So, here in Lafayette I just saw a disturbing local news story. It’s an adorable tale of an elementary school. Third and fourth graders having a school ‘Boot Camp’ where they march in lock step and call cadences. It’s supposed to be a fun way to prepare for the upcoming state exams, but I am uncertain about the format. We already glorify the Armed Forces an insane amount. Although it is a little bit creepy to see children marching around like little soldiers.

I may be reading into it too much, but then it is followed up by a report on the length of a homeowner’s grass. Apparently, people are subject to a fine if their lawn isn’t mowed. Following that is the weather, reporting high temperatures well above the average for this time of year. And all I can wonder is if anyone else can see the pattern of things.

Perhaps this is just my plea for there to be more critical thought in the world.

Day 49 – The Approach

The day starts off a little hectic. Bo used to do all of this, I think, as I get off the phone with Dan, the guy who is doing bag support for us today. It is around seven thirty in the morning and I wipe the drool off of the IPad where I’ve dozed off while writing the blog. I step over Peter to grab the laundry in an attempt to get it done before the others wake up. However, my plans are foiled by the lack of a change machine and detergent dispenser. The office doesn’t open until eight o’clock.

Everyone shambles around groggily, Peter’s hair is pushed back into a sleep formation, before he puts on his glasses. John pivots up at the hips like an awakening vampire.

I am surprised when I meet Dan because he is wearing a backpack. Apparently he is going to march with us today. I am all for it but I still double check his shoes. Lifting my pack into the big red van, I smile at Dan’s girlfriend. She has baked chocolate cake for us, “It’s all natural, real chocolate, organic eggs, brown sugar. . .”

The others come down with their packs, one by one, and we set off. The day is bright and warm. Our final day in Kentucky is met with long, but not too steep hills. Route 42 is a large four lane highway. Peter and Dan talk at length about the subject of fear. John is excited to see a physical occupation. He recalls fondly the days when Lexington had their space in front of the Chase bank.

We stop at a grocery store to pick up supplies for the day. I grab just snacks to munch on for the day and a couple of cans in case we have time to stop for an official lunch break. We’ve already started so late that we rush away. Several blocks away, Peter realizes that the flag has been forgotten and he runs back to retrieve it. We joke about placing the blame on him, but it really is our collective fault. He comes back empty handed, apparently someone had taken the flag.

I remind them that I have the flag from the last march in my pack, so we continue on flag less. Peter works to redeem himself by taking the 99% sign that he got from Scott in Georgia and zip-tying it to a branch plucked off of a nearby tree.

I spend a good amount of time talking to Dan. I ask him to tell me what he wants to tell me about the city. He tells me about the Black Boycott, which was a protest of downtown Cincinnati over the shooting death of a black person by the police. I also learn later on that racism is fairly rampant in the city. Dan also tells me of the convergence of oil pipelines that exist under it, and some of the details of a sewer problem he’s been working on.

Covington is on border of Cincinnati and the last town in Kentucky. It has bright and colorful buildings set on the side of twisting and curving streets. The layout of the city seems to be made for foot traffic rather than cars. We pass by a building called the Ascent, apparently designed by a prolific architect. The tower has windows asymmetrically spiraling up the sides of the building.

As we head down the hill towards the city, John’s knee starts to hurt. Peter and I stop, and while I wrap up John’s knee, I have never wrapped up a knee before, but I remember what Eric did from the first march. Eric was the medic for the first third of the Civil Disobediance march, and one of the medics from the Super Committee march. I remember him tracing the vein that I’m not supposed to block off over the top of my ankle. So I follow the same idea, and wrap around his knee, rather than on it. When we head down to the coffee shop, I am happy when John tells me, that his knee feels a little better.

The Peace Bell is house in a tower of crisscrossing steel bars and triangular glass panes. There is an inscription on ground underneath the bell. “Peace starts at home. Peace starts in our schools. Peace starts on our city streets. If we have peace in our homes and in our schools and in our streets then our government and our nation will follow and we will have world peace. ”

We meet several people from Occupy Cincinnati. And they march with us across the bridge into Ohio. I look down at the running water of the Ohio river. I look at the smooth curves and blocky textures of the city’s skyline. I haven’t smelled a grand rush of water for some time now, and it leaves a pleasant tingle in my nose. John calls his mom as soon as we cross to tell her that he’s officially walked to another state.

Of the things I learn about Cincinnati from the Occupiers, I am just amazed. “We got a racist problem here, ” one of the gentlemen tell me. They also have somewhere around forty percent unemployment, and thousands of foreclosed buildings. Which have been bought up by out of state LLCs. Cincinnati was known as the Swine City because of its history with pork, but the irony of the nickname is not lost on me.

The same gentleman claps me on the shoulder, “That’s why it’s up to the younger generation to change the world.” We sing a round of ‘This Land is Your Land’ for the Occupy Cincinnati, and chant and shout our way through the city just as all the businesses are letting out. At the first park, we meet an organizer for Occupy the Hood, which from what I can tell is geared towards the minority community. He tells me of a demonstration they held for Trayvon Martin, the square we were standing in was packed shoulder to shoulder with demonstrators.

We move on to the park where they are reoccupying. A couple people I meet are holding signs, some are leaning against the steps. They have a limited permit, I learn later on, where they can have sleeping bags and tarps, but no tents and they aren’t even allowed to string up the tarps when it’s raining. This is the first successful reoccupation that I’ve encountered, so even if it is a little declawed, it’s a very welcome sight.

Over the Rhine is the poorer section of town. We walk past boarded up abandoned house after house. However, instead of an ugly brown wood, the boards are painted with bright colors in the manner of fake window facings and doors. The ‘Keep Cincinnati Beautiful’ placards glued to the corners of the windows makes my guts burn. I can see how the painted wood would make things prettier, but it just is disingenuous, why not beautify Cincinnati by fixing the cause of the abandoned buildings in the first place.

Nestled among these buildings is The Warehouse, Occupy Cincinnati’s HQ if you will. When I step into the building, there are posters and pamphlets hanging from the walls. In one room there are stacks of packets all over the floor in rows and columns. They are patiently waiting for a table or two to become available for their library. There is a wall with the working groups posted, names and projects listed underneath each.

