For some years now I’ve been riding along what stands for a river in these parts, on a designated Bike Path that links up with other designated and non-designated but tried and true cycling routes throughout the neighboring communities. A different kind of community exists in the river landscape and the nearby parkland of our city. Denizens of this stratum of democracy play by rules foreign to those of us above ground, so to speak. Generally they are underground, off the grid in most practical senses. Occasionally the Man comes along and lays down some rules. Signs were posted in November warning of a sweep through the area by various agencies and bureaus. Signs of the sweep are few. In fact, the most robust camps seem to have been built in the month since. Some of these folks are good folks, down on luck, trying for a handhold to get a leg up. Others are trying via dubious means; there are sites that definitely present reason to suspect a connection with the local narcotics trades. Somebody made a film down here in the fall, calling it The Blue Hour. They had a lot of gear in a very collegiate, indie way –props and dressing, they burned some grocery carts and had strange black wooden boxes that locked and were left behind between filming visits. I only passed them two or three times actually working but the gist of it seemed to entail characters that live in the river. The scorched cart pile however did go after the posted sweep date. Camps, some props, the black boxes and apparently some of the cast remained through the police action and continue to dot the daily landscape even this afternoon. There are holes in the fence at strategic points (well before Hollywood arrived at the river), rustling in the low branches beyond and evidence of life at the portals; there lies the debris of last nights arrival in the form of broken bottles and discarded trash from the dumpster dive collection. Nefarious characters on box-store bikes with cheap cel phones toting worn rucksacks eye up warily as you ride past. A strange woman who lives in a tent is always clutching at her skull and occasionally carrying a sheaf of papers that look like film releases, wandering aimlessly. Bearded yoga masters stretch quietly with loyal dogs, awaiting the moon. Laundry hangs drying between the trees in the bed of the aqueduct while various scraps of furniture poke out along the islands that have been formed with the washing of the mountains up stream. Either way, these people are members of society – our society, whether we see them on our radar screens or not. As I ride past most evenings, I try to remember that. Ring the bell. Smile and say hello. People. You know, like us. I didn't ride all the miles I wanted to this year, I missed some opportunities, passed some chances, as it is with life. Viva the new, the coming 07, the odd numeral, lucky for some, may it pass with less strife, less hurt, less misunderstanding, grief and hardship. May it pass as a path to the future, with more compassion, more thought, more consequence of action, praise, belief and success.
A celestially seasoned new year to all. Onward.
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