“When it’s uncomfortable, when it’s unpopular, even when it’s dangerous to speak the truth, is the precise time the truth should be spoken.” 

Portland, OR (9-20-14) — Portland’s University of Oregon Turnbull Center campus permitted @narchists attending the Cascade Media Convergence to H@rass a photojournalist attending to cover the event. The UoO has a journalism department as well as a school of law. The narrative reporting on the dereliction of duty and incompetence at the University along with pictures of some of the miscre@nts follows.

It all began with a Facebook invitation to Portland’s Cascade Media Convergence event from what turned out to be Olympia’s Works In Progress’ (WIP) Sylvia Smith–a woman who had edited the community based alternative newspaper for the past 24 years. It had steadily devolved from its inception during the heady days of Jesse Jackson’s Presidential bid through his ‘Rainbow Coalition’ to a screed for many malcontents and those sympathetic with violently r@dical elements in the State’s capitol city. Sylvia had asked Rick Fellows, the director of Oly’s Media Island (a 501(c)3 non-profit located across the street from the public library)  if he would provide transportation on a bus HE owned to those interested in attending. The bus was not rented or leased by anyone, including Sylvia or WIP. It was to be done on a cost share basis among those riding on it interested in attending the event. Figures vacillated between $10 and $25 with at least 10 on board to be viable. The exact time of departure was going to be announced, but it was said it would be leaving from the Media Island location. Some registered as interested online including yours truly.

Consternation must have reached apocalyptic proportions as Sylvia belatedly notified the reporter he was talented, well written, but persona non grata and too ‘black’ to even ride the bus let alone in the rear of it. A self appointed spokesperson for a community based alternative newspaper was telling an independent photojournalist he would not be permitted to ride in the company of fellow independent journalists on a privately owned bus that had not been rented/leased belonging to a friend (Rick) who has benefited from the generosity of the reporter in the past. Rick, incidentally, when asked, confided if the reporter paid his share of the fuel expenses for the trip, Rick wasn’t about to kick him off the bus, but expressed discomfort with the awkward position Sylvia has created for him. Sylvia also roundly discouraged this reporter from even attending the event itself–an event  neither she nor WIP were sponsoring or even attended (no, not one) in the end. Rick was last seen repairing his car and is not thought to have attended either. There were not enough people from Olympia interested in going to make taking the bus practical. Yet Sylvia had argued others who were going to be in attendance had taken exception to a photojournalist coming said to have a reputation of taking photos of his subjects at public events with/without their permission. Moreover, Sylvia asserted the reporter had a “gnarly reputation” at relating to others at such events ‘inappropriately’ and disrupting them. (Without fear nor favor?) There was NO substantiation of the same or any disruptions except at the hands of the miscre@nts because there was no truth to the assertion. Clearly, WIP had been hi-jacked by Sylvia’s chosen outl@ws and the paper had become a cheerleader rather than an editorial asset to the community.

Friday’s opening blast at the event was a social and dance held at Portland’s Musicians’ Union Hall–a party that could be skipped without missing what was anticipated as the centerpiece to the intrigue: The sheltering of @narchists conspiring against the state using its facilities and tax supported institutions to work out the details of their strategies to sow revolution and v@ndalism, pontificating about their ‘rights’ while relishing denying the rights of others. It would all have to wait until Saturday’s first workshop scheduled for 10:00 am.

Considerably late for the 1st after checking into a local hostel, the 2nd workshop was presented by a journalism faculty member at the University without a hitch. Lunch was to be a 45 minute pause. Portland’s Saturday Marketplace was only a block away under the Burnside Bridge. The Graffiti Workshop was scheduled in room 302. This was the one said to be attended by those who wanted nothing documented or pictures taken.