We enter a huge room in the back, large glass windows, white metal girders holding the roof up, massive air vents and shafts snaking across the ceiling. There are folding chairs and benches making a semi circle in the center of the room. On the far side is a large speaker, and mixing apparatus playing revolutionary songs.

Of course, I’m starving by now and the Occupy has a nice spread ready for us. I fill my plate with salsa, tortilla chips, dipping veggies, corn on the cob and cornbread. When that is finished I go up for another round. When I am sated I chat with a few of the Occupiers, I listen as they play music.

I head into the other room and play around on my 3DS for a bit. While in there, I have a nice conversation with a local magazine writer. She interviews me and I stumble through it, trying to pull as much knowledge together into a cohesive narrative.

Some interviewers know exactly what to ask, and some choose to be more open ended with their questions. After doing so many interviews, I have grown accustomed to having certain things to say planned out. I still feel a little nervous though, and I am all too aware of the ums and ahhs that escaped my jaw.

Night slides over the sky and with so much happening we neglect to figure out where exactly we are staying for the night. I thought that we were going to be able to stay at the Warehouse but unfortunately the rules for them Occupying this space prohibit any sleepovers.

I am given the number of Kate, who is ready to house us for the night and was just waiting for the call. I jot some directions to her house down and go back into the large community room. There are a few people left, laughing, playing guitar and singing folk songs. Rigel’s voice swirls around gently with a mezzo grain that treats each song like an old friend. Bones plays guitar mostly, but his voice joins in with hers in a bright harmony that highlights the upper edges of each word.

We are having so much fun that it pains me to remind everyone that Kate is waiting for us to go to her house. We pull our packs out of the cubby hole and take them to Bones’ truck. As we are lifting the bags into the back of his vehicle, a random guy passes by us and lifts up his shirt revealing chiseled abdominals, “You can have this for just six sit-ups a day!” he proudly announces, “Six sit-ups a day!”

After a curvy ride set to the soundtrack of Supertramp, we get to Kate’s house. She and her son greet us at the door. She has a nice apartment that takes up the second and third floor of the building. The living room has a long white couch, a cd rack that goes to the ceiling a glass coffee table and a large flat screen TV. John describes her decorations as Hipster and if a pop art style Felix the Cat picture hanging above the mantelpiece is Hipster, then I really don’t mind.

I am too tired to really pay too much attention to the conversations that we have to while away the night over some beer and nudity on TV ( It was the end of the movie so the nudity is brief. ) John and Peter take showers, and I unpack a few things. We shuffle around, Kate shows Peter her World 2.0 book. Peter and John spread out their sleeping bags on the floor. I manage to attain the IPad and head upstairs to write a bit before I go to sleep. There’s a bed up there, so. . . Score!

Day 50

I fully expect to use this day to type away, however I am informed that Kate doesn’t seem to expect us to stay for the second night.

There is something about directly confronting a situation that we all seem to have. Maybe we don’t want to deal with a situation, or maybe we are afraid to offend, but sometimes I think that our hesitation in being direct causes us to miss out on a lot of things. The flip side of that is, we are experiencing so much on this march, how can we possibly miss out on anything if everything is always happening.

Kate provides breakfast for us, I eat a bowl of cereal and drink some OJ while we figure out where to go for tonight. John decides to walk around the city in search of the best record shop in the world, as advertised by Kate and her son. Pete and I head over to the Warehouse with Kate and the packs to wait for GA, well really it’s just a quiet spot for me to do the blog.

Peter reads and I mention to him that I have nothing to eat. Kate tells me about Findlay Market, so I head over there to buy some food. On the way I am asked for money by several people, which I apologize for not really having anything to spare.

The market is lined with a couple cafés grocery shops and fine cheese stores on the bordering streets. There are open fruit and vegetables surrounding an indoor area with fresh meats and a couple specialty shops. A guy sets up a table and announces that everything on it is just one dollar. I pick up some fresh raspberries from there. At another stand I buy an avocado and a box of Roma tomatoes. Five dollars does go pretty far, and it should be enough for the day.

When I get back to the Warehouse Peter and Kate are on their way out. And there I sit for the next few hours. It’s hard to concentrate and I am blocked. I try watching some shows on my DS and it helps a bit, but it still is slow going. In a blink of an eye the electronic tone sounds the entrance of people back from the GA.

I meet Chelsea who is a cheery lady that is friends already with John. Rigel pulls out snacks for everyone and brews a pot of coffee. Peter eats a whole lot of crackers. John, Chelsea and Peter head into the big room and I hear those awful words uttered, “Hey guys, heh heh Truth or Dare?” I go outside to smoke a cigarette with Rigel.

She is a wealth of information about the city. Our conversation passes through so many topics that my head gets dizzy. Cincinnati has a ridiculous history of police brutality that is just shocking and horrific. She is excited about an upcoming documentary on the subject and is pushing for it to be shown at the Warehouse. The amount of indoor space they have to utilize is pretty amazing and they can do a lot with it.

After I call one of the Cincinnati Occupiers, Kyle, for accommodations, one of the guys asks me to help him plug a circuity bit back in. Since it will take about an hour for Kyle to arrive, I help to get it fixed as soon as possible. The small wafers require three very precise motions, placement, lock, and taping, but this is of course complicated by having to hold open the chassis without disconnecting the taped wires. This is most likely done by a robotic arm at the factory, in about three seconds. We finish just as Kyle enters and we greet him.

We stuff our packs into his car and I shuttle ahead while the others walk to his house. It’s definitely not a far distance from the Warehouse at all. We climb up some very dangerous and uneven stone steps to his apartment. There are large sofas in the living room, a rickety stairwell leading up to the top floor. Kyle’s friends are in the kitchen, talking around some beers and patiently awaiting for the food to cook. Hans is Kyle’s roommate, he sits next to a wood burning stove which is responsible for heating the house. Later I learn of their efforts of making the building sustainable. I continue to attempt to work on the blog some more while half chatting.

Kyle talks to a few people on his phone, the conversation going something along the lines of, “Oh, it’s just a small get together, not really a party.” He tells me that one of his friends is a kind of like journalist who’ll be taking our pictures and interviewing us. The rest of the gang comes in and we eat. It’s a vegan Filipino dish, it is mild and sweet and heavy on the tongue. We all eat our fill and I’ve had a couple beers by now.

And then I meet Chase. He comes in as if rushing around like there is too much to do. His hair is dark dark brown, almost black carelessly thrown into the air off of his head. Dot dot dot of moles on his face and brown eyes that seem to search for very small details. He smiles slightly lopsided and his skin is soft as he gently grips my hand, “Hello, I saw your video logs on the website.”

I grin at him, “Pleased to meet you, but that’s not me, ” I say before adding snidely, “Racist.” It’s a long standing joke that I have with people, because everyone up until now has consistently confused me with Bo, even though I look nothing like him. His VLogs have been spammed onto the website up until now. Chase makes a sort of squeak and recedes into the background of the not party, party.

He then appears again and asks if anyone would like to help him set up his stuff. Feeling a little guilty for my comment, and because well, damsel in distress and all that, I offer up my brutish strength. We head up the steps to the bedroom. We set up a couple stands and a light and several other stands with high reflective boards. Chase is impressed at how quickly I’m moving, which I’m not sure is a dig on how inebriated I am at this point. Which really isn’t that much, by this time I’ve only had two and I just have a really good buzz going.

When all the equipment is in place, I sit down on a stool that we set underneath the bright white light. He explains that he’s probably gonna have everyone up to take some pictures then he’ll bring everyone in to do an interview. While we talk about the others and how the march is going, he snaps a picture after picture, telling me to move my head to the side or try opening my eyes a bit more. I’m laughing and smiling a lot, enjoying the conversation but all too soon he says, “Well, that’s about it, who do you think I should bring up next?”

“I think you should bring up Peter, get the worst out of the way first, ” I say as we head down the thin staircase, nearly side by side and I note how much he smells like Irish Spring soap. Everyone has moved out back where a fire pit has been lit and I talk to the new people who’ve arrived. The amount of bodies has just about doubled. The conversations swirl around like embers in the air.

When three of us manage to wander to the upstairs bedroom, Chase jumps at the opportunity to get all four of us in the interview, he heads downstairs to find Peter, who is the only one missing. John is a bit wary of a journalist and I do my best to reassure him.

Chase returns with Peter and we all stand around in a half circle while Chase hooks up his microphone to a laptop. He’s going to start out with a group interview, then ask questions of us individually. Awkwardly, we step up to the mic to answer his questions when he asks. The others are surprisingly tentative, perhaps they don’t feel at ease around him as much as I do. But we soldier on, and he asks good questions. It reminds me of a blacksmith, hammering away with each stroke to precisely find the correct shape of information. I do my best not to stare too much.

Then we go into our individual interviews. John nervously or excitedly talks about being the new guy on the trip. Peter’s voice breaks the bass, as he monotones on and on about his life and his current plans for world domination, just kidding, but he does extensively go over his plans for after the march, which are constantly in flux. I go last, I give my spiel staring into the cool earthy rings of Chase’s eyes.

Interview done, I cut to the chase and offer to help him bring his stuff to his car. We carry the heavy cases down the hazardous stairs. Chase tells me that I can stuff the cases in wherever I like. To which I reply, “That’s what she said.” He doesn’t laugh, but I sense a smirk, so at his next comment, which I’m pretty sure is a stretch to be even remotely sexual, “That’s what he said, ” I quip. Chase just looks at me sideways for a moment and we start walking back towards the house.

“Well, I guess it’s time for me to go. It was good to meet you Turtle, ” He says, “I have so much stuff here, I have no idea if I’ll be able to get to sleep tonight.”

There are some moments in life that shine. When you dance the night away with someone, and you flirt in code. All caution thrown to the wind, with the help of spirit or travel or becoming more comfortable with oneself. Being so at ease with a person, and so at ease with myself. I knew that I wanted to spend as much time with Chase as I could. So I blurt out, “Well, I could probably help you get to sleep.”

He stops, and pushes on my shoulder for me to face him, “Wait, what do you mean by that?” I close my lips tightly and just shrug. After shiny moments, there is always the shadow that follows. The breathless pause of anticipation, it could pass as jest, or blow up into offense, “Okay, let’s go, but first I should say Good-bye.” My stomach jumps up and down like a small puppy in my abdomen.

“Uhm, ” at this point, I’m not sure if this is a dream or not, or maybe I drank too much, “I guess I’ll wait in the car?” Anything to avoid going up the deathtrap that are those stairs.

So, I go home with Chase. And then I spend the next couple days with him. It is awesome. I wish it was longer. I also learn that it was no accident that I was the last to be interviewed, or that I was in the vicinity of his request for someone to help him set up. So, I’m not going to be doing the next blog, John is going to tell about our layover days in Cincinnati. And, in all fairness, I really didn’t help Chase get that much sleep.

We’re just outside of Indianapolis. The last large Occupy before Chicago. I’ve now walked to sixteen Occupations. Everyone I’ve met has been so different from the last. How can such divergent personalities with such differing views of the world possibly stand each other long enough to arrange into these Occupy groups?

I believe that the thread that binds these occupations together is the General Assembly. I’ve seen it deteriorate into arguments, and I’ve seen it work perfectly. Democracy is hard and messy, but also beautiful. When everyone gets to express their opinions and at the same time are open to listening to each other, it is what our country is all about. People are getting together, building community, and working towards the happiness, safety and freedom for all.

The original Adbusters poster asks, “What is our one demand?” Of course I think that question is rhetorical, bordering on transcendental. But is there an all encompassing idea that we can agree on? Is there truly something that we can cry out, so clear, so loud that it will cut through the murk and mire of media noise? There are so many people telling us what to do, what to think, what to believe. It is our responsibility to question authority such as these, and to figure things out for ourselves.

I don’t know what will make this world a better place, but there are a wealth of things that we can agree on.

 
Day 48 – Little Boxes

The bright shafts of sunlight peek through the shades covering the windows.  Motes of dust swirl and dance in the air as we shuffle around the tiny apartment. Sheila tells us about the major problems with living in such a small area.  The rampant and blatant corruption, nepotism and double-standards are made apparent by her stories.  She is currently on disability because of a bone disease that has affected her spine. But even though she does not have a job that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t do anything.  She has taken it upon herself to care for the people in the apartments below and behind her by making their meals, or cleaning up their places.

Time and time again, chance meetings and coincidences crop up.  I’m not one to believe in an absolute grand design for meeting all of these amazing people, but it definitely is something that I think about.  We could just be the luckiest marchers in the world, or perhaps there are far more good people in the world than we are led to believe.

