Woke up late agin. 12:30 I think. Got on the mobile device to hit up a friend of mine I was suppose to meet earlier in the day. Eventually I get it together and pour some coffee and smoke a rolled up cigarette. Man have I been hitting the smokes lately. After sufficient waking time, I hop on the bike and ride the Metro over to the City.
I’m late. Can’t seem to be on time anymore, not that we ever set a definitive time. He’s already been to the park we were going to meet at, come home and gotten ready for a nap, sunburned. I drag him down to let me in to his living space filled with anti-capitalist, anti-state, and generally anti-society art and literature strewn all over the place. This has become a comfort zone for me, a reprieve. Big common area, tables and couches, and a general do-what-you-like attitude pervade. (It’s gone?)
We walk to the park (his second time today) gabbing about the meaning of privilege and its effectiveness in shutting people up who would otherwise resist vs. encouraging those who currently wouldn’t have without it. Looking back, it amazes me how fluent I’ve become in the lingo of the anti-caps – it literally just streams out my mouth when I relax with friends.
We approach the hilly park full of young and colorful people grouped up into small corpuscles. Each little crew has managed to separate themselves from each other by establishing a common distance between them that could probably be measured within a margin of error of a few inches. I make sure to comment on the lack of consciousness in the park. Only now (writing this) am I taken aback at the strangeness of myself commenting on the “consciousness of the masses.” Remembering the days of blissful indifference takes concerted reflection; my self-confidence, together with a willingness towards self-criticism, has entrenched a defiant stance that I’m happy to keep.
We lie on the grass and talk – it’s getting hotter. We’ve done this before. Sprawling out a few zines and books on the ground between us, philosophy of the European flavor plus what some might call “ultra-left” pamphlets, and begin. He’s a declared egoist, anti-civ guy and I’m fine with it. We’re past he initial pointing out of obvious hypocrisies and ironies; we know the situation we’re in, the systemic impasse. We speak together precisely because of this, because we can see the composition of forces constricting us, and we’re willing to change it. It is a question of how at this point. The fuel to light the fire already exists: we need a trajectory.
I speak about the labyrinth metaphor and its connection with another article that was laid on me by a mutual friend. One was about the labyrinth of the history of science & philosophy, the other about the labyrinth of a situationist’s dérive through the city that begins and ends with a undeveloped hint at “the occupy thing”. In a dérive, the city does the guiding. The specificities of the urban environment are supposed to do the directing, while the ambience invokes and provokes the participants around. The article seemed to suggest the entrance and exit to the labyrinth of the city lay in occupying the square, with so much history, geography, and ideas mashed in the middle. He drops me another article by the same author about negation and ethics. I would read it later that night in my bed.
We muse about civilization, humanity, the Earth, the police… On the way back we agree about the clarity to be found in the revelation that there is an enemy to position oneself against – an enemy with its vice grip on the future. But I stop and launch into another improvised digression on the choosing of one’s enemies. An antagonism born of revenge against the lowly denizens appears trite within the context of the thoroughgoing disintegration of the system of the Earth by the system of Capital. One’s enemies tell much about who one is. Yet we cannot seemed to get beyond the police.
Having family obligations I must depart. We have discussed enough words and theory to chew on until our next meeting. After all, he’s facing a legal battle over his living space that demands clarity of language. The pain of departing from my friends had grown noticeably more acute since things have died down. So much so that within the last half-hour or so, a feeling of forlornness dawns on me early and we tarry about his space.
The spot has since been evicted. The building was bought and they were kicked out of the city by the new dollar-eyed landowner. I don’t often go to that part of the city anymore.
I arrive late for the show. The doors have closed and I will not see the play that my family has invited me to. Instead I grab a beer at a sports bar and watch the end of a baseball game. An old gay man stands at the corner of the bar and talks about his 15-minutes of fame: he was arrested at the Supreme Court of New York to protest for gay rights and I eat it up. He spoke of the arresting officers not knowing where to take him, so they just kept leading him down the macabre catacombs of the Supreme Court building that eventually turned into a sandy basement. I remember the intentionally soft voice of his – like a children’s story reader enrapturing little kids – as he repeated “going down, down, down…” I get bits of the article my friend gave me in-between him, the game, and the cheerful tourist couple to my left. I make a note of being in between an old man having already lived through his activist glory days and an out-of-town couple looking for something novel and distinct about this city.
When I left the bar I stopped to pick up some tobacco on the advice of a particularly hostile homeless man who for some reason took a liking to me. I give him a cigarette when I come out and we talk briefly about something forgettable. Making my way down the street I find that the show is over and everyone has left. Unable to contact my family for lack of internet access, I linger a bit longer in the Metropolis and talk to some more homeless people. I even shout at a security guard trying to move a guy away from his employer’s doorway, but this guy is too feeble and incoherent to realize what I have done for him.
I wander around the roads a bit more, biking up hills and avoiding speedy cars. I expel some more energy into the city streets, not really sure where I am going. Stopping at a small convergence spot near a public transit section, I roll another cigarette and tentatively look for another random conversation. Someone starts talking about my bike and we compare them with flattery. The slightly larger than usual sidewalk is surrounded by fast-food restaurants, a large neon-lit bar, a fancy hotel and a chic department store. There are pockets of people grouped-up and traveling in different directions. They scan each other, make short loud cries of laughter, and try to maintain a sense of direction. I stand with my cigarette observing everyone with my buzzed and oddly curious gaze. “Creepy dude” they must be thinking. Finally, I decide to go home. When I arrive, I feel grateful for having a house.
Many messages are on my mobile device when I get home. My family is wondering where I am. My absence must be felt considering my righteous intensity as of late. I reply to one: “I’m not coming, don’t worry about it.” I pause at this last word and wonder about whether to go with “it” or “me”. “Don’t worry about *it.” … “Don’t worry about *me.” …
I decide this isn’t about me at all, it is about the situation.
(Written in summer 2012)