The organizers had demanded registration from the reporter upon his arrival and $ for the 2 days of workshops. Both were given. While getting oriented, he noticed many other photographers present taking pictures or filming in the various rooms where workshops were being held. Knowing photography is not a crime and the scope of 1st Amendment guarantees, the reporter was confident of the legal boundaries, but not his safety. He’d been set upon/mobbed & robbed by @narchists before such as at TESC’s Anarchist Convergence in Olympia, 2013. He’d brought witnesses for this occasion and the resolve to defend himself. One open carry advocate had offered to come. A surge of support had been voiced by civil rights advocates and those fond of a free press. One woman with a 7-year old daughter had offered to accompany him on the trip, but had been discouraged due to the fact that if a venue isn’t safe for a journalist, it isn’t safe for a 7-year old child.

Upon leaving the elevator, the photographer was challenged by the young man with the big hands seen below. “Are you going to take pictures?” he was asked. “I’m not required to respond to you and don’t want to talk to you,” he replied, “You’re blocking my path.” He was in the public hallway leading to room 302 where the great graffiti grope was to be held. The br@t crowded him and repeated his question with the same rebuff as the photographer stepped back and the miscre@nt advanced with each step, with each warning to step away from him–to leave him alone or he would defend himself from the @ssault. The young man ignored the warnings while asking what the reporter was doing as he dialed the University for assistance. “None of your business,” he was told.

Eventually, virtually all of those there/arriving opted to mob the photographer while certain unannounced witnesses looked on and the confrontation was recorded until the totally incompetent inadequately trained security guard for the building arrived. Being about the same age as the other callow miscre@nts, possibly a student as well, the guard joined in the very same antics, trying to block/intimidate the photographer while the organizers offered the reporter’s registration fee back. It was declined. The University administrator (Mike) had, by that time, arrived and witnessed a tense physical standoff on the verge of escalating to a self-defense action where the @ggressors had been repeatedly warned to stop yet continued to advance on the retreating reporter. In the interest of safety and perceiving more responsiveness from the older man, Mike asked the reporter to leave the scene but accompany him to discuss it. The journalist acceded to the request but continued to be h@rried by the incredibly incompetent ill-trained security guard until the reporter warned him NOT to touch him. Seeing this excess, the administrator chimed in and ordered the guard to back off. Reaching the ground floor, witness in tow, a discussion ensued.

“You blew it,” opined the photographer, “My rights as a photojournalist in a public venue at a public event were clearly being violated and you sided with the miscre@nts!” “I’m not certain what the laws are regarding this situation,” plead Mike. Mike was the responsible University administrator for the facility that Saturday. “I don’t think it’s ‘public’, but I just don’t know,” he continued. “Well, it is,” pressed the reporter, “Why don’t you call some of the University lawyers or law instructors and find out?” “That’s not so easy on a weekend,” said Mike. “Geeze, you’re a public university, you have a law school and a department of journalism here,” scoffed the reporter. He began to go into a litany of legal precedents and examples to make his case. “I used to work for the Seattle Times,” announced Mike. “Good,” came the reply, “Then we won’t have to reiterate basics to journalism we both already know–stuff like reporting without fear nor favor or having to seek permission from the very subjects on whom you’re reporting. You are a government institution/facility and if I had to ask its permission to do what I do, a free press wouldn’t mean very much, now would it?” “I just don’t know for sure,” pleaded Mike, “Give me some time to consult to find the answers.” “I’m sure you’ll come up with the right ones after you do your homework,” the photojournalist reckoned, “I’m an expert in this area. How much time do you need?” The reporter was wearing his 6″ PRESS button and cynically anticipated Mike telling him it might be a few days. “Can you give me about 25 minutes,” came the reply. “Sure,” the man with the camera nodded, “We’re near the Saturday Market and riverfront park. I’m certain we can find something to do for that amount of time.”

It was still early afternoon. As they proceeded to leave the building, the reporter stopped by the desk where his security guard antagonist had positioned himself near the entrance. “Do you have a phone book?” he asked, “I’d like the phone number of The Oregonian.” The guard looked through it and gave him the correct phone number. “So, tell me,” he continued, “Why are you so ‘shy’ about having your picture taken?” “Why are you so insistent on taking them or adverse to being blocked?” sneered the guard. “Look! Let me fill you in on some stuff in which you should be professionally interested,” glared the reporter, “First, you are NOT a law enforcement officer. You have no arrest powers and unlike a sworn peace officer, neither I NOR YOU may ‘advance’ on a person. Only a police/law officer may do that in law. Nor may you touch me.” “I didn’t touch you,” he objected. “Yes, you did! Unlike a sworn peace officer, you do NOT have qualified immunity from a lawsuit holding you liable for your actions, even if they were in good faith,” he continued. The guard nodded in agreement.

