November. The rains have set in. People are on the move and voices are wanting to be heard. The rain has set in. Cold wet tents collide against each other and a cry from deep within, "Will this fucking rain ever STOP?" Blue tarps hang low, soup pots lay uncleaned while figures in the night begin to chant. Is this our revolution? The rain sideways now. Chanting begins to climb. People yell, flags fly. A speech begins, yet it's too dark to even see faces. Was this our faceless revolution? The beginnings of a new era? Faces slow to see, where's the leader? Is there one? Colors flash, rain gets harder, people scurry from tent to tent, beers, the smell of pot rises. Is this our revolution?
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Voices. Occupy Portland. 2011
November. The rains have set in. People are on the move and voices are wanting to be heard. The rain has set in. Cold wet tents collide against each other and a cry from deep within, "Will this fucking rain ever STOP?" Blue tarps hang low, soup pots lay uncleaned while figures in the night begin to chant. Is this our revolution? The rain sideways now. Chanting begins to climb. People yell, flags fly. A speech begins, yet it's too dark to even see faces. Was this our faceless revolution? The beginnings of a new era? Faces slow to see, where's the leader? Is there one? Colors flash, rain gets harder, people scurry from tent to tent, beers, the smell of pot rises. Is this our revolution?
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