Our Man on The Spot: The Biggest Little Arrest in The World

imageI left early under the sign which used to announce Reno as “The Biggest Little City in The World “ but now clarifies where the Gateway to The Redwoods exactly is. And having time to not have to bumper car to make it to downtown San Francisco for so-called ‘business’ not far from the bar where I had worked when I re-migrated west from The Apple, I thought since I was planning this so well I’d better pull off for gas pretty soon after San Rafael. This put me somewhere in the super-high end strip malls of Marin County that use 101 and an extreme presence of The Uniformed Armed and Dangerous to keep low-riders and hill hippies funneled to somewhere else.

As I was transfusing from the planet’s circulatory system I caught, out of the remnant of peripheral vision, someone walking towards the station in a way that seemed out of place. He looked clean enough and dressed well enough to be just another grinder if on Market Street but clearly inappropriately foot-bound even though white-bread as white-bread can be, there where Mercedes and Jaguar have right away. If you are a geezer in this country you better have the wheels to validate right of passage – even your threads won’t do, even a passport doesn’t cut it––lots of jazz greats will tell you that, though my Shoshone friend Santiago has learned from his Uncle James that a willingness to not move when told, a smile and a conviction that being an Original Person obligates special dispensation from Johnny-Come-Latelies–– is what Uniformed Authority will unconsciously accept.

But our White Elderly Walker ( a WET) wasn’t on to any of that, as just in bar life the Predator will walk in and arrive without detour to the stool right by the Victim, so here, of course, a squad car pulls up behind our foot-bound geezer. One of those cops arrives who seems to probably not live in the neighborhood of those whom he has, in a better day, been hired to ‘protect and serve’.

That’s in part what Bernie reminds us of –– that he may be white and represent a white electorate but he ‘got old’ and Un-rich and he has now joined the disenfranchised and therefore some think he is going to end up being someone People of Color can relate to.
Even if the cop behind our walker had the relaxed but authoritarian manner of someone who had been sufficiently in urban turmoil or hill hippy gun fights over America’s newest almost legal cash crop (beats soybeans as this country’s newest farm subsidy) the situation required not an adept at crowd control but humane control of the authority invested.

Before I have even ten gallons in the tank the by-the-book Peace Officer Lookalike has combat exited his car hand ready for quick draw and over the traffic sound of rampant shoppers I can hear his commanding voice demanding not ‘requesting’ identification.

If there was a specific offense of which a WET (white elderly transient) might have been guilty it wasn’t going to be announced before finding out if our itinerant walker of at best grandfatherly demeanor had ever been arrested in California before.

Now at least Wikipedia has the consensus opinion that identification can only be demanded on occasion of suspicion of a specific unlawful event.
Presumably those invested with the authority to use lawful force have sufficient training to recognize when someone is physically harmless as most certainly our W.ET. was (though the NYPD did not get that Eric Garner was no threat other than to ego when they applied a fatal choke hold to him).

Whoever is in charge of training for the organization inscribed on the door of his “cruiser” as “The Central Marin Police” has the usual low standard of dealing with that pubic best served apparently by an appropriate show of force. (First to the firing range and then to high speed driving practice in the fast lanes of local and interstate highways in the latest mass purchase of tricked out “patrol cars’”paid for by guess who but you and me.)

About now the call for ‘back up’ is being answered by several of those who, since Bush, have been collected as the soon to be uniformed majority. The first to arrive, who roars up in his brand new Harley, probably weighs less than his oiled black leathers with none of the scuffs and skids of San Francisco motorcycle cops.

Then another seemingly brand new black and white pulls up with a young guy most likely out of the burbs who might have done some military service but judging by the insecure strut probably not the being-shot-at part and who for sure has a gig that beats parking cars and with considerably more perks as we flirt with the notion of of the garrison state. But at least he has the possibility, since he does not yet seem to have an addiction to abusive talk, of growing up to honor that life enhancing concept of protecting and serving. But nevertheless he does participate in reducing the dignity of the “perp” by making him sit on the pavement while they stand over and literally talk down to him,

Now this is not New York at 4:30 a.m…where Thabo Sefolosha of the Atlanta Hawks had been with teammates lifting a few in celebration of a good season (see Oct 6 NY Times). There was some violent interaction in the same club that they were never accused of being part of–– however they didn’t immediately vacate the street outside without a little backtalk. (But Hey, Troy Tulowitzki of the Toronto Blue Jays gets to mouth off).

