physical, grueling, involving travel throughout the eastern US, and put me in close quarters, with construction sites, filthy storage facilities, mold, mildew, and garment construction. I loved the work, but my brother Bob had just died three months prior in February, I’d been traveling extensively, and was physically drained. I had gotten very sick a few days earlier at a store in Falmouth, Mass. It was a stressful new store opening, and I was glad to be back in New York. I was drained, a bit depressed because not only had my brother Bob died, but I had lost my dear sister Cathy in 1980, and her baby just weeks prior to her unexpected death. I had also lost my brother John to Leukemia in 1971. I was 7, he was six. I was stunned. My life had been shaped by death and abuse. Was there no end to this? I’d been in grief counseling for a few weeks, and it seemed to help to talk about it. I assumed that my life would simply limp forward and follow the path I was trying to establish. At last I was finally on a path in my new home with a good place to live, and a good, if grossly underpaid, job.

I walked to the hospital because only lived three blocks away at the time. I was sharing an apartment at 28^th and 2nd in Kips Bay. Those were the longest 3 blocks of my life. After I got to the reception area, they could see I had very low oxygen in my blood and breathing was severely labored. I was rushed through the waiting room and into the ER. After talking to doctors and nurses, and describing my symptoms, we all agreed this was not ordinary asthma. One of the doctors asked me if I had ever heard of Aspergilis, a type of mold. I told him I hadn’t, but that I had been in contact with mold at my job repeatedly, and that I knew my allergy to mold to be severe. I almost died as a teen staying at a hotel that had mold in Suburban Chicago for a family wedding in 1976. I was quickly assigned to a leading Pulmonologist who also confirmed she suspected I may have Aspergilis in my lungs. Blood was drawn, tests and X-rays were taken, and I sat waiting for the results. Nothing in my world would be the same from then on. My life would be woven with the threads that were spun around me that day like a medical straightjacket I will never be freed from.

I remember sitting in the bed in the ER dressed for work, glad to have called my boss to tell him they were doing tests and that I would be in a little late, possibly that afternoon. I was actually so relieved to be still, in a bed, resting, that I actually dozed off briefly under a blanket. I was shocked to see a squadron of med students trailing like ducklings behind the Pulmonologist and into my cubicle when the tests started coming back. They looked grim, heads down, clutching clipboards. I sat up in my bed, eyes opening wide, in a state of disbelief. In a hushed, impeccably controlled voice the doctor spoke to me “You’re very ill. The tests have come back, and you have an extremely elevated IGE level, measuring your body’s response to fighting allergies, that is higher than many of us have ever seen. It is usually well below a hundred, but yours is over 4,000. We are pretty sure that you have an Aspergilis infection. Your Xray shows significant bronchiectasis and damage in both of your lungs, and to your airways, consistent with Allergic Broncho Pulmonary Aspergilosis”. There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. “There’s something much more serious we need to worry about first. There’s a large mass in your upper right lung that is very dense, almost entirely blocking your airways. If you had waited longer to come in, it might have been too late. We can’t tell what it is by the Xray, but to see if it’s malignant we will have to schedule you for a PET scan and inject you with low-level radiation for the test. You’re just not well enough now, so that will have to be in a few weeks.”

“You think it could be cancer? “ I could barely get the question out. MY voice was stilled to that of a frightened toddler. I felt like a child suddenly begging for my life. “We don’t know. The PET scan will show any metabolic activity. If it is, we can take care of it right away. We have excellent surgeons…” I said “Well, whatever it is, take it, rip it out, do what you have to do….” My heart was breaking into pieces. I was in shock, trying to listen and deal with it. I was actually trying to smile, be cheerful, when I was dying inside.“Are you alright?” the doctor asked. I looked around dazed, alone, feeling like an abandoned child that needed to be held. I looked straight ahead and fixed my eyes on the clock at the nurse’s station, and I thought- then I said it aloud “Oh God. I don’t know what to do…. How can I tell my poor family? My brother just died over two months ago…. This is going to kill them…. I feel worse for them than I do for myself….” One of the med students asked “What did your brother die of? How old was he?” I could barely get it out “He was 46. He died of N Stage COPD. His heart stopped one night sitting on his bed.” They were stunned. “Wow. I am so sorry for your loss. But you have a history of Asthma?” I answered, thinking it through as I spoke, ”Yes, as a kid it was severe from the age of 10 to 16. My last hospitalization was in 1981. I haven’t been near a hospital for 25 years and now this… I have no idea what’s happening to me now…..” They could see the tears were starting to well up in my eyes and I was devastated. A nuclear bomb had been detonated in my life. My future, if I had one, would be in their hands.