The Oregonian was sympathetic, called the situation tragic, but as a mainstream outlet, didn’t appear inclined to follow up on the story. They may have placed a phone call to the university, who knows?

The weather was quite warm/sunny that afternoon, muggy even except for the welcome breeze that floated down the river valley near its waters. The streets and park were crowded. The huge expanse of grass was cluttered with the homeless and all their worldly possessions, even teacup poodles thrown together among shopping carts and whatever could hold them. Daytime was siesta time for them. Public bathrooms were scarce, but unlike Olympia, there were some including a hybrid that exposed the head and lower legs of the occupants to public view while shielding their torso and pelvis as they sat on the toilet set into the public sidewalk. Somewhat further away beyond the bevy of food carts was an army of fiberglass outhouses in formation beneath the Burnside Bridge. Its ranks were arranged so as to discourage any who might want to squeeze through to open one of the doors. Its flank was cordoned/fenced off, but careful reconnoitering allowed a maneuver that granted relief. Portland was a city with accommodations for the savvy and/or determined only. Still, they existed–in stark contrast to Seattle and Olympia. Portland is also a city wildly enthusiastic about bicycles. They’re everywhere in a bewildering array of configurations and styles. Portland is a city intensely 3-dimensional. It is dense, tall, highly engineered, and equally deep hidden below grade. It’s public transportation system with Max, buses, trolleys and tram is rivaled by none–dirt cheap to ride. In fact, the drivers downtown weren’t seen to be asking anyone for proof of their fare. Hostels run about $35/night in the Pearl/Nob Hill District. Quality eateries abound w/reasonably priced menus. Volunteers wandered the core area handing out free sandwiches to those who appeared needy. For civil engineers and students of architecture, it is an impressive work of art–full and robust with a glut of humanity among the shards of high rises, plethora of bridges, and riverfront hideaways.

Perhaps an hour had passed. A call to Mike yielded a request for about 15 minutes more. “It’ll take us about that long to walk there,” he was reassured, “That’ll be fine.” He was still talking upon our arrival, not in an office, but seated in an alcove of the lobby in the leased historic building. “I’m sorry. It took somewhat longer than I anticipated,” he apologized upon approaching us perhaps just within earshot of the security guard near the entryway. He paused, caught his breath, and candidly announced, “We agree with you!” Before a response could be had, he excused himself for a few moments more to complete some pressing business before returning. “It is true that this space is public and so is the event,” he declared, “It’s also true the university administers the space.” “You know, this isn’t exactly my first rodeo,” leveled the reporter, “I’ve become an expert in this area of law and am exquisitely familiar with the nuances, boundaries, and precedents. I was confident your conclusions would make more sense once you’d done your homework.” “Well,” Mike continued, “I spoke with some of the organizers as well as the security guard. They admitted other photographers were present. We clarified to them they were not permitted to discriminate against you, et ux, while allowing others taking photos/video.” That was precisely what had gone on, in fact, as many tripods and cameras were seen earlier at the event. “So, what do you want to do,” queried Mike. “Actually, I’d like to continue to cover all of the event, including tomorrow,” the reporter suggested. “OK,” Mike responded, “but there are some conditions.” “Such as?” asked the photographer. “I won’t be able to be here tomorrow, so if any dispute arises, the security guard will have to sort it out,” Mike clarified. “No!” the reporter balked, “He’s incompetent.” Mike remained silent in apparent agreement.  The guard had been monumentally incompetent and vacuous, the epitome of a clueless apparatchik, as willfully ignorant as the miscre@nts he’d sided with. “I’ll tell you what,” winked the journalist, “I’ll make you a counter-offer…an accord and satisfaction in legal parlance. It’s obvious that there will be no love lost between myself and the @narchists in any event. Here’s the deal I’ll accept….”

Unfortunately the story will have to be truncated here as the deal included a non-disclosure clause. But, if there’s feathers on the face of this reporter who looks like the cat that ate the canary, it’s because it was delicious. It’s an agreement that likely wouldn’t have been reached but for the suspicion Mike genuinely liked the reporter and his journalistic ethics/dedication to 1st Amendment principles, his love of this country and the precepts upon which it was founded, the inalienable rights of all the people, his courage in pursuing reporting without fear nor favor–in short, a truly independent journalist. The public is entitled to no less, the Constitution singles out only one profession by name for protection–the press! The University of Oregon stands 4-square for that proposition without fear nor favor.

CLICK BELOW for Audio of Registration & Payment for Cascade Media Convergence at Portland’s University of Oregon Turnbull Center facility:

CLICK BELOW for Audio of @ssault and the University of Oregon’s dereliction of duty by failing to protect and defend the photojournalist’s civil rights as well as the public’s:

It’d been too damn hot, even for God who was on Sabbatical. The crimson beat of the Cinnabar and orange pirouette of the Monarch in the verdant dawn had been flattened, not by the heat, but by the thundering wash of rotary blades scattering the morning mist across the valley floor. The acrid smell of blackened firs hung heavy as the lords of the forest spiraled over the great cloud of smokey ash desperately searching for their lost aeries.

There’d been mischief afoot aplenty as convoys of firefighters, aerial bombers, and rotary dragon flies with their loads of water raced to meet it. The emerald filled with smoke and despair as Haven Lake fell headlong into the  unyielding inferno. Newly formed, the Olympic mountains were cloaked in thick elegant rain forests couched among chimneys fashioned by ancient rock faces and narrow canyons. Parched, the landscape beckoned and the Devil heard her name. Satan had entered and found the Landlord absent. Paradise was, if not for sale, at least for rent.

Though records said otherwise, he knew his spiritual birthplace through dreams and visions long before fate allowed him to enter. He’d traveled these mountains, crossed its streams and valleys through the rain, sometimes the snow. He’d stood naked in the rain unafraid beneath the stars and the full moon, marveling at the darkness and the cool wetness on his skin. He had slept on the deep moss covered maple tree stretched over the adjacent river with his young son in his arms. He’d gathered wood to lay against the coming winter, gathered berries and fruit from abandoned apple trees, butchered roadkill to nourish his young. Though alarmingly indigent, this was the promised land, a poor man’s paradise he knew from ancient ancestral coding hardwired into the fiber of his being. He would never forsake it. Many came seeking, but few were chosen. He was among the lucky few. His sacred mountain respite came complete with a waterfall, island, and bittersweet memories where he’d been happy if only for awhile. Ferns provided hygiene. A ram pump laughed at utility bills. The pasture fed his goats who provided milk, yogurt, cheese, and kefir in turn. Once a month he ventured down into the outside world for supplies. He could afford no less, but no more. Yet happiness did not shield him from loneliness. He’d been warned not to partake of this particular self indulgence, yet could not rest while it did abide within him. As luck would have it, the Devil was in the details.

Came the day, one year in early summer, he met a beautiful serpentine lady. He’d read of the Sirens of old. He knew of the tree of good and evil. He’d been warned of the forbidden fruit. Yet he tarried. He admired her art, her craft, her body, her mouth, her face, her eyes…especially her eyes–and her voice when she began to speak. He might have escaped, but for her seizing the moment and her singing. “What did you say your name was again?” he queried. “Luci,” she twinkled, “but I like to go by Perfidia.” “Mine’s Amicus,” he rejoined, “you are astonishingly talented and beautiful.” “Do tell,” she sparkled. “What do you do with all this?” he gestured, pointing at all the wood and partially assembled boxes around her. “Oh, I’m a collector,” she hinted, “I commune with nature in collaboration with volunteers. Do you love nature?” “Oh, yes,” he confided, “though my own Heaven has no angels such as yourself.” “Really?” she mused, “I struggle so hard without a partner. People do not understand me, they fail to appreciate my situation. I’m very poor. For this I’ve been banned from the Garden.” She eyed him carefully, then went for the jugular–“You look like God,” she exclaimed, “just like He’s portrayed on the Sistine Chapel ceiling! And your hair, your hair is so soft–so silky,” she purred as she ran her fingers through it. His heart fell out of his chest and fibrillated wildly on the floor. Besotted, he invited her to share Paradise. He’d pay the damage deposit, he offered.

