Had fun storming the castle
Started storming here. Weekend we're supposed to get feet but for now the snow's not menacing. Delicate flakes float upward outside the fourth floor. Innocent, they wander off in different directions oblivious to gravity. White clouds of steam pour from the power plant into a white sky. Been so cold evenings here I run home in heels. Legs disappear in the cold, fade to numb. Run to remind them they exist, work and one eye weeps from wind having lashed across it open. Snow's opened out of the sky all week. Wednesday shards of snow froze. The surface held shattered crystals scattered and shining. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away, you'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. After a fresh coat had fallen, we swept away from Yale.
A couple Yale activists organized a bus to the D.C. inauguration protest. All Wednesday I waited, anxious and excited. The plan was to leave and return midnight, cinderellas, back before the bus became a pumpkin and more expensive. Burst out bubble to spend the 24 hours of the 20th between traveling and yelling. The point de rencontre was Phelps Gate. Walking over, not shaking in my steady boots, I bought Luna bars remembering Mom's avocado sandwiches of a previous D.C. protest. On the bus found Seema and Veronica and settled in for a six or seven hour stay. Suffocating, I took off a couple layers. First scarf, hat, gloves. Then down jacket. Then wool sweater number one. Next wool sweater number two. Next long sleeve shirt. Then boots, leg warmers, smart wool socks, and jeans. Happy Mom? Left in long underwear and "I survived the blackout" shirt, couldn't sleep scrunched in seat. Wound up lying across the aisle, on the freezing floor. In D.C. woke wearing all my layers plus Seema's jacket. We arrived at an empty Malcolm X park at six sad that there wasn't a single sign a protest was coming. Tromped off to 7-eleven to unfortunately break not another damn dime day for breakfast warmth. Performed our ablutions in the bathroom. Back at the park, people were assembling 1000 cardboard coffins and lining them up in the snow in rows. We shrouded the coffins, alternating stripes of the Stars and Stripes and black. Visually stirring. The repetitive rhetoric soon echoing off the stage was not as moving. The crowd seemed small and impotent against the inauguration. But by noon as we waited to march, the size had swelled. Letting the the block all in black of anarchists out to get arrested go ahead, our group (minus the anti-social blue-haired socialists, who split off right off the bus) got coffins. Two to a coffin, a pall bearer at the head, one at the feet, we walked in formation. Started out not smiling. Each step the solemnity sunk in. Became more aware of seriousness of the symbols of our play procession, our funeral masque. But down 16th street belly dancers swayed by. Drums danced and the call and response of old choruses reprised. Sunny day march felt festive, carnival of human existence. "This is what democracy looks like," "Whose streets? Our streets," and "the people united will never be defeated" screamed citizens defiant in defeat. Strange to shout carrying a coffin, but soon answered the questions according to form. Hard for a cardboard coffin to hold the same heaviness, to bear all the weight and significance of the original. But to respect the likenesses we sang sweet and solemn. "Carry on" seemed appropriate. Then we resurrected old the lefty standards like "If I had a hammer" and "This land is my land, this land is your land." Holding a coffin, marching against the white house, and singing "I'd ring it in the evening all over this land," felt like I was carrying on a continuous line of activists. Part of a tradition. At the end of the march we thought half-heartedly about trying to get into the prez's parade route. Then walked to see if we could get to the Mall and monuments in honor of it being Veronica's first time in Washington. Turned back after blocks of fences and riot cops beginning to mill on all the corners. Skirted away from the anarchists waving a black banner before combat and headed back to the bus. Passed a die-in. Bodies and roses were strewn on cement. Fake red blood and real red roses. Cops presided like wary priests over the ceremony. A couple pigeons flapped around motionless feet and heads. Longer looked felt chilled by life's imitation of death. A day when despite the festival atmosphere, people saw a need to speak angers, fears in that stark statement. The bus was picking us up at the beginning of the march. Tired this time, we walked in reverse the length of our route of earlier that afternoon. Noticed the neighborhoods more. Downtown flowed into residential. The streets were unscathed by our shouts. A few windows with "Not in our Name" posters were the only signs of what had passed. Almost as if protesting crowds had never passed by but for memory of moment and a million photos. Yet never enough press. Pressed back cold blocks to wait for the bus and dream way back to Yale. Woke as passed through the tip of our shining island. Soon this city rose on the side of the highway. Woke to sleep. Went straight off the bus from the inauguration and grand wide world streets of Washington to burrow into my dreamlife Thursday night at St. A's. A reassuring return to ritual.