The cops say that “Mr Sefolosha charged an officer whose back was turned but this was disproved by cell phone video (again).

Sefolosha ‘s lawyer contended in the recent trial that his client, who acknowledged calling one officer “a midget” was nonetheless wrongly arrested. The Times quoted the defense saying “Police officers broke a bone in Mr Sefolosha’s right leg, causing him to miss this year’s NBA playoffs and jeopardizing his career”, just as Chase Utley of Those Dodgers Ignored the base path to take out Ruben Tejada of the Mets and break the fibula of his leg like the boys in blue had done Thabo.

“They arrested him and broke his leg out of earshot of an unrelated crime scene,” Mr Sprio told the jurors during his closing argument, suggesting that police officers had seen Mr Sefolosha merely as “a black man in a hoodie” (but it must be noted here that without an appreciation of one’s own energetic atmosphere, size matters and sets off the fear factor remnant of a slaveholding society).

Beyond the Racial and Tribal Disconnect
But the humiliation of our White Elderly Transient illustrates the next stage of the unmooring of our society, when a group of second class citizens, even of the same skin color, must be created to populate the judicial cycle of law enforcement justifying the very cost of that system.

In New York however there was evidently a jury pool that included Mr Sefolosha’s peers as he was found “not guilty of all charges” (NY Times Oct 10 ) though the cops are still at work with full pay.

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Masters on the Mountain 42 Oct. 17 & 18, 2015

Masters on the Mountain 42 Oct. 17 & 18, 2015

masters 42In Truckee Calif. at The Fight Club,
10960 West River Street

Godfathered by ‘Uncle Bill’ Willem de Thouars (The Magus of Denver) and a Possee of Heavy Hitters and Healers

Special Featured Guests
Including Sergey Makarenko of ‘Systema’

Open to anyone in the movement arts with a sense of humor

SPECIAL EVENT
Friday 8 p.m. October 16
“Finding the words between FIGHT or FLIGHT”
Readers of their own works including Uncle Bill, James Painter, Eugene Robinson, Chuck Stahman and YOU

$50 per day — includes Saturday potluck
and free DVD of event.

Truckee Hotel has special lodging for this event. Call Diane 530-414-1037.

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Eureka Wins Big at International Film Festivals

ICFF mailing graphicEureka Productions is proud to announce that three of itsvideos have been named as official selections for the 3rd Annual Indian Cine Film Festival, to be held September 19th in Mumbai , India.

  • “World Peace Tour” follows Satpal Maharaj on a trip to tour Japan, including the bomb site at Nagasaki, connecting the the rebirth of that once decimated city to the current push for peace in our world.
  • “Wedding of the Century”chronicles the pagentry and traditional splendor surrounding the ceremony joining Shri VibhuJi and his wife on their happiest of days.
  • “Kumbh Mela” is an inside’s look at one of the biggest festivals in the world, held in the most auspicious of years in Haridwar, India.

The objective of ICFF-15 is to create a platform for the meeting, sharing & development of great cinematic ideas. The festival will host international competitive film screenings, as well as film market & industry oriented master classes & discussions. The festival will provide a central point where industry people can share business and new opportunities shall be created for new talent.

The ICFF-14 was a grand success with participation from more than 45 countries. Now the third edition of Indian Cine Film Festival is aimed to set new milestone and it’s an endeavor of Miniboxoffice to make it relevant for each & every participant.

WilliFEST mailing graphicEureka’s video, “Trevor Thomas, Blind Hiker: Envision the Path” has also been named as an official selection for the 6th Annual Williamsburg International Film Festival, to be held September 24th-27th in Brooklyn, NY.

The video showcases accomplished hiker Trevor Thomas as he sits for a few moments at the end of the Tahoe Rim Trail and shares his thoughts about being a blind hiker. Trevor’s blindness hasn’t stopped him from hiking an abundance of trails in the continental US, including a solo hike of the 2000+ mile Appalachian Trail, a first for a blind hiker.

The Williamsburg International Film Festival, voted top 20 coolest film festival by MovieMaker Magazine, was established to provide a platform for the creative visions of today’s emerging artists of all disciplines. The film festival is an opportunity for filmmakers to enhance their careers by exposing their projects to a powerful audience, gaining crucial media exposure and strengthening industry relationships.

Eureka Productions specializes in cutting edge presentations of qigong, meditation, healing, and the internal martial arts, as well as award-winning documentaries of various social and ecological issues; — all the news that doesn’t fit at a prime time of your convenience.

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Eureka Video Selected to Run at NYC Film Festival

Eureka Productions was notified last week that is documentary of a blind hiker has been selected at WilliFest in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Read the note and watch the video below.

Dear Sam Edwards,

Congratulations! ‘Trevor Thomas, Blind Hiker: Envision the Path’ has been accepted as an Official Selection of the Williamsburg International Film Festival (WILLiFEST) – a fun-filled film and music festival, featuring film screenings, musical events, Q&A’s, panels, networking opportunities, after-parties and awards. I understand how much hard work goes into creating a short film and I appreciate that you took the time to submit yours for consideration in our 2015 program.

On behalf of the Festival Programming Team, we are honored to be able to screen your excellent short film and hope you are able to come to New York City for your screening this September 24-27.

For more information about the Williamsburg International Film Festival (WILLiFEST) please visit our website at www.willifest.com

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Our Man on The Spot: Living Down in Brooklyn

IMG_3189By Anders Edwards

Here is my current place of residence, one chevy van parked in a lot in south Williamsburg, Brooklyn — beneath the M train.

I met a man named Stan with a taco truck who said I could park  the van in the lot in exchange for a couple hours of work everyday.

This photo was taken a few weeks ago after the epic of van troubles. It began with the engine dying on 17th street in Manhattan. At the time I thought it was as simple as the battery being dead, so I had two friends guard the van while I spliced an extension cable into a phone booth to charge a battery pack.

This of course did nothing, the van has a great sense of humor and would not let a problem be fixed so easily. So I walked across the bridge to Brooklyn and bought a new battery and walked back with the battery in my hand, arriving at the van 5 hours later.

For a day after that my hands were molded to the shape and task of carrying a battery and had a hard time remembering how to perform other functions. I installed the battery and was thrilled when the van whirred to life. The next day I drove out of there, got to Brooklyn, and pretty soon the lights died, followed by the engine. The van gave me a break this time and got into a proper parking spot before dying. So I then realize of course the battery wasn’t the issue, rather the thing that is supposed to charge the battery–the alternator-was at fault.

I spend the next two weeks going back and forth between the van and autozone as they sell me the wrong alternator repeatedly. At last after walking miles down Atlantic avenue into the heat haze abyss to a different autozone they give me the right alternator, I walk back and put in the van and the van rightfully doesn’t start.

The van sits in this spot another week, collects some graffiti, and some debris around the wheels. Somehow I avoided not being towed or booted, or someone ransacking the contents of the van which would be easy enough since there was not glass but merely a wool blanket for a rear window. Around this time I get a gig overhauling 32 bikes and through the owner of the bikes I meet stan who says “get the van towed over here.”

So I do.

During the day I would liberate abandoned bikes (bike thieves work by night, I am simply a bike liberator) and fix them up and sell them, and in the evenings I would contemplate the van. I made good friends with a young man named Christian across the street from the lot who I found playing a steinway piano on the sidewalk outside his apartment.

One day Christian leaves and gives me a key to his place to use the kitchen and such. I go over there and remove the key from its hiding place and fuss with the door for about 5 minutes until an undercover cop car rolls up and 4 gigantic officers accuse me of attempted burglary.

I somehow wiggle my way out of being arrested. A few minutes later Christian shows up and tells how just as he was walking around the corner to his place he saw me being interrogated by the cops and had walked right through us without me even noticing.

He kept walking only because he is living in America illegally and couldn’t risk a cop asking him to produce an ID of which he has none, besides he says “I could tell you were breathing right and therefore were exempt from NYPD tactics.”

I finally got the van started just by asking it to (as well as flipping around the starter relay which had been installed incorrectly, by my own hands no doubt). I then drive to Baltimore to pick up will and we set out on tour the very next day.

By the time we arrive in Charlotte, North Carolina the van is backfiring and misfiring so severely I have no choice but to pull over in the first lot I see. There the van sits for a few days while I imagine the possible causes of this.

Maybe the points on the distributor have corroded so that the sparking order is all mixed up, or maybe there is a hole in the intake manifold and the manifold air sensor is modulating in attempt to give the right amount of air to the cylinders.

All of this is way out of my expertise to fix. But after two days in Charlotte I pop the hood and notice that for some peculiar reason the engine would smooth out when I placed my hand on the dipstick for the transmission fluid.

This makes absolutely no sense but I look further and realize the dipstick is resting on the alternator mount which is missing a bolt and presumably is fluctuating between a grounded and ungrounded state. I had no bolt handy but learned from the airplane guys that steel wire works good enough in place of just about any proper part.