As we are about to leave, Ben comes out of Tim’s ( Storm’s younger brother ) room with a pair of boxing gloves, “I don’t use these anymore, I was just going to sell them, but I’d rather you guys take them to sell, because you could use the money more than I could.” The other Walkupiers and I just look at each other.  This family doesn’t have too much and it doesn’t feel right to take an obviously valued possession.

Peter breaks the silence, “Well, uh, ” he half-chuckles nervously, the way that he always does, “It’s not that we don’t want it, it’s just that our packs are so heavy.”

Ben nods and sets them down on the table in front of the door.   ”I’ll just leave them here in case you change your mind.” 

 We say goodbye with awkward hugs, backpacks and all make it hard to wrap around. The sky is blue with cotton ball clouds. There is a good chill in the air.  The liquor store marks the county line.  We pass by a Llama Dog Trainer, and wonder if the llama  are used in the training, or if they are trained to be around dogs or if it’s for both llama and dogs, or if it’s a Mr. Ed type of thing; instead of a horse, it’s a llama.    

The next town we pass through is Walton.   The style of houses remind me of Northeastern Pennsylvania, but with less hills.  The conservative vibes are free flowing, all of my waves and peace-signs are met with confused expressions and angry glares.  There is a bright moment when we meet a gentleman on his porch, “Oh my sister would definitely be for you guys, she’s infamous in this town.” 

 Peter has to stop at a bank, to deal with technicalities of keeping an account there. John and I temp check whether or not to wait for Peter.  He tells us to go on, and that he’ll catch up at the gas station.
    
When we get there, I enter the gas station to spend my allowance, but the prices are too expensive, so I just grab a Ramen for under a dollar.  I go up to the cashier and the big D comes in and tells me that we have bag support.  I smile at the cashier and go out to meet our Road Angels. 

Eden and Lance are nice people.  Eden is a portly woman in her mid twenties, she is wearing a beautiful amber pendant. Lance has longer dark brown hair and a goatee. He tells me a story of how crazy the police are in this area.  They pulled him over just because he ‘looked like a kidnapper.’ He opens the trunk of his car for me to start putting the packs in, “Oh yeah, ” I say, “You could probably fit two or three children in here.”
   
Peter arrives, talking to two kids on bikes.  Even though it is a little later in the day than usual we decide to go fourteen miles. John is bequeathed the smart phone and we start on our way to the library that he’s chosen.
   
Late in the afternoon, just as we are entering Florence, a car pulls over onto the side of the road.  Theresa unrolls her window, “What are you guys affiliated with?” I am slightly confused by her question, but John is there to give her the spiel.  We hand her a flyer and she asks if we need anything. I express our need for some sort of accommodations for the evening, but try to stress that she shouldn’t stress about it.

 About an hour later and about four miles away from the library. After asking John too many times about our distance, he has become frustrated with the smart phone, and given it to me.  The phone rings, it’s Theresa. She asks me if we’ve found a place yet. I tell her that we have not yet, so she offers to get us a motel room. I thank her profusely throughout every interaction thereafter. 

 The smartphone navigates us down a side road and through the land of Suburbia.  It is a mysterious place where children play in a microcosm of identical backyards, gently curving streets with large sidewalks, and front lawns that reflect the owner’s personality.  The song ‘Little Boxes’ reverberates through my head and I sing it for Peter and John.  The other guys both grew up in subdivisions just like these.

 Peter has become cynical towards all who live in habitats like these.  I asks him what the difference between places like these, and his idea for intentional communities.  ”There’s no community here, ” he says, “<explicative deleted>ers like these don’t talk to each other.” On the other hand, John is like a paranoid little chihuahua.  Because we are outsiders, and we have the look of travelers, he is afraid that the police are just a suspicious glance away. 

 I really don’t understand their anxiety and cynicism.  I think it’s a nice place, if a bit boring.  I try to remind them that the people who live in this particular subdivision are also a part of the 99%. Peter doubts me, “Well, I think the statistic is that, to be part of the 1%, you have to earn 350 thousand a year.” 

 I point out that monthly payments of even a few thousand a month wouldn’t need to require a salary of that magnitude. “Look at the cars, ” I add, “Chevy, Ford, Toyota. . .If these were the super rich, I’d expect to see multiple Mercedes, Beamers, or Lexi ( which is the plural of Lexus. )”

   I don’t really think that the one percent even pertains to the amount of money a person has anyway.  If someone has earned their money after working hard for a good portion of their life, then that’s awesome. I think the one percenters that we face are those who have attained their wealth through means which an average person would find deplorable.  The real one percent are those that would see people lose their livelihood for the purpose of profit.  I hope that one percent of the population are not irredeemably greedy. 

 The library is modern, huge and as it turns out, the wrong one.  We shuffle around the two floors searching for the bags, they’re not there.  In this area, there are four branches of this particular county’s library and they all show up under the same name in the map app on the smart phone.   We’re about six miles from the real destination.   I sheepishly call up Theresa and of course she is willing to drive us to our packs.  

She comes about half an hour later to pick us up. I offer her gummi candy to which she politely declines. Theresa is a cool
lady, she has had several jobs in building airplane parts, probably one of the few manufacturing jobs left.

The motel is about a mile from the library, so I elect to go ahead with the bags. There are some people that I meet, that should go and be activists. She is reasonable, intelligent and passionate. Theresa and I discuss topics on homelessness, unfair taxes and prisons for profit.

The motel is an extended stay type of place, with many residents who pay on a monthly basis. An ambulance pulls into the parking lot as we bring the bags upstairs to the room. It is nice and tiny with a stove and refrigerator. Theresa gives me a hug and heads back to her home.

In the wee hours of the morning, when I wake up to type the blog, there is a card pushed underneath the door. It has the scene from ET where they are passing in front of the moon on a bike. Theresa is apparently off on her own long distance journey to see her son, who has been imprisoned unjustly.

“Keep the dream alive fellows and don’t forget to occasionally ‘phone home.’ I’m sure you have family and friends that’d love to hear from you, Be Safe – Theresa”

Well, we’re less than a month away from Chicago. I’m excited, but it’s clear that at this rate I’ll never catch up with the blog. I’ve been trying to do what Sarah did last time, she diligently took notes and spent the entire night typing the story down. I am so not the amazing writer that she was and I am now convinced that she was a machine, sent here from the future to log the events leading up to the time when Skynet becomes self-aware.

