Sundays

I want to be an old man that wears suspenders and smells like musk and bag balm and fresh tomatoes. An old man that grows tomatoes and plays harmonica on sunny days, makes stew on cold snowy days, and listens to other old men sing the blues with soul on rainy days. An old man with tattoos and words of wisdom and a past worth telling. I'd like to be an old man that carries a knife because I use it and a handkerchief  for the same reason. I'd know every bird and every bird call. An old man that traded hand rolled cigarettes for porn made from melted crayons. 

And on Sunday? Well...on Sundays people would come to my house and sing gospel.

Winter Mice

Aside from reading about Occupy from my massive desk at work with a view of the cardinals in trees outside (calm down, I work for a non-profit), I do other things. Since it snowed yesterday in mountains across the globe I'll share a true snowy little tale from two winters ago:

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The other day we trapped little mice in our cabinets and then set them free outside in the snow. They were scared. The first one immediately jumped and sunk deep into the snow. Gone. The other didn't want to leave the trap. She sat there huddled against the walls, clinging to the metal, refusing to jump. You shook the cage until she fell. When she did she ran straight for the road. Then the bridge. You chased her back to safety. You are lovely that way. I wanted to keep them as pets until the Spring so that they would be warm when we freed them. You laughed, but I was serious. I fed them crackers. The second one ran right underneath my foot and I thought for sure she knew that I wanted to pick her up and put her in my warm pocket. She found some exposed dead grass instead. I imagine her to be happy.

Today we trapped little mice in our cabinets again. I set them free while you were gone. I opened the hatch and looked at them. They looked at me. Their whiskers shook like fragile twigs. Scared. They don't realize that I was the one putting the crumbs of pop-tarts in the cage. One jumped. The other jumped. They explored the wooden platforms stacked in our yard and the planting pots with no plants. Later, I saw one dead on the futon outside. Her fur was wet and looked as though she were a baby kitten licked by her mom. On a warm sunny day I might have mistaken her to be basking in the sun after a swim in the pond. But it was snowing outside and tonight when I looked again she was either covered up with a blanket of snow or taken away. Eaten. I imagine her to be happy too.

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Eat warm spicy foods 

and drink wine

and be merry to avoid the winter blues.

Mr. King

Today on fm radio I heard interviews with people that would like to see the Occupy movement be more focused. Too bad America can't just take some Ritalin, right? Except America isn't a fifteen year old boy (although I bet most Americans would rather be doing what fifteen year old boys do rather than worry about which bills are going to get paid this month).

I prefer the obscurity of the movement right now. After all, our economy is a web of excellence and imperfections and you can't fix one thing without changing everything else.

What I don't like is that Occupy is stapled to left wing liberals and the right wing wants nothing to do with it. And this bird needs two wings to fly.

But seriously.

Mr. King had it right.

What a Sunday morning it would be to wake up and practice yoga before dressing up to listen to the preacher. That's too much of a dichotomy for most people; Americans think that we have to adhere to a lifestyle that identifies with our personal politics.

You either practice or you preach.

Occupy Mountains

A little over a year ago I drove 14 hours down the Appalachian Trail to cut the familial umbilical cord and settle in what I hoped to be a grimy red state south of the Mason Dixon, filled with moonshine nights and shit-kicking days. Now, living in close quarters with Rustic Village, the most run-down trailer park in town, and feeding my goats in dresses and boots on hot mornings, I really am living the grime.

I used to park five blocks away from the library so I could walk down and then walk another five to get to the café. I met all kinds of people this way. One old man used to wander around the sidewalks, bible in hand, and tell me that I was going to kick the world. I hugged him. I met a man with the batman symbol tattooed on the back of his head. Men that can’t stay awake on the steps outside, women that yell at their babies; groups of young anarchists that sleep at the mission with their puppy because they refuse to work.

You can’t find these people on a map.

I’ve always wanted to be jailed for justice like Alice Walker, Maxine Hong Kingston, or of course, Howard Zinn. In fact moving south along the east coast was somewhat of a pilgrimage for me, one step closer to Spelman College and the history of it. It’s heartbreaking and magical to watch Howard Zinn’s legend spread with Occupy Wall Street like butter on Paula Dean’s toast.

People aren’t occupying anything here in these rural woods besides their daily lives. All the physical hustle is in the cities. The silent philosophers and activists that dot the mountainsides away from busy intersections just have to hustle in their minds or with friends over hand ground chai or strawberry moonshine on warm nights after work.

I caught a glimpse of Occupy Chicago. I wish I could be there, but I would have to give up the grime and I won’t do that. Instead I’ll stay here with this summer’s cilantro hanging from the ceiling and my mister playing his banjo and look out over the caving tin roofs in Rustic Village. I'll live the other side of Occupy. And by “the other side” I don’t mean those that oppose, but those that aren’t physically there to partake. Maybe I’ll start a blog about it.