The doctor, at the foot of my bed, said in her most calming voice, gently touching my ankle, “Don’t worry. This isn’t a death sentence, but it is a huge life change. And depending on what the PET scan shows, we can take care of it right away. You’re OK with surgery if we need to remove it?” I nodded. “Good. If we need to do it, it can happen fast. Don’t you worry. We are going to take care of you and watch you like a hawk! And you can never go back to your job. No. It’s too dirty, you breathe in too much mold and plaster dust, you can never do that work again. Absolutely not. Would you like me to write a letter to them? “ I just nodded…. I could barely move. “I will. We are going to keep you for a while. We have to bet you feeling better. When you get out of here, come see me in my office and I’ll type up that letter.” She saw tears rolling down my cheeks, my face frozen in shock. “Can I get you anything?” By this time I’d been sitting there for hours, with no water or food. “I’d kill for a Diet Coke. I’m addicted.” She laughed. “I know. I can’t last an hour without a Diet Coke. I’ll get you one”. And within five minutes, she brought me the best can of Diet Coke I have ever had. And I sat there for a while, stunned, and after a few minutes, started making calls to my family.

With that Diet Coke came unforseen change in my life, and most of those changes have been catastrophic and transforming. Fortunately, when I finally had my Cancer Screening, it was negative. Those were the most awful moments of my life at that time, taking the test and waiting for the results.The mass in my in my right lung turned out to be a huge infection, a pneumonia that did tremendous damage. I easily won a Worker's Comp case against my employer for the lung damage I suffered while working for them. I have been on high-dose steroids and antibiotics since May 2006. I did switch jobs and worked at Saks for about 9 months as a personal shopper, but was again hospitalized 3 times. By March 30, 2007, my working life was over. My doctor took me off of work at Saks, and placed me on short-term disability, which has since become permanent. I depend on a dozen medications daily to breathe and stay alive now. I am used to that, it's not so bad. And, I have to admit that I still look pretty darned good for my age! Most people guess mid-30's, and I let them believe it. My illness doesn't really show at all to the outside world, unless you are close enough to hear me breathe on certain days, or watch closely as I tackle a large flight of stairs.The steroids are a living nightmare, and have wreaked havoc in my body, and they leave you vulnerable to opportunistic infections and viruses that you could otherwise brush off. I have now had a total of 18 hospital stays at NYU Medical Center. I can walk the campus blindfolded. The lung damage I got has left me extremely sensitive to what used to be minor irritants, and a cold or flu can leave me in the hospital for weeks. I have good days, good weeks, good months, and terrible days, weeks, months. I am forced to live without a Master Plan, one day at a time, and I find it both terrifying, and liberating. I have never before not had clear goals in my life, and I don't know how to just "be", to be still and calm. Chaos gave birth to me, to the way my mind works, to my emotional responses. So now I am relearning everything. Now, for the first time, I have keen insight into where I have been so wrong in the past. I am significantly slowed, I feel I have lost about half of my strength, physical endurance and lung capacity.

I have been able to spend a great deal of time reflecting on my life, my mission and my purpose on this Earth. And, while I have written a few plays, and some poems, I am now defining myself as a Writer. It is oddly reassuring to have the clarity to see myself in this way. All of the Artwork I have done has prepared me for this. They all involve interpreting language and emotion, clearly conveying thought and feeling so it can be understood and felt personally by others, and shaped by their own truths. I enjoy the work, but it is draining at times. Through being ill, I have also had the opportunity to travel on many short trips. These have taken me to Europe, throughout the Caribbean and Mexico. I have had smallish acting gigs here and there, TV, Film, and even onstage, rekindling my love, but have had a maddening four years medically. These four years have taught me not to make commitments of large chunks of time that cant be flexible to my health.. All the years I invested in studying classical singing- and I cannot sustain the kind of musical roles I used to do. I still sneak into Jazz bars and have won a few Open Mic nights, but that is all I dare try. I could record, perhaps perform in a club. If the timing is right.

What I miss the most in my life is the visceral experience of acting as a way of life. For many, many years I was devoured happily by that world, and worked non-stop. I cannot commit to months of rehearsals and performances, because I never know when I will be struck down and back in the hospital. I am like living with my own time bomb, and I am never sure how much time I have to play with before I need to reach for the phone and call a doctor. I can do TV roles, Film, it's not like I'll be replacing Matt Damon in the Bourne movies anytime soon, so we can rule out the action flicks. In truth, as we enter 2011, I am simply glad to be here. I am glad to be anywhere, and looking forward to more writing. I am thrilled to be able to again lay claim to a tiny piece of the ephemera of Life and say"This is mine."