There are a couple options that I can think of to abate this. First, I could just keep typing at this pace, I have all the notes and my memory doesn’t really fade that easily. When we get to Chicago, I won’t be moving so I can catch up in a week or two. Or, I can shorten the days to just a couple of scenes and post in blocks of three or four days. The posts will most likely be the same size they are now, they’ll just summarize a span of several days and not go into too much detail, (if I can help it.) Whatever happens, enjoy.

Day 47 – Soldiers and Storms

Williamston would be a really nice town, except that the only businesses that seem to be open, are the banks. I got up early so I could get to the fast food place early to charge our stuff, avoid the storm and so I can work on the blog. I pack up out things and climb up the steep hill to get back to the road. A turtle hisses up at me as well when I almost step on it and hides in its shell. When I pass by the water tower I wonder if the fire hydrant underneath is really necessary.

As we walk through the town, it is not yet busting with activity and the few folks we see give us but a small wave. There is a school that we pass by and I think it is funny that it’s on a road called Demon lane. A teacher runs out and asks us what we are doing. We shout back and she seems excited with our response. We meet a gentleman who is cleaning a parking lot and chat with him. He owns a business that cleans up all the banks in the area’s parking lots. After wishing us luck, we move on.

The city is larger than expected and I toy around with the idea that we are actually in a Groundhog’s day loop. Especially when it seems like around every bend there is another water tower.

I find a four-leaf clover on the side of the road. I walk for four miles before I reach our destination. There are a couple large screens playing Fox news. I plop down and begin typing the blog.

While I laboriously try to type up interesting and important details that happen throughout the days past, the drivel of mainstream media pecks at the corner of my awareness. Fox is at it again with an Obama gaff, something about comments made over a open mic. They don’t get very specific about it, and basically give him a pass. Their next story however, “Is the mainstream media being too lenient on Obama compared to Bush?” Put a critical thinker in a room with a TV only playing Fox and I think they’ll come out a gibbering mess.

We try to wait out the storm, but the storm doesn’t happen. Doppler radar, weather reports, it really isn’t all that reliable. Everyone I talk to tells me that Kentucky’s weather is very unpredictable. Peter and John meet up with us eventually, they had stopped to get John some rain gear. We stay for a couple hours more, waiting for me to finish the blog, and to see if the storm will hit or not.

When it is most threatening, we decide to go anyway. There isn’t that much distance that we must cover today, but Peter is antsy, and so am I. We set out. But not before we get a couple blocks away, I realize that I’ve forgotten to obtain poncho. So I dash back to a dollar store and back. The rain could start at any minute, and even as I run back, big wet drops start smacking the pavement in front of me.

We climb down the hill. It’s only slightly dangerous and about as steep, but still nothing as the road. I was concerned that we would have enough shoulder to walk on, but thankfully the Dixie Highway returned us back to balancing on six inches of roadway between the edge and the white line.

We take a break at a graveyard, to try to contact a couple churches. John and I chat about the zombie Apocalypse and Peter scribbles in his notebook. Lately he’s been quiet about his ideas for a new intentional community. He might be tired of constantly being shot down, but I hope that he’s just refining the idea. He gets so excited about a new variation then tells us right away about it without thinking it through. I expect that his next variant will be far more cogent than previous versions.

After the break we walk not more than half a mile before a truck pulls into a driveway in front of us. It is a little worse for the wear and is filled with various pieces of furniture and plastic and metal scraps. A vanity plate on the front reads ‘Butters.’ A young gentleman is driving the truck, his name is Tyler. He is exceptionally kind for someone his age and offers to take our packs ahead to the next gas station.

I ride up with Tyler, also known as ‘Butters’. He goes to high school and has designs to go into the Marines. I ask him if he was going to go to the school after his service is up, but he wants to make a career out of it. He says that he mostly spends his time helping out members of his family, cleaning up their yards or running things across town with his truck.

He drops me off at a busy gas station where I spend the next hour working on the blog. I have quite a few conversations there. One of them is with a jockish looking guy, after I explain what we’re doing he says, “Yeah, I saw those guys carrying a flag a couple miles back. You sounds like liberals, you’re not planning on burning it are you?”

Without missing a beat, “Why would a liberal do that?” I ask, blinking as sweetly as I can. The sporty guy doesn’t respond directly. He just nods, says he’s going to go play basketball, gets into the car with his friends and they drive off.

The others walk up, and I’ve gotten distracted by Risk on the computer and of course the dozens of conversations that I’ve had. I hand the donations to Peter, we gather our bags. A mile later, a gentleman standing at the entrance on a wooden gate smiles at us and says, “Iced tea break?” he passes out four cans to us and the guys greet him. Apparently they met on their walk while I was at the gas station. He has three adorable kids and a lovely wife. We talk about his job and their state of living. I don’t get the sense that they may agree with everything, but they respect and support what we’re doing. They send us on our way with cookies and more tea. All I can think is that an honest to G-d nuclear family supports us.

The park we pass by is filled with children playing basketball. They look over at us and see the flag. A guy named Storm and his friend Ben approach us and we talk to them. Ben is a classically trained musician. He had to move back home in order to take care of his family.

Then the children come over to us with Peter and John. They range from elementary and middle-school and gather around and inundate us with questions, mostly insubstantial and funny. Storm heads over to the nearby ice cream shop where a few adults and high school aged kids stare at us from the porch. A loud kid asks if he can see the flag, I of course, say, “Sure, go ahead.” He runs off gleefully waving it around and shouts happily at cars. There is a one boy, smaller than the others with thick lensed glasses, he is sharp and asks clever questions. A few more have come over from the basketball game. We are there for a good half hour chatting with the children.

Storm comes back over and solemnly informs us that someone has called the cops. He said they reported that we were shouting at cars. We say goodbye to the kids and walk on. As I pass I stare at the people in front of the ice cream shop. I am appalled at them, none of them came over, no questions were asked, and suspicion was created from the actions of a child. “So the cops were called because a kid was having fun?” I say to Storm. He is walking with us and commiserates with me.

“Yeah, that can happen in small towns in the south, ” he says.