Gabriel had accompanied God and taken her trumpet with her. Michael, the archangel, had left her post to get a pizza. Thus, the gates to Paradise were left open and undefended upon Perfidia’s arrival. She was still in her prime, but he was in the autumn of his years and knew it only too well. “You are a fantastic lover,” she told him the night of that first day while Michael was away. “Will you grown tired of me?” he fretted. “Not if you continue to be this good,” she assured him, “but would you mind not questioning me right now while my underwear is about my ankles? It makes me feel terribly vulnerable.”

It was a smoldering romance too hot not to cool down. And as it died, Paradise began to burn. Perfidia had once complained of too little attention, of too little time spent, of wanting more–always more. Yet, even from the outset, she did not want to be seen in his company as knowing him, or at least knowing him too well. The Devil may wear Prada, but Perfidia preferred the invisibility cloak of discretion and…collecting. The latter must have been time consuming as soon enough she was heard to say she abhorred the idea of him gobbling up every available moment, of investing too much time. And there was no such thing as constructive criticism, she said. A new soul was on her horizon, almost within her grasp, and most of her attention focused there. “I give it about 6 months or less,” he thought, “people go back to what they know. If it ain’t broken, why fix it?” Indeed, Perfidia wasn’t about to fix a thing. She wasn’t about to hear any criticism either. She’d said, “When you feel like you’ve had enough, you’ll just walk away.” “You ask me if this heart of mine will ever grow tired of you,” he quietly sang to himself. But in the end, it was she who walked away and always had, for she knew it. It was her nature.

“Never give a sucker an even break.” -P. T. Barnum- had said. The ancient Greeks were convinced that when the gods want to punish us, they grant our wishes. Upon Michael’s return, finding Paradise burning, she asked him, “What have you done?” “I partook of the forbidden fruit,” he sobbed. “Why? You were warned,” Michael persisted. “A serpent beguiled me. She beckoned me to eat, saying the fruit was good. I was lonely. God never gave me a woman who truly loved me for who I am,” he cried. “Fear not,” Michael glowered, “God is merciful. But, you know, nothing will ever be the same!” Somehow, he doubted the former, but not the latter.

When he calls, Perfidia is no longer home. Paradise yet burns, God is still on holiday, and the man told he resembled Him awaits his fate and eventual banishment from Eden. Being poor sucks. But then he knew that. So did Perfidia when she made it her opening move.

 

Olympia, WA (9-15-14) — The sewers of Oly’s r@dical underground are stinking up the neighborhood, adding to the stench in Oly’s municipal ordinances filth served up by its City council. Who would have suspected Works In Progress, an independent alternative, some say r@dical of late, newspaper barely surviving in the Olympia area which has been around since Jesse Jackson ran for President would attempt to discourage a reporter from attending a media oriented public event? Sylvia is said to have been editing it these past 24 years. Like all print media, it’s struggling and probably won’t survive, at least in its current format. Whether it can legitimately be called a news periodical that promotes reporting without fear nor favor is questionable given the following e-mail exchange, initiated apparently by Sylvia, sent to an independent investigatory photojournalist who does exactly that, letting the chips fall where they may and refusing to be seen as part of anyone’s camp:

Speaking of ‘bleeding’ for what one believes in, get a load of WIP’s Sylvia and her take on 1st Amendment principles at a media oriented public event, no less:

