voicegal's Open Salon Blog

My Afternoon at OWS in Zuccotti Park

Tue, 15 Nov 2011 18:11:17 -0500

On October 25, 2011 I was in Manhattan and visited Occupy Wall Street at Zuccotti park. I was profoundly moved by what I saw there.

First I saw the speaker's platform, where drummers were drumming to "keep our spirits up." Then the famous "human microphone" came into use. It was developed by the OWS folks because amplification is not allowed in the park. The ritual of the “microphone” had a dramatic quality I found fascinating. A speaker who wished to speak began by saying "Mic Check!" The crowd responded en mass, "Mic Check!" This was repeated three or four times. Then the speaker would say a short phrase, and the crowd, in unison, would repeat the phrase. It felt almost religious in its call-response.

I walked around the park, listening to snips of conversations until I decided to walk into the park.

Despite media speculation of theft and disorganization, what I saw were serious minded people working together to build a small city. Above, "rules" for the park, decided by consensus by the General Assembly.

The tent city. Several people were sleeping.

A young man spraypainting OWS slogans on prooffered T-shirts and tote bags for free, but asking for whatever donation could be offered.

The lending library.

An area that seemed to be where OWS protestors talked with passerby, and debated legal issues.

The food area.

What appeared to be a make-shift altar.

Protesters tell passerby not to block the sidewalks.

Teach-In Schedule.

Police looking unconcerned.

What I saw was inspiring-- real diversity and democracy at work. Which I suppose, is why Major Bloomberg called out the police in riot gear. Real democracy is always dangerous.

text and photos copyright voicegal 2011

Summer's End

Sun, 18 Sep 2011 17:09:10 -0400

For some reason, today felt like the last day of summer. It was one of those glorious days in Cleveland: sunny, 74 degrees, a blue horizon with fat fluffy clouds and a generous breeze. I went downtown to walk the viaduct under the Detroit-Superior Bridge. It’s open only a few times a year, this time for a festival celebrating the fusion of art and technology.

Entering the cavernous subway entrance, I was soon walking the viaduct, the cars whizzing over my head on the bridge above, and below the barges on the Cuyahoga river blasting their horns for other bridges to lift, turn, or draw up for them to pass through on the way to the mills. It’s a peculiar view of my city; walking high above it, looking down upon it through the joists in the concrete, catching glimpses of lake and sky and river and bridge and buildings.

I took the top down on my car and drove through the city, watching the joggers and dog walkers, the hipsters, and the homeless men lounging in the shade of an urban triangular park. I saw people leaning on bus stops, people in wheelchairs, people walking in resentful isolation; people holding hands. As in any rustbelt city, there were empty storefronts and factories, small pockets of gentrification, and large stretches of open land where warehouses used to stand. There were snippets of music from other cars, laughter, and an impossibly small dog, tongue lolling, lunging out the window of an unbelievably large car.

I stopped by my community garden and harvested a little mint, a couple of tomatoes, and the juicy delight of autumn raspberries. The garden was strangely quiet—the chattering goldfinches have moved south now that the sunflowers and thistles are bloomed out, the migrating Monarchs were nowhere to be seen, and the air was too hot for crickets to pick up their orchestra. The bumblebees were lying in their beds of zinnias, too cold and tired to gather pollen.

There was a feeling of finality to the day, as though a swift cold wind will ride into town tomorrow, bringing with it the scent of snow. Winter in Cleveland is a time of enduring. Enduring cold, ice, and snow for what seems like far more than the four months it usually lasts. Enduring hats and boots and overcoats and scraping ice off the windshield several times a day. Enduring low grey daylight only nine hours a day for weeks on end.