It’s about a mile to the dollar store where there are woods in which we can camp. But of course my paranoia gets the better of me and I blurt out, “I don’t feel comfortable with camping out, if police are going to be involved. Storm, I hate to ask, but you wouldn’t by chance happen to be able to let us stay at your place?”

“Well, I’d have to ask my Mom, but she’s a good Christian woman, so it’s likely.” He gives me his phone number and heads off to his house.

We go to the dollar store and sit down. John sighs, “So we have just two fourteen mile days left until Cincinnati, that’s easy, ” he barely pauses before going on, “What am I saying?” I chuckle. He is still amazed at the amount we’ve been marching.

It is about fifteen minutes before Storm comes back. As long as we have IDs, we can stay with him. The apartment is nestled in a development off of a small side road. We twist through several identical looking rows of apartments, in rectangular prisms of three by three by six. Two small children, around five and six, shoot lasers at each other. “Peace, peace!” I say, but to no avail. The kids shoot us all dead.

A haggard looking woman looks at us from the bottom apartment and then comes rushing out. “This is my Mom, ” says Storm. She has far more energy then I have right now. Of course, the apartment that she came out of is not hers, they live on the third floor.

When we get settled in, we meet the rest of his family. Such a close-knit group of people with such amazing minds and potential, the night is spent talking, listening to music, and playing games. Storm turns out to be a masterful guitarist. I know that I’m going to remember this night forever. Peter begins a game of Truth or Dare that lasts until the wee hours of the morning. There might be some things I wish I could forget about the night.

I only met Ian in Versailles at Stacie’s house. He was stocky and had a full beard. He was very quiet and said that he would like to have lived as a barbarian. If the world were to become like the movie ‘Mad Max’ it would be his ideal world. He was in the Army Special Forces and took over as medic while I was getting over my illness.

Our four days in the Lexington area was a fantastic reprieve from the march, we got to do a few teach-ins at the local colleges where Stacy taught. Ian, who leaned towards libertarian ideals, was surprised at how many students didn’t know that the Federal Reserve was a private bank and I was enlightened by his explanation of just how much control it has over our economic system. He made it seem like the interest rates and numbers they came up with could be decided on a mere whim. Since money is made up from the human imagination, I am inclined to believe him.

Ian decided to stay with Stacie and told me the night before we left Lexington. He said that she would be able to help him work out his PTSD issues and that she was already making a list of chores for him to do around her house. Stacie was really good at making lists and she truly is an amazing woman. I respect Ian for being able to realize his limits and he will always be welcome to rejoin the march whenever he wants. I never got to walk with him, but I, of course, will always consider him a Walkupier.

Day 46

John is already up when I crawl out of my tent. I missed the sunrise over the gently sloping hills but it still is a breathtaking sight. Our tents are lined up along the ridge. Three orange dots in the Kentucky countryside and one green and gray.

The cold metal shock cords bite into my skin as I pack up the tent. A gust of chilly wind over the hills sends a shiver through my torso. Being so acutely aware of the temperature is new for me. This time of year in Kentucky is unpredictable at best. Some nights are freezing, and others are mild. The daytime has been warm so far, except for a blast of frigid air every now and then.

The rural Kentucky road winds lazily around fields and farms. It is four miles to our first resting stop and we fill the time with idle chatter. Peter admits that this state has the best scenery so far out of them all. I’m inclined to believe him as a few deer run along an open pasture beside the road. There is a constant line of purple flowering trees on each side of us. A particularly aggressive cow loudly moos at us when we pass.

The road keeps climbing up, this is the first day since the break at Lexington that we have no vehicle support. My doesn’t feel oppressively heavy, but the constant uphill is wearing me down, “This is the hill that never ends!” I complain.

John seizes the opportunity to sing, “This is the hill that never ends. Yes it goes on and on my friend. Some people started climbing it, not knowing what it was. And they’ll continue climbing it forever just because this is the hill that never ends. . .” We join in and sing until we are out of breath, and the hill does eventually plateau out. Sheri Lewis would be proud.

Al’s gas station has two pumps. The guys shed their gear quickly and go inside. A fat old bitch waddles across the street from the auto shop. She wanders up to me after I put down my pack and wags her tail, “Hello old girl, ” I say to her offering my hand. She sniffs it and I give her ruffled pet on the top of her head. She looks like a beagle mixed with a wiener dog. When she waddles off I walk inside the gas station.

The aisles are low and cramped. The floor is well swept if a dingy greenish color. There is the normal canned food, chips and soda. There is a small deli counter with a table and folding chairs. A rugged gentleman eats a breakfast sandwich with wrapt attention on a big screen TV. “Could Hogzilla be the beginning of a new breed of monster?” the deep voiced narrator says. The concern in his voice is palpable.

We have a long conversation with the gas station’s cashier. He is an older man with some interesting views. He is religiously motivated and most of his opinions are at odds with what I believe. But there plenty of middle ground that we can find. It seems that his only criticism of the Occupy movement is that they should have made their encampments not out in front of the banks, but on the lawn in Washington DC in front of the Washington Monument. “That’s public space, that’s where they needed to go.” he says as he makes a bologna and mustard sandwich.

We eat outside at a picnic table, the canned spinach is bitter so I mix some Cheetos in just for the crunch and MSG. Peter is eating cookie sandwiches, cream filled chocolate cookies between slices of white bread. He comments that my spinach is only 40 calories. John eats canned weenies.

“How is it?” I ask. His response is to tilt the sandwich over and open it up. The mustard and mayo slide down the pink flesh of meat. The bread is not toasted.

A volunteer firefighter wanders up to us and we chat with him for a while as we pack up and start back on the march. “I’m from Chicago. That’s a good a city.” We give him a flyer and he walks back over to the firehouse.

Corinth is a very small town that we are out of quick. I already miss the sidewalks. Cars zoom passed us going ridiculous speeds. A tiny dog pops up in the back of a station wagon and stares at us.

We take a break by some small clay statues that look like deer when a reporter from the Grant County News pulls up in a white truck, “Hey I’ve been looking for you guys. Someone called us earlier today and told us what you were doing.” She interviews us, but she doesn’t seem to take very many notes. In the end she mentions that she can just look up the rest online.

The lackluster interview bothers me for the next couple of hours. I wonder if it was because she didn’t ask too many questions. Or perhaps we weren’t forthcoming enough. I had decided that I would try not to go on and on, but it ended up that I had talked more than the others did.