Amicus Curia From: Works In Progress <olywip@gmail.com>
To: Amicus Curia <pinbalwyz@yahoo.com>
Sent: Monday, September 15, 2014 9:57 PM
Subject: Cascadia Media Convergence

John, I am going to be very upfront with you. I think you are a very talented person and writer, but unfortunately you seem to have a great deal of difficulty dealing with people. I am sorry to inform you that we will not be able to provide you transportation down to Portland for the Cascadia Media Convergence this weekend. Also, I think you need to know that the folks in Portland are very concerned that if you attend the Convergence you will be disruptive and act inappropriately with other attendees. You have a pretty gnarly reputation, John. Sylvia

>>>Well, Sylvia, some of the folks you must be referencing have a pretty ‘gnarly reputation’ themselves–violent, criminal, threatening, and remorseless. Of the meetings I’ve attended, and many I’ve read about, the ONLY ones being disruptive were them. It’s pretty easy for nameless/anonymous accusations to be leveled, and accordingly difficult to defend against. It’s par for this particular course for the principals you seem to be defending to insist on 1st Amendment protections for themselves but not for others who are critical of their excesses. The reputation, I’m afraid, isn’t mine.

Amicus Curia: BTW, and how is it you (Sylvia) are able to grant/deny permission to ride on this particular bus, which I thought belonged to Rick Fellows? What is the hierarchy you’re claiming? Just WHO, specifically, objects to my presence? Names?–yeah, I thought not.

Not only are Sylvia’s chosen miscreants wildly enthusiastic about snitch hunts and outrageously erroneous labeling of whatever nemesis of the day they’ve targeted as sex offenders, but they’re their own worst enemies when it comes to disrupting the very meetings Sylvia vacuously inveighs.  Many examples of the same this reporter has never attended have been written up in this publication.

(e.g. https://amicuscuria.com/wordpress/?p=14585)

Fast forward to the magical mystery bus chosen to transport those with $25 for gas to Portland’s Cascadia Media Convergence hosted by the University of Oregon at 70 Couch St. this coming weekend, 9-19-14 through 9-21-14. The bus itself belongs to Rick Fellows, the director of the 501(c)3 non-profit known locally as Media Island across the street from Olympia’s downtown public library. The media convergence (CMC) is sponsored by the Wayne Morse Center for Law and Politics and the University of Oregon Turnbull Center. It’s billed as a series of workshops, facilitated strategy sessions, and public events aimed at bringing together alternative and community media makers to network, share knowledge and skills, and discuss ways to continue collaboration and build toward a regional media coalition happening September 19th-21st at the University of Oregon Turnbull Center in Portland, OR. Who made Sylvia God with the power to deny/censor an independent investigatory photojournalist from attending or traveling there, God only knows. Perhaps she (Sylvia) may yet inform readers.

The poison pen e-mail invites the question of whether those who genuinely believe in 1st Amendment principles should ride Rick’s big yellow bus under WIP’s auspices, thus rewarding enemies in all but name only of the very 1st Amendment principles they profess to be hawking. The hypocrisy is so thick as to be cut with a knife.

It would be comforting to believe this is an aberration rather than a pattern. That optimism would be sadly mistaken. WIP has consistently rejected well written submissions for its hard copy publication. Now it appears to be discouraging an independent investigatory photojournalist from attending based on the thinnest of pretexts on behalf of @narchists predictably given to violent disruption of public events on college campuses and fond of jacketing anyone who opposes them or even publishes their pictures while accurately reporting on their actions. Folk wisdom holds birds of a feather flock together. That they don’t wish to be SEEN, at least in print, publicly together is telling. Folk lore also holds the wicked flee when none pursue. Sylvia’s biases are transparent in this instance. The Devil’s in the details as with any Faustian bargain. God willing, THIS reporter will be there, whether Sylvia and her allies like it or not! Coverage will be made available to the public at the first opportunity without fear nor favor–something WIP might consider if it chooses to survive as a relevant community alternative publication.