Now I am back in Baltimore where the time can be ascertained by how recently a police helicopter has flown overhead, where the cops twirl there nightsticks on the corners to intimidate but unlike new york aim to make no arrests instead of making as many as possible (this of course is not always the case).

Just finished Huckleberry Finn and don’t understand why I wasn’t made to read it sooner. Erik just read it for the first time too, in his jail cell, and relayed the necessity of reading it, especially for the mischief prone.

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“The Day of Forgetting” by Daan Heerna Van Voss, A Response

Brooklyn (1 of 5)From Our Man on The Spot

Daan:

I too lost my memory, as did you, at about the same date though more appropriately on the Coney Island end of Brooklyn. I fit as you say into the statistical age group bubble of those who suffer T.G.A (Transient Global Amnesia), which as you researched, lasts approximately two 20 hours — “a one day thing.”

I was in Brooklyn where, for a few hours, I had been under some physical stress (systematically so).

The Q train to Brooklyn.

The Q train to Brooklyn.

You say, “No words can accurately describe the feeling of losing your memory, your life!” The truth is that in my case I actually felt pretty okay about it all; it was more about someone finding me a GPS, or simply telling where I had come from.

I think the thing is that no matter on how rudimentary the level, I still knew who I was and I could count on something more primal to guide me. Just as when soaring a glider, and being a little long without oxygen, then, when back at the airport to land,  I could not figure out the changed landing pattern.

I just relaxed and stopped figuring, and my hands seemed to know exactly what to do. Maybe even here in the West, the habit of meditation can be useful.

My problem in Brooklyn was simply that it was time to go and I had no clue how I had gotten to Neptune Avenue or where therefore to return to. Not a clue!

Actually I didn’t really know where ‘there’ was, either here or there! So others, who seemed friendly, believing I was, “putting them on” said, “Go back the way you came.”

‘Thanks a lot,” I probably said to myself.

Brooklyn (4 of 5)You say, “Underlying the loss of facts is a deeper problem: The loss of logic and causality. A person can function, ask questions, only when he recognizes a fundamental link between circumstance and time, past and present.”

If, as you say, “No word is without a word that came before,” then the only words that came before my question were the bemused: “Go back the way you came.”

There in this ‘there’ were no “friends, relatives and former loves” (as there were for you), “telling me about what they thought were the elements of my life.”

So realizing there wouldn’t be a bemused cadre of support, I could though see the stairs with a door at the bottom to what turned out to be Neptune Avenue, so why not see what I would see when I walked through.

I have to say that I did not feel any of the terror of unknown “causality” so long as I did not allow my mind to stray onto the unpaved shoulder of the road of suspended thought.

I knew I had better wait a bit before thinking about my “condition.” I realized I had just better put my thoughts into my feet and remember if homing pigeons can do it, so maybe could I.

When I got to the bottom and opened the door, it could have been left or right on Neptune so I took the shorter length of the block to the left. When I got to the corner, it seemed there was more action down the next block without crossing the street and the idea of public transportation entered my mind as a probability.

And when I came to what appeared to be a major subway between ‘here and ‘there,’ wherever they were, some recognition that uptown on the Q or the B seemed to be where things came from. I had a Metro Card in my pocket, so why not!

Brooklyn (3 of 5)Shortly after boarding, a man I presumed a street musician by the encased conga he was rhythmically tapping — though, as the car was nearly empty, it was pretty clear he was not going to ply his trade to an audience of but me.

In some odd way that I’m sure somebody more knowledgeable than me could explain the tapping actually seized my attention. Perhaps that was because nobody was home in my conscious mind, so with plenty of room for rent, why not let rhythm take a seat?

However, after several stops a posse of boom-box attention-grabbers came in and occupied all possible decibel levels.

Then he with the covered and now overwhelmed conga, however, kept tapping. Though seemingly impossible, I could isolate and attend his beat.

After a few stops the boom boxes vacated in a crush, and my man continued on with his seemingly mindless doodle drumming until I think Prospect Park, where he stood up by the door until it was time to vacate or stay aboard, which is what I hoped he would do.

Out he went, however, and as he paused on the platform I scurried to the door and hollered out, “Thanks.”

His reply: “That was for you.”

By my stop I realized I pretty much knew where I was and the memory of Lafayette, and his sojourn out of time inspired me again.

And Daan, your closing remarks are perfect for my reply to you: “Former patients often remember their day in oblivion as being light and carefree…”

Brooklyn (5 of 5)

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