How does one celebrate the last day of summer? A walk to see my city through new eyes, a drive in the sunshine watching fellow travelers, a visit to the garden to savor the last fruits of the season and listen to the quiet. A quiet that will only intensify and blanket my town as the winter descends.

text and photos copyright voicegal, 2011

Waking and Screaming

Thu, 18 Aug 2011 17:08:02 -0400

_{Source: ece.cmu.edu}

I’m in my sunroom at the computer when Rebecca approaches me. She is straight out of her morning shower and her long dark hair runs slick over her shoulders. The white cotton terrycloth towel barely covers her long, lean, figure. I ask,

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I could murder a cup of coffee,” she says. She follows me into the kitchen as I measure the coffee and pour the water into the machine.

“I had this dream,” she says, leaning now in my kitchen doorway, still wrapped in her towel. “Have you ever had one of those dreams where you wake up crying? You wake up with tears running down your face?”

I look into her eyes, which are dark, and liquid, and filled with hope and something I can’t define. I am honest.

“No. But I’ve woken up screaming.”

“Yes, but this is different. I wish I could remember the dream.”

I hand Rebecca her coffee, ‘just black, no cream or sugar, nothing fancy,’ the way she ordered it in the restaurant the night before. We had shared a marvelous meal of homemade charcuterie, heirloom tomatoes, freshly roasted pork, and a crisp Pino Gris. Rebecca had done her best to flirt with our server, who wasn’t game for the game, which amused us both. Over the meal we shared common joys and private sorrows. I felt as if we had opened a window into our hearts.

I remember Rebecca now, in the candlelight, her face a shifting pattern of wonder, fear, delight, and sadness. I remember the stories we shared while the voices of others in the restaurant created an invisible pocket of privacy. I imagine her waking that morning, tears streaming down her face, and me in my bedroom, not knowing. I imagine her waking this way in her home halfway across the world, and me in my room waking the same day with my scream. I think of people all over the world, and wonder how many of us wake with tears or a scream. We don’t know about one another at all—we’re a fraction of five billion and we can’t even imagine the happenings that trouble our collective dreams.

We are sleeping, we are waking. We are crying, we are screaming. We are having expensive meals in chic restaurants with dear friends. We are sharing coffee while wrapped in terrycloth. We are asking questions and trying to connect. We are hiding from ourselves and others. We are lounging in the sun and watching the clouds. We are riding in convertibles at night through industrial wastelands. We are distracting ourselves with things and scheduling ourselves to oblivian. We are holding one another close. We are fighting for separation.

I wish I could remember the dream.

words copyright voicegal 2011

A Word to the Wise

Mon, 6 Jun 2011 01:06:38 -0400

I’ve been thinking a lot about my eldest niece, who just graduated from college with a degree in Creative Writing. (I can hear you moaning and slapping your foreheads. That’s not nice. There are a lot of jobs that require talented writing. Really!)

No, I’ve been thinking about her because we are sharing remarkably similar life circumstances these days. We have both left comfortable, dependable surroundings for living somewhere new. We both have new roommates to learn to live with. We both have the anxieties and challenges of new jobs and colleagues with whom we have to learn to work. And we’re both feeling very anxious from all the change and learning we’re going through.

The difference, of course, is that I’m over twice her age. I’ve done this a few times before. But somehow, after carving a life for myself that has been all about travel, working with new groups, and creating art with strangers, it never seems to get easier. You’d think by now I would have learned ways in which to “break into” an entrenched clique of people who have worked together for years. But not so much. I enter the rehearsal hall and I’m transported back to high school with the cool kids all bunched together talking and me on the outside looking in.

The good news is that there is a lot of work to do, and I’m good at the work. Mutual respect for good work can slowly open windows. But you never know. The human desire to create tribes and discount outsiders is a strong survival instinct. I came to town a week after they began rehearsals, and I’m only here for the rehearsal period, not for the long haul. Although I know that my work will make the performers look and sound better, they can’t be expected to know that.