The way she sees it, men had always been oppressors of her kind. Snakewoman beguiled old men. Despite being in her prime, the young ones were too hard to catch. Early on, she’d welcomed the adoration that comes with being the youngest. It suited her still. She’d hit upon a successful strategy: depending on the kindness of strangers–especially older ones. Men were way stations in her odyssey for survival, more than a few. Life had not been exactly kind to her crossing the desert highway’s rough surface in the searing sun. She had young to feed; her battered body with its marred but still beautiful pale skin was not unexpected. It had been some time since her last meal had passed. Tantalizing, yet angry, depressed, petulant, resentful and suspicious, on the hunt–live game had grown scarce. Of a sudden, she sensed movement and lay still…perfectly, exquisitely–still.

As a writer, he’d always loved nature with all its creatures, great and small. How could he resist helping this mesmerizing woman with her delicate features and pale beautiful skin lying there, vulnerable to passing traffic only inches away. Yes, there’d been some damage done, but he was certain he could heal the wounds and nurse her back to the healthy sultry female of her youth. He’d healed many creatures as part of his farm tasks…then she began to sing to him. She sang her song of flight among the stars and adventures to the bottom of the deepest oceans beneath their eternal inky twilight. She sang of hopes, dreams, ambitions, and despair, of old wounds and regrets. Slowly she undulated beneath his gaze, casting her spell as surely as any hook being set. “I’m so alone without any mate,” she cooed, “I’m a sucker for attention from a handsome erudite older man, and always have been.” He fell in love, or at least what he mistook for it.

Gently, he ushered her and her young into his vehicle, taking them wherever whimsy, fantasy, or need beckoned. He bathed her in the fresh water of a brook near his home. Having fed her, he gathered food to lay up against the winter and restore her strength. He arranged for her travel, massaged her body, spent hours building her strength and allaying her fears. He brought wings for her and her young to fly, no longer bound to the desert floor. He tucked her into his own bed and listened, spellbound, as she sang. Then, he fell into a deep sleep as though a man possessed.

With the dawn came new pearls and new needs including those most urgent for the care of her young. Each was generously tended to in turn, and she grew stronger–more confident, and her song reached higher among the surrounding mountains, the stars at night, the moon in its fullness, the wetness of her lips, her body, her scent. Intoxicated, he grew careless. Fear left him and caution was thrown to the wind as he drank deeper.

One evening, after a long day spent waiting for her to stir or notice him, he picked her up to hold in his arms when suddenly she bit him on the cheek. Stunned, as he lay dying, he moaned, “Why did you do that? I found you wounded and sick with grief, with unrequited love, with self doubt, with no food, with nowhere to feel safe or anyone to care. I nursed you back to health. I gave you meaning and sustenance for your life. I helped make you strong.”

“Look,” she said, “You knew I was a snake when you picked me up! Should I feel guilty? Perhaps I was selfish and used you. I’m sorry–I truly am. Besides, nothing bad ever happens to a writer–it’s all just more material. Quit struggling,” and gave him another bite to aid her digestion.

The Nightingale and the Rose

Olympia, WA — Toweringinfernoorchestra Jazz Xi’s C Davis New Orleans Quartet thrilled Sunday night swing dancers in this august venue across from Sylvester Park and above the Urban Onion.

Jessica (vocals and violin), ‘C’ (trumpet), Paul Woltz (bass sax, clarinet, et ux

Towering Inferno Orchestra plays 1920’s and 1930’s hot Harlem jazz orchestra music.

They also have a smaller band within the band that plays New Orleans Hot Jazz.

They have sound and videos on youtube.com:

www.youtube.com/user/ToweringInfernoOrch

and reverbnation.com

They are available for all kinds of events, from weddings to funerals to corporate parties and everything in between.

https://www.facebook.com/Celestion/photos/a.186656878023137.40606.135981209757371/650474201641400/?type=1&theater

Monty Norris is the guy who hired The Quartet and runs the weekly Sunday Night Swing at the Olympic Ballroom where the gods and godesses dance the night away for a fraction of the cover charge prevalent in the Seattle area.