I never have liked doing interviews. There are a few reasons for this. I feel shy talking about myself, even though that’s a subject I can say that I’m an expert on. I guess I just don’t want to be a narcissist. I also get fairly stressed about the weight of my words. My life is filled with awkward conversations where I am easily misinterpreted and the impression that I give doesn’t represent what I actually mean. And even though I am aware that local media isn’t too bad, I still have an aching distrust of the possible spin in which any story can be framed.

We enter a local grocery store in Mason. It is heartening to see a local grocery store and there should be more locally run businesses. It is a fully stocked store and additionally has various outdoor gear, boots and gardening items. The prices are only cents above one the chain grocery stores. This seems to be the only large store around, so there can’t be much competition, and yet the prices seem to be fair. This thought bounces around my head as I wander through the aisles.

At this store, we talk to three people during our break: An old vietnam war veteran, a grocery store clerk, and a man with a cane who is running for local government. Still trying to step back from dominating the conversation, I am amazed by how engrossed the others get, talking to these people. If they just approach reporters the same way they approach the average people we meet, I think that they would be more comfortable talking to the news.

The conversation slides from topic to topic. The same themes always keep coming up, like abortion, the military, drugs and the prison system. It seems like our public policies are always counter to what people want. I hope that our march inspires the people that we talk to, to be more involved with the government. A single voice can be drowned out, but if we are truly living in a democratic state, as the amount builds, there can be a wave of change. Everyone’s voice matters.

We stop at one more gas station before leaving Mason. Full water bottles, empty bladders, we make it a full half mile before my sleeping bag undoes itself and falls off my pack. Stopping on the side of the road isn’t very safe and I hastily roll it up and tie it back onto my pack. Another two hundred feet and it happens again. A long-haired dude stops for a moment and asks us if we are alright. When he drives off John observes how nice everyone in this town is. I end up carrying my sleeping bag until we get into Williamston.

Crossing a bridge into the town we a lady stops in the middle of the road to talk to one of the guys. Since we are so close to camp, he wraps up the conversation quickly. We cross over some train tracks and pass by a water tower into the woods. The slopes are steep and we have to follow the stream down a bit to find a flat area for our camp.

We double check the weather for tomorrow, and it warns of thunderstorms from nine to three. I suggest that we wake up early and find someplace to hang out while the storms pass by. Cincinnati is only three days away and we can probably make up the distance fairly easily.

The ground is soft enough to dig a hole for our fire pit so while I get started on that, Peter searches for wood. John waits a bit before putting up his tent. It’s not a very cold night. When everything is done we heat our canned food and I show John the wonders of toasting anything over an open fire. The embers from the flames ride the heat up into the night. I try to go to sleep early, there’s going to be a storm tomorrow.

Bo left for DC this past weekend.  ”Don’t let anyone quit,” was his words of wisdom. Swept up in the moment I responded, with my generic wise words, “Your voice matters, and figure things out for you yourself.”

Perhaps it was something in my tone, but Bo waited a moment and said, “I’m not fucking dying, c’mon.” I shrugged and we hugged and it was nice. None of the others were there so there were no bad feelings, no sidelong glances just a mutual respect.

It was sad to see another leave the march, but in this instance I think it was for the best. Bo could be very abrasive when it came down to it, and his chipper and bright personality can chip and peel at the edges.  He had already convinced himself that he intended this outcome. He wasn’t happy doing the march anymore and his idea of “selectivity” was something I could never truly be behind. I believe that he’s moved beyond the march. His ability to connect and be connected with people is extraordinary.  Being able to take a step back is good and will afford him great opportunities.

While it’s true that not everyone can march with us, I don’t think that it is right for others to exclude them. An adult should have the dignity of deciding what they can or can not do.  All we can do is prepare them with advice or stories of what has happened before.  I want as many people to come with us as possible because our march is long and hard. And if I am to believe that every voice matters then anyone who wants to march with us should be welcome to it.

We need all the help we can get, because our freedoms are shrinking everyday.  An unjust law should be called out by as many voices as possible.  We are no longer allowed to express ourselves freely. We must obtain permits, or permission and if we “disrupt” certain people, it’s possible for us to be thrown in jail with felony charges. And those that would force our silence will take our silence now as consent.  March with us, this is a Mayday.

Day 45

The day is gray and cloudy as we march out from the motel.  The local Episcopal church donated the room to us. The pastor said, “It’s not the fanciest.” But since we are used to sleeping in bags on our bed rolls, any indoor space is amazing.

Today Peter is going to ride up with the packs. This means we have to head out to a suitable place for him to waits since our road angel today has to work until 4:30.  Charla and Nancy are wonderful ladies who stuffed our mini-fridge full of caffeine water last night.  That same unholy combination of hydration and stimulant now sloshed around in my water bottle. Because of it, I am extremely talkative all morning. John points at a large black building advertising whiffle ball tournaments, “Hey we have enough for a team. We could go all the way to the top!” One of the others mentions that we would need an 80′s theme for our training. I add that we’d also need a malfunctioning robot.

The sky threatens rain as we approach the coffee shop. It is a nice national chain thats employees are always friendly and willing to let us sit there for several hours. As we move our packs inside a lady talks with us for a bit and even donates a bit of cash, “It’s not much,” she says, but any amount is always welcome even if we never ask.

John reads a news story he found a link to on Facebook.  It describes the new Jobs Act and takes a position against it.  As I am writing this the bill has been passed by the House and the Senate, and Obama is going to sign it.  From what I can tell is that this means a starting company is exempt from much oversight for their first  five years.  It really doesn’t seem like a bad idea, but I can think of several scenarios where it can be abused.  The words of the writer incense me for a while. But I think I still have a bad taste of the NDAA and HR 347 in my Mouth.

The route guy finds a shortcut and we consense to take it. We head off into a field adjacent to the road casually. There is a fence, but no signs and a all too tempting break in it.  The ground has no crops in it, and besides grass, the only plants seem to be weeds. John makes a surprised noise and crouches. He sees a tractor and a van and is worried that may have seen us.

It’s a very nice feeling. Not being the only one who is paranoid about that stuff. The wind whips over the rolling hills as we make our way through it. We have to cross the interstate and head into a development. The model home that we pass by has a wooden bannister screwed into the concrete to block cars from parking there.