What is it about the darkness of five in the morning that makes for honesty? At that unique distance from isolation it doesn't make sense to take space to guard thoughts. Distinctions between internal and external blur like the lost boundaries between white sky, light steam and snow covered roofs. By now it's built up on my windows and walkways. Footprints and buildings have disappeared. There are no more independent free falling flakes, just the curtains of a blizzard framing a bleak world.
A couple Yale activists organized a bus to the D.C. inauguration protest. All Wednesday I waited, anxious and excited. The plan was to leave and return midnight, cinderellas, back before the bus became a pumpkin and more expensive. Burst out bubble to spend the 24 hours of the 20th between traveling and yelling. The point de rencontre was Phelps Gate. Walking over, not shaking in my steady boots, I bought Luna bars remembering Mom's avocado sandwiches of a previous D.C. protest. On the bus found Seema and Veronica and settled in for a six or seven hour stay. Suffocating, I took off a couple layers. First scarf, hat, gloves. Then down jacket. Then wool sweater number one. Next wool sweater number two. Next long sleeve shirt. Then boots, leg warmers, smart wool socks, and jeans. Happy Mom? Left in long underwear and "I survived the blackout" shirt, couldn't sleep scrunched in seat. Wound up lying across the aisle, on the freezing floor. In D.C. woke wearing all my layers plus Seema's jacket. We arrived at an empty Malcolm X park at six sad that there wasn't a single sign a protest was coming. Tromped off to 7-eleven to unfortunately break not another damn dime day for breakfast warmth. Performed our ablutions in the bathroom. Back at the park, people were assembling 1000 cardboard coffins and lining them up in the snow in rows. We shrouded the coffins, alternating stripes of the Stars and Stripes and black. Visually stirring. The repetitive rhetoric soon echoing off the stage was not as moving. The crowd seemed small and impotent against the inauguration. But by noon as we waited to march, the size had swelled. Letting the the block all in black of anarchists out to get arrested go ahead, our group (minus the anti-social blue-haired socialists, who split off right off the bus) got coffins. Two to a coffin, a pall bearer at the head, one at the feet, we walked in formation. Started out not smiling. Each step the solemnity sunk in. Became more aware of seriousness of the symbols of our play procession, our funeral masque. But down 16th street belly dancers swayed by. Drums danced and the call and response of old choruses reprised. Sunny day march felt festive, carnival of human existence. "This is what democracy looks like," "Whose streets? Our streets," and "the people united will never be defeated" screamed citizens defiant in defeat. Strange to shout carrying a coffin, but soon answered the questions according to form. Hard for a cardboard coffin to hold the same heaviness, to bear all the weight and significance of the original. But to respect the likenesses we sang sweet and solemn. "Carry on" seemed appropriate. Then we resurrected old the lefty standards like "If I had a hammer" and "This land is my land, this land is your land." Holding a coffin, marching against the white house, and singing "I'd ring it in the evening all over this land," felt like I was carrying on a continuous line of activists. Part of a tradition. At the end of the march we thought half-heartedly about trying to get into the prez's parade route. Then walked to see if we could get to the Mall and monuments in honor of it being Veronica's first time in Washington. Turned back after blocks of fences and riot cops beginning to mill on all the corners. Skirted away from the anarchists waving a black banner before combat and headed back to the bus. Passed a die-in. Bodies and roses were strewn on cement. Fake red blood and real red roses. Cops presided like wary priests over the ceremony. A couple pigeons flapped around motionless feet and heads. Longer looked felt chilled by life's imitation of death. A day when despite the festival atmosphere, people saw a need to speak angers, fears in that stark statement. The bus was picking us up at the beginning of the march. Tired this time, we walked in reverse the length of our route of earlier that afternoon. Noticed the neighborhoods more. Downtown flowed into residential. The streets were unscathed by our shouts. A few windows with "Not in our Name" posters were the only signs of what had passed. Almost as if protesting crowds had never passed by but for memory of moment and a million photos. Yet never enough press. Pressed back cold blocks to wait for the bus and dream way back to Yale. Woke as passed through the tip of our shining island. Soon this city rose on the side of the highway. Woke to sleep. Went straight off the bus from the inauguration and grand wide world streets of Washington to burrow into my dreamlife Thursday night at St. A's. A reassuring return to ritual.
What is it about the darkness of five in the morning that makes for honesty? At that unique distance from isolation it doesn't make sense to take space to guard thoughts. Distinctions between internal and external blur like the lost boundaries between white sky, light steam and snow covered roofs. By now it's built up on my windows and walkways. Footprints and buildings have disappeared. There are no more independent free falling flakes, just the curtains of a blizzard framing a bleak world.