Jessica Blinn (vocals, violin) appeared w/the venerable Joe Baque on Piano, Paul Woltz (with his Big Bass saxophone & clarinet),. Andy Hall (trombone), Cal Neal playing his 1926 vintage drum set, and C Davis on trumpet w/his chewy brass riffs.

Shelton, WA. — Fresh Start Market Deli @ 2810 E Spencer Lake Rd, Shelton, WA 98584, (360) 462-4620 provides a musical venue every Saturday evening beginning at 6:00 pm with open mic every other week.

Last week they hosted Urban Folk Review which consisted of Ron Nelson and Kathy Jonas from Mason County accompanied by Heather Wood from Olympia.

All three singers accompanied their solos with guitar plus Ron was handy with his harmonica as he emulated Bob Dylan’s style and music. All had great voices which weren’t done justice by the inferior sound system and mics. If the video you hear sounds like it was done from the next room, that’s why. The venue was intimate and the room was small with no stage. Some of the patrons sat outside on this balmy night where speakers relayed the performance to the patio.

Most of the performance consisted of solos with a few harmony pieces thrown together. Ron’s voice had a rich resonance, Kathy’s had an incredible range, and Heather belted out one number that showcased her verve and spontaneity in interpreting musical phrasing. Adeline, a 7-year old girl, takes the stage at one point to sing an impromptu number she composed on the spot. Adeline displayed no stage nervousness, having been exposed to it through her mother (Heather) as a professional musician since birth.

The audience joined in for all the traditional folk tunes familiar to them. A good time was had by everyone and the venue is to be recommended each Saturday evening for those who can make it. The pizzas were good, the atmosphere pleasant. There was no cover charge.

Olympia, WA (Artesian Well, 4th Ave & Jefferson St, Olympia, WA 98501) – 

When:   Friday, 8-22-14 @ 12:00 pm – 2:00 pm
Where: Olympia’s Artesian Well, 4th Ave & Jefferson St, Oly, WA

There’s a lot of talk these days about how to help downtown. There’s also a lot of action, but it’s an unsung story. 

With this in mind, over a dozen nonprofit organizations and community projects are banding together for “Reach Out at the Well,” a street outreach and volunteer recruitment fair. 

It’s a chance to chat with folks doing the work, learn about available resources for coping with homelessness, illness, violence or job loss, and find out how you can make a difference in the community through street outreach work.

Participating organizations include Community Youth Services, POWER (Parents Organizing for Welfare and Economic Rights), SideWalk, Thurston County Food Bank, Partners in Prevention Education, Stonewall Youth, the Olympia Free Clinic and others. The Olympia Downtown Ambassadors will also be present.

The public can expect to find resources and volunteer opportunities for housing and shelter, youth services, back to school information, free food options, free health services, low-income pet care and more. Some tables will give away snacks and sandwiches; others will offer free on-site counseling, advocacy, and pet food to those in need.

Participating organizations include: 

• Community Youth Services 
• Rosie’s Place
• POWER (Parents Organizing for Welfare and Economic Rights) 
• SideWalk 
• Thurston County Food Bank
• PiPE (Partners in Prevention Education)
• Stonewall Youth- Olympia, Washington
• The Olympia Free Clinic
• Thurston County Needle Exchange 
• PB&J Project
• Family Support Center
• Covenant Creatures
• The Crisis Clinic of Thurston and Mason Counties
• Youth ‘N Action
• Olympia Downtown Ambassadors

…and maybe the Emma Goldman Youth and Homeless Outreach Project(better known as EGYHOP)

Organizers will also serve lemonade made with Artesian Well water. See you there!

Urban Folk Review

Shelton, WA — This event is being hosted by Fresh Start Market & Deli of  2810 E Spencer Lake Rd, Shelton, Washington 98584. Tel. (360)462-4620 on Saturday, September 6 @ 6:00 p.m.

Four artists will sing and play favorite folk music. Come in Costume. Who will you be?

Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul & Mary stuff–all your Americana favorites. Come help raise the roof and have a hoot ‘n nanny good time. All your friends will be there.