Also, I’m twice as old as most of them, too. Due to college-town hijinks (a silly and corny word for what many college students are up to these days), I exclude myself from their rowdier gatherings. (Believe me, I hear them. Party Central is two doors away. If I sit on my balcony, I can overhear several of the apartment residents discussing the many kinds of drugs they are taking or planning to take.) It doesn’t make me feel old, exactly, just more, uh hem, mature. And how creepy would it be if I DID haunt their late night parties?

Being a human being is a complicated thing. Wanting to differentiate, yet wanting to belong. Wanting to be noticed, yet wanting to fit in. Wanting to be individual, yet not wanting to be singled out. Wanting to be part of a tribe, yet wanting to be alone.

A word to my niece? Trust yourself and your talents. Know that these things will all work out with time. Maybe it’s a word to myself, as well.

Greek Lemon Chicken Soup (Soupa Avgolemono)

Fri, 11 Feb 2011 13:02:56 -0500

_{photo: thekitchenwitchblog.com}

Last summer I had the good fortune to visit the Greek island of Hydra. Hydra has outlawed motor vehicles, so if you want to get somewhere, you either walk or hire a water taxi, and if you want to move something heavy, you hire a donkey and its handler. The lack of engines makes the island blissfully quiet, except for the morning chorus of roosters strutting their stuff on the hillsides and an occasional complaining bleat from a donkey tired of being roped up in the shade.

I had never been to Greece before. The seawater here IS navy blue. The hillsides are barren and rocky, with scraggly pine and olive trees clinging to the cliffs, scrubby bushes, and blooming succulents. It’s a fishing village, so as you walk, the smell of either fresh fish, or grilling fish is in the air. There are cats everywhere--skinny cats of every color combination with long legs and long slender tails. They loll around the pier, looking for fish scraps, or roll on their backs beguilingly in the sun. They sleep on the cushions of chairs in outdoor restaurants.

Because Greece has limited farmable land, Greek couisine has limited ingrediants: chicken, lamb, cucumbers, tomatoes, onion, feta, olives, and olive oil, and an amazing variety of fish. And lemons. Oh, what a wonderful use of lemons!

_{(the aftermath of my fish dinner one night)}

Below is a recipe for Greek Lemon Chicken Soup, adopted from a recipe on allrecipies.com. In Greece, the soup has a clear broth and a little bit of rice. I like a hearty soup, so I've made some changes to the recipe.

8 Cups Chicken Broth

1/2 Cup Fresh Lemon Juice

2 Tablespoons Olive oil

2 Carrots, sliced

1/2 Cup chopped onion

1/2 Cup chopped celery

1/4 teaspoon white pepper

1/4 Cup softened butter (you can halve this, but don't leave it out!)

1/4 Cup flour

1 Cup diced cooked Chicken

8 Egg yolks

1/2 C Orzo

Lemon slices, and cilantro for garnish

In a large soup pot, "sweat" the onions, carrots, and celery in the olive oil on low heat for ten minutes. (This will preserve the flavors of the vegetables). Add the chicken broth, lemon juice, and white pepper. Simmer for 30 minutes. (If you wish to have a clear broth, simmer on a very low boil in a covered pot for 60 minutes and strain the vegetables out of the liquid.)

Add the cooked chicken cubes. (I like to oven-fry boneless skinless breasts in olive oil and season them with salt, pepper, and garlic powder to give them a great flavor.)

Blend the butter and flour. Gradually add the blended mixture to the soup. Simmer for 10 minutes, stirring frequently.

Beat the egg yolks until light in color. Keeping the eggs in a separate bowl, add a small amount of the soup liquid to the eggs and stir. Continue stirring and add a little more soup liquid to the eggs. (This keeps the eggs from being cooked into clumps in the hot liquid.) Put the egg mixture in the soup pot. Add the Orzo to the simmering soup, and cook for its recommended time. (You can use 1 Cup cooked rice if you like, but I like the consistency of Orzo.)

Ladle soup into bowls and garnish with lemon slices and a sprig of cilantro.

Bon Appetite!

Parts of this post were previously posted in my OS entry, "Re-Learning to Wait."