We take a quick five minute break once we join the main road again so John can adjust the moleskin on the bottom of his feet. He also takes the opportunity to reapply his sunblock.  We cut through the field of elementary school. The field is covered in dandelions and constantly monitored by a lonely looking camera.

The clouds disappear and the warm sunlight breathes on our skin.  The miles go by, and between the swooshing sound of cars as they pass, the Kings of Leon, the White stripes and the Violent Femmes sing through the tiny speaker the new iPad.

For lunch John and I are treated to Fat Boy BBQ a small restaurant that seems to be the only business on this road.  The place is not too big on the inside.  The smell of woodsmoke masks the cigarettes that I see a couple patrons smoking.  The walls are adorned with old cast-iron cookware, handsaws, camping lanterns, UK basketball memorabilia and ancient corporate ads.  All eyes turn toward us as we enter. I feel like I should be used to this by now.

My meat intolerance makes me basically vegetarian and being a vegetarian in a Bar-B-Q place, is like a Moped on the Interstate.  My lunch isn’t the healthiest, but at least I can eat something.  Grilled cheese, fries and one order of fried okra later, I am sated.  John scarfs his pulled pork sandwich.

The road is lined with a mixture of bare, budding and flowering trees.  Splotches of purple flowers are scattered infrequently on some branches as we pass. The road that we’re on has very little shoulder and falls off into low fields that make up the yards of houses and cattle fields.  An old lady pulls into a driveway in front of us and gets out of her car.

As we approach she smiles and says, “I thought the mail had come, but I see that he is just coming down the road, so I was going to wait.” We nod at this and after an awkward moment, when she looks at our flag, “What are you doing?”

We explain our march to her but something must have gone horribly wrong because when we offer our flyer, she refuses.  And that was it, we march on.  It is strange that when someone says yes to having heard of the Occupy movement, their questions sometimes stop.  Especially if they disagree.  That’s the weirdest thing about people that I’ve observed on this experience. When did it become taboo to ask questions?

If I saw on the news about a group of people that were making wild claims about our government, I would probably be too lazy to go out and ask them why they believed what they believed.  But if they were to come up to my front driveway, I would see it as an opportunity to get the facts straight. Perhaps it is my duty as an activist to engage more, perhaps I can do nothing against apathy.

The most fuzziest and friendliest cows moo at us from the other side of the road. I moo back, not because I want to, but because I’m compelled to respond to these gracious creatures.  They moo back and trot towards us. I run over to the other side of the road and pull up some grass. The closest cow sticks out her green stained tongue towards my handful and immediately backs away with an angry chuff.

“I think that’s onion.” John says walking up behind me.  Oops, I guess cows are not big onion eaters. I shrug and walk back to the other side of the road. “How now brown cow?” John quips, “I never thought I ‘d get to say that in context.”

Our last break is at a gas station where a dog roams around and people sit outside chatting.  I use the latrine, while the other guys pick up some snacks.  I grab gummy bears, a fruit pie and Pop-Tarts ( for breakfast ).  ”All that that gas station was missing is a banjo, ” mentions John as we are leaving the station.  It’s true that this entire day has been filled with a quite a bit of rural Kentucky.

As the sun changes color the birds sing their good nights to each other.  I whistle my responses to them. We pass by a road sign covered in grease.  Apparently someone had really good aim and threw a bottle of it out of their window as they passed.  I countdown the creeks to our campsite.

There is a small wooden cross on the side of the road. It is painted in the style of an American flag and is like many of the roadside shrines that I’ve seen: pretty, sad and faded over time.  Among the yellowed pictures and worn news articles there is a quote by Albert Camus, “Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead.” There is a final part to that quote that was not on the shrine. “Just walk beside me and be my friend.”

After a little confusion, Peter and Charla arrive at the campsite with our bags.  The amazing Charla has also provided a dinner of lasagna for us.  We set up our tents on a hill, in a clearing behind a disused barn.   The last colors of the sunset drift away like clouds on the wind. The streaks of bright orange and dull red become a dark purple.  We stare at the planets for a while; there are four of them out tonight and try to pick out the constellations that we know.

I walk with Darrin and John from Kate’s house in Lexington, north to Georgetown.

“Where’d Darrin go?” asks John rhetorically as we sit in the park this afternoon waiting for Darrin to meet the others at the roadside. There are some kids sitting in the gazebo nearby, probably smoking pot. John has got sunburn on the back of his calf.

“Should we go find him on the side of the road?” he asks. This is not an easy decision. “I think we need an emergency GA for this.”

A local church that we called calls Darrin back and offers a motel room arranged with the clergywoman’s friend at the motel. We walk to the motel.

Today, 3/16, Ian tells me about fluoride and the Federal Reserve. I write my speech to give at the college in Versailles. Then in a few days I give the speech. We go and Occupy Lexington at the house of Kate who is very hospitable.

We are leaving Occupy Louisville today, with a new marcher, Ian. Taco decided not to go. Darrin, Bo, and Ian are marching with me this morning.

We see a fellow named Fred outside a store. He knows quite a lot. He tells us about Rudolf Steiner and a three-fold thingy that Steiner developed. He tells us about a sort of Venn diagram in which the overlapping circles are culture, politics and economy; and he mentions next the French Revolution cry for “liberty, equality and fraternity,” which terms, respectively, should apply to each of those circles. He wishes that we could have a million little economies, rather than one central economy. He extols the efforts towards local economic power which include community-supported agriculture.

We continue on, and talk to a guy at a car dealership, and a woman with a motorcycle.

We stop for lunch.

“Maybe we could get a hundred thousand people to march together across the Canadian border,” says Ian. The rain begins. “It gets hot and sticky in the Ohio Valley,” he says. The rain then stops. It is hot and humid.

Later, Bo sings Stand by Me, and Darrin sings something by John Lennon. We go into Starbucks for interwebs. In the Starbucks, I make Ian read A People’s History of the United States while I write the blog. I’m all sweaty. At Starbucks we call churches. I volunteer to call one.

“Ring, ring!” There is no one there. The message box is full. Yes!

I eavesdrop on a nearby conversation.

Today we are camping at Occupy Louisville. Bob showed me where to find food and shoe glue. Thanks Bob! I didn’t buy the shoe glue. I go to the library and read about intentional communities. Turtle is still in Versailles. I hear that Garth is not returning to the march.