The City is too Loud

The bus driver inside of his 25 foot protective sheath, catches attitude about something the guy in the car in front of him is doing, so he lets out a loud long honk. He hardly hears it, but I'm reeling. Why is this city so loud? And noise is not the only way that it is... Loud, remember the adjective way back when, your grandma used to use it: to denote brightly colored, different, attention grabbing. New York is loud cause like the bus driver, its got attitude. People here don't shy away from the splatter paint facts of their experience. Instead, they tell you about what it is like to be a sex worker. Librarians ask you if you know where they can get crystal meth, I become unsure if they're a narc or I am. Am I a cop?

The stories, I hear about Dominatrix/Lawyers, stiltwalking cat on acid experts, givers, healers media activists, political experts, live from the front of greedy landlord/developer wars, and back from real wars. Iraq, Darfour, Katrina, Guantanamo bay. There are myriad stories and this city is too loud for me to hear all of them together rising to make dim the smoglight, rising above the din of the lime light and the wine light. I hear the attitude of naked, tattooed, human art, it helps me to do something, get live. My ears hurt, I speak quietly cause I dislike noise, but the words are poison when the woman refrains from her speech.

Talking a woman down off the bridge

We were going to take the Brooklyn Bridge, but my mom was lost again, and we were approaching the Manhattan bridge so I pointed it out and we drove on to it. Brooklyn had graced us with a beautiful African dance performance and now it was time to go home. As we drove across, we each thought of mundane things like going for a jog, or walking the dog later at home. Yet the weather had changed the summer night filled with rain, wind, and lightning-just like a story but this was real. The woman was standing on the edge of the bridge, her hair blowing, hands still grasping the cables. I shouted. "There is a woman there!" Mom said, "I know," thinking I meant something else. So I shouted it again louder, she saw, she gasped, "Oh my god!" I said."Get out, talk to her, your a therapist talk her down." She got out yelling at me to call the police. I called them, they took details, spent time. I got out and approached her, my mom was five feet back from her, didn't want to make her jump by jarring her. She was saying things like 'we'll help you' and 'tell us what's wrong.' There was a man just behind her, I went up next to him and spoke to her, "Please don't! Let us help you, you can talk to us and tell us what's wrong, there's no hurry to do this, tell us what happened." The man asked me if he should grab her wrist, I said "yes." He tried, she said, "Don't touch me," as she turned around and looked at him. She was determined, but more she was lost. I continued to talk to her, as did my mom saying, "We'll help you, with money or a place to stay, whatever you need."A Russian man and a few other men, as they got out of their cars shouted, "It's not worth it!" "Don't do it." She would let go with one hand and our pleading would grow louder. I kept talking, knowing the police were coming. Another man came up behind her, the two of them could together grab one hand each, they asked me and each other, should they grab her, I affirmed "Yes!" And spoke to her to distract her, in unison they each got one hand, grabbed her arms, pulled hard and got her down. My mom, hugged her then, she hugged back. We offered her endearing comments, words, advice, our relief, the whole strangers group of us. I held her on one side, my mom on the other, we walked her to our car and sat down with her. She wouldn't talk, except to say thank you(at first), hi( when mom introduced me by name), and no thank you (when I offered her food). The police called then, they were on their way. Police arrived they took her, in an ambulance, and moved her car from the road. I was shivering, my mom was shaking, she looked warm. I hope that we saved her.

New Jersey

How is Jersey? Is it good to be back? No it sucks. When is Jersey ever good. I was throwing an old couch down the stairs when I hit a family heirloom framed pastel of my paternal grandfather. The glass broke and the picture ripped. My mother busily swept it up while I sat there feeling sad. Later we determined that the thing to do was to take it to our local framer and see if it couldn't be fixed. As I gingerly carried the drawing into the shop and my mother lugged the broken frame, it fast became apparent that the man in the shop was a bush voting for tacky polo shirt wearing dick. The conversation developed badly into a screaming fit with him shouting that no one can un-rip a rip and that if I could find someone who could fix the tear, he would like to meet him. I then was forced to ask him what he thought art historians did in the course of restoration of old works. Did he think that Michelangelo's 's art comes to us today perfectly preserved, and indeed if he would like to meet the woman who fixes tears, I'd be happy to introduce him to an art preservationist.

Jersey sucks because there are people like him running free, and although you find them everywhere they bother me more here, because tis is where I'm from. Somehow it claims me and I kind of have to claim it back.

The trees are really big though they manage to rock the suburbs and bike riding and swimming, walking, running, eating lunch specials seeing movies- are all kind of sedate but fun still.

come and vist me one and all, I'll take you bowling...

Atlanta

What am I doing here? A cousin of mine who I haven't seen in a long time got married this weekend. So I came down south to see her do it. I also decided to couchsurf while I was down here and lucked out staying with a really cool guy. Tonight we went to a comedy improv night at a place called Dad's Garage. The highlight was this make believe nurse (potentially drunk) deciding whether or not to take the blood of this gay man, based on whether or not he had had sex with a man since 1976 and whether or not he had been to chad Cameroon Niger or Nigeria in the last 12 months...something was so true and hilarious about but I guess I can't explain what. I have also gotten to catch up with my "super cute" ( new slang that I have just learned) little cousins who are 4 and 7, they are amazing, plus a whole wonderful slew of other relations. I have also patronised the famous Atlanta breakfasterie The Flying Biscuit. I recommend it for a grand southern feed.

Welcome

The words Carpetbaggers, Gypsies, Nomads, Hoboes and Tramps and even Travelers have all been used with negative connotation. For the real reclaimed positive definition of carpetbagger see top. I also like Ben Reitman's definition of Hoboes and Tramps, he goes on to define Bums as the negative incarnation of vagrants, the kind that are addicted to drugs and drink who are the smallest element, yet perhaps create the negative image.

As for Gypsies and Nomads these both represent indigenous groups of various countries who either traditionally travel in search of food or work, as musicians, or because of oppression are forced out of lands.

This leaves Travelers, something I have often called myself along the way. I think we are modern day tramps and Carpetbaggers, maybe with a bit of the pilgrim (one who goes in search of a sacred location) in us. The non- religious type of pilgrim that is; we go on a quest, towards one thing/place, away from another. It’s the great hero's quest, the journey, except most of the time no one is watching us!

As a carpet bagger in the best meaning of the word I love to arrive in new places and get stirred up in the politics, perhaps find work, record my exploits ( writing is the most important thing for me...take some photos too), taste the delicacies, meet the locals, and definitely carry as little luggage as possible. Anyone have a carpet bag gathering dust in the closet?