The resulting depression from losing work, social interaction with most people aside from doctors has been tremendously difficult. I have hit rock bottom several times throughout the years, and been on a suicide watch twice. But 2010 saw a great change in me, and I am returning spiritually to a curiosity about myself and about life that has rewarded me with great many discoveries, and finally some peace. I am repairing my decimated social life, reconnecting with my few good friends far more deeply, and am immersing myself in my interests, as much as possible. I haven't had a date in five years, first because of work, then because of how I have never known how to view myself as a person worthy of love with all these issues of health and the related unpredictability of my life. This took my insecurity and doubt to new lows for the first 3 years. But 2010 found me fighting back, and people have been amazingly supportive and friendly, overall. After three years of feeling persecuted like Job, I can finally see the light at the end of this black tunnel. I see an amazing future, and I am, for a change, optimistic. I have earned the comfort, peace, love and acceptance that I seek. And i am ready to give, to reveal and share far more effectively than I was able to before all of this happened to me.

Even in these difficult times, I can see that it is a blessing to have had this shake me to the core of my foundation, and to strip me bare of all pretense and want. My immature selfishness has been replaced with humility and gratitude, two things I have not felt before. Previously I only knew sadness, anger, and despair.

Even I can say now that I am lucky. We all are. Go and tell someone, especially a child, that you love them as soon as you are able. You cannot say it enough, and it's too often said too little. That is not what you want to remember when someone leaves this earth, that you did not tell them enough. This much I know.

R.I.P. 2010 R.I.P. Dad

2010-12-30T18:59:00.000-08:00

I still remember the blue skies, the floating clouds, and the fresh lake air. I followed Mom outside the sliding doors to our backyard, over the patio and onto the grass. I had on my blue Red Ball sneakers with a rounded white rubber toe. The laundry lines were miles above me, and I can still smell the fabric softener on the wet laundry in the basket as she set it on the grass. Trying to be helpful, I attempted to hand her those stiff wooden clothespins, the ones shaped like a U without the hinges. She took them from me, and put them in the pocket of her apron, and bent down to pick up a wet sheet and hang it on the line. I watched her clipping the sheets, then the clothes, and some towels on the lines. She carefully spaced them on the lines so the air would get between them and make them dance for me. I looked up, taking deep breaths as I started to play among the clothes, flapping in the breeze. Besides the smell of Downy, the lilac bushes next to the fence a few yards away were starting to bloom. I picked up a wet pillowcase, dropped it on the grass, trying to hand it to her. She just tossled my hair, brushed the grass off the case, and clipped it to the line. It seemed like that was a perfect day, and the moment hung on me- suspended in time. I still have it. I looked in wonder up at the afternoon sky, hearing the sounds of the sheets rustling overhead. They flapped and billowed upward in the wind, like so many flags, and I was in awe. It seemed like magic. So this is where dry clothes came from.

I have only a handful of memories of my Dad at home, when I was a toddler. He came home just before dinnertime, always dressed in a snappy suit, white shirt and tie. He was a small man, but to me he was a giant. All seven of us kids were excited to see him. You could smell the dinner cooking, Mom had freshened herself up, and we all were glad to have him home. As a unit, we would cluster around him the moment he came in the side door from the driveway. I would run up to him, wrapping my arms around his leg, looking up, and he would tickle me, and call me “Squirt”… He too would tossle my hair, pat me on the back, sometimes pick me up. Mom went around the table putting out napkins, and Patty and Julie would place the silverware for the eight of us at the L shaped table my dad had designed and built to seat the kids. My younger brother Johnny was still in a high chair off to the side, either at the foot of the table or back a few feet from the basement door. For a time I looked up to Dad in all ways a child should, and wanted, for that time, to be like him when I grew up. There were hurried questions about what we did in school or what he did at work, how bad the traffic on the Edens Expressway was, and then he would go to their bedroom, take off his tie and roll up his sleeves. We all had to hustle to the one bathroom we kids shared or to the kitchen sink to wash our hands before dinner. It was mandatory! And Mom would check our hands if there was any doubt as to our cleanliness. What I knew as "normal" was already changing, rapidly. I still remember those days.

Two months ago I saw my Dad for the last time. I arrived at his bedside, in a Florida hospice, just 30 minutes after he died. He was still, small, his frame twisted slightly in his bed, looking very peaceful and calm for the first time I can ever recall. My sisters, my cousins, my aunt and my nephew were all wondering who and what we had just lost. In our lives there had been no clear answers to anything. We hung suspended in the moment of his passing, emotionally catching up with what took place. He died quickly, from stage 4 lung cancer, a fact he hid from all of us. We would come to understand the madness that drove us all to the breaking point by the time we were children. Now there was stillness, silence, and acceptance- the madness had been calmed forever. No more lies, delusion, or suffering. Just peace. Gentle, FINAL death hung in the air. My last major obstacle to healing had been removed. Finally peace would come, and for me, life would begin at 47. For Dad, life ended at 79. It ended as he had lived so much of his life, in a struggle of his choosing. We were very good at handling death, my sisters and I. Of seven children, there are four of us alive in 2011. R.I.P. Dad.