WR.BRHFL » writing http://wr.brhfl.com (WR)iting for the sake of writing Sat, 01 Sep 2012 00:16:53 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.3.1 Occupy Frederick — A Confessional Photoessay in Vignettes http://wr.brhfl.com/2012/01/30/occupy_frederick/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2012/01/30/occupy_frederick/#comments Mon, 30 Jan 2012 07:53:12 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=12 The occupy camp at Jarrel Gray Park

I spent a brief amount of time with the kind activists of Occupy Frederick, during their occupation of a section of Linear Park named Jarrel Gray Park. The experience was incredibly inspiring. This is my story, everything that my brief time with them evoked, told through photos and words.

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Activism takes a front row seat before downtown Frederick's ritzy condos.Activism takes a front row seat before downtown Frederick’s ritzy condos.

I am not involved with Occupy Frederick. I say this not with arrogance, nor pride. I say this with more shame than anything. Shame that I haven’t been able to find work in this town. Shame that I haven’t been able to find work elsewhere so that I may live in this town. Shame for loving this town, but having a deep personal hangup over the ethics of being heard in a democracy in which I feel I have no real community connection.

One of many tents delivering messages.Later, such signs are held up to passing traffic.One of many tents delivering messages.Later, such signs are held up to passing traffic.

Over the week of January 22, 2012, select members of Occupy Frederick set up camp and occupied a section of Carroll Creek Linear Park. Their section of park named Jarrel Gray Park after the victim of police-brutality-turned-deadly. I visited the camp in the middle of the week to gather some documentation photography, and was welcomed with open arms and inviting conversation. I was asked by a friend to return on the final day of occupation, Saturday, January 28, to document the ensuing rally and march. To this, I gladly agreed, and was again treated with nothing but respect and welcoming. This, from people who largely knew nothing about me, save for the rather large camera I was brandishing about with reckless abandon.

The area renamed Jarrel Gray Park.

Most people drive by and ignore the camp to their left. Some people drive by, honk and wave. Some people drive by, honk, and wave middle fingers. Fuck you, too, man. We all know how difficult it is being privileged, the burden of entitlement. Of course, once I get done shaking my head at that, a bright red Corvette rumbles by, its master shouting, ‘get a job!’ This hurts. It hurts to hear it semi-jokingly from friends. Somehow, it hurts more from total strangers. Those who are utterly serious, despite knowing nothing about any of their targets’ lots in life. It hurts when you did what you were supposed to, you went to school for something you don’t even care about, and then got left behind as all the jobs fluttered away. It hurts when you’ve been searching for years, your knowledge and experience fading. It hurts being 26, living with your parents, feeling wholly incapable of forming relationships, living life, accomplishing anything. I’m spending very little time with the group, I can only imagine the toll it must take on a person after a week of casual berating. On the other hand, I bet it really makes you feel good about yourself to be able to cause others such pain from the comfort of your cushy Corvette seats.

Activists hold banners up for passing cars.Conversation amid honking cars, shouting drivers.Activists hold banners up for passing cars.Conversation amid honking cars, shouting drivers.

A circle for discourse.A circle for discourse.

Before the march is a discussion around a circle. All are invited to talk. I’m shy; I opt to listen, and to photograph. Listening is easy, especially when you find yourself aligned with the people you’re around. Everyone is very eloquent. Their stories are very relatable, their messages poignant and clear. These are people I’m proud to be around, proud to live near, proud to be photographing. Which, is the other thing I’m doing, aside from listening. And, unlike listening, photographing the circle, the rally, the march is not so easy.

Listening around a circle……as others speak.Listening around a circle……as others speak.

Documentation photography is a peculiar phenomenon to me. Even if you want to, you really can’t get too involved with your surroundings, for fear of missing out on a shot. And if you really care about what you’re documenting, you absolutely don’t want to miss out on a shot. You treat it like its the best job you ever had, even when you have no desire for or expectation of pay. In between shots, trying to figure out the next one, trying to find vantage points for whoever was speaking, I stay close to the circle. I want to be there, to show solidarity, but at the same time I feel like it’s impossible for me to really be there. Partly because of my documentarian need to keep to the background. But largely, I admit to myself, this is an excuse for being shy, being alien. A realization hits me — when you’re used to being alienated, a welcoming group is in and of itself alienating.

People patiently await the march.People patiently await the march.

The other thing about documentation is that I always have reservations about being exploitative. How much benefit do I bring to my subject versus how much I take for myself? How much am I benefiting my subject versus how much I would be by directly contributing that time or money to their cause? These are unimaginably hard questions for me. I meet several other photographers at the rally, the first time I’ve met and talked to photographers since I lived near the District. The photographers are all pleasant, and seem to be somewhat sympathetic to the cause. But when it comes down to it, they won’t be following along on the march. I feel like their hearts are in their day on the town, or perhaps their photos. But not in the group, not in the cause, not in representing a community, not in documentation. My fears of exploitation grow more confused.

The dogs of occupation.The dogs of occupation.The dogs of occupation.

The march itself is a pretty powerful thing to behold. Literature is dispensed to people in cars, people on stoops, people with dogs. We venture out to a poorer part of town, past a Bail Bonds joint, past a forlorn community ballfield, and past so many vacant properties. We stop at an evicted building the group has investigated before. Very little is said, but there is an air of sadness about. It is a heavy minute, difficult to pass through. Fighting foreclosures is a major priority for the group right now. Convincing people to move their money to local banking institutions, away from those with no ties to their community save for exploitation. I personally have tried to switch banks twice, and both times realized I’m too poor and financially unstable to hold an account with an institution I don’t have to fear. That part of the American Dream was whispered, as an aside.

Activists take to the streets of Frederick.Activists take to the streets of Frederick.Activists take to the streets of Frederick.Activists take to the streets of Frederick.

There are times when the group slows down, and I try to rush ahead to get photos on the approach. By this time, though, things are sitting heavily on my head, and my skills are dwindling. I shoot plenty of motion-blurred photos of the backs of many heads. But the further we march, the more unity I feel. Small things like coordinated efforts to cross a street, or hold a banner taut. The day had started out cold, and turned unbearably warm for those of us who are still bundled up. We have been walking for a considerable amount of time, after uncertainty whether there would even be a march. So many things could have soured the moods of so many different people, but everything and everyone holds together. So many sad things stuck in everyone’s mind, the things everyone is here to fight against. Yet, so much happiness, kindness, togetherness throughout the group. Chanting, singing, drumming on boxes — life and liveliness. The longer the day grows, the more I feel accepted, the more I feel like I belong, despite still not knowing the names of most of the people I’m with. Despite being too shy to chant, hell, even to talk to nearly any of the people I am foisting my camera upon.

Togetherness. Solidarity. Unity. Themes of a movement.Togetherness. Solidarity. Unity. Themes of a movement.

Back at camp, there are free grilled cheese sandwiches waiting for us, cooked on a DIY grill fashioned from a shopping cart and a plate of metal. Much as I want to, I don’t eat one. I’m not hungry despite having barely eaten all day. I am very nearly out of film by this point. I have my digital on me as well, but barely think to use it. Were I smarter, I would try to get head shots of everyone present. Were I smarter, I probably would’ve done a lot differently throughout the day. Things are seemingly winding down, though my mind is more wound up now than it has been in a long time. Jan, who had invited me out that day, wants me to get a shot of her, so I spend my last frame on what is my favorite shot of the day. There is nothing more beautiful to me than the emotion that comes with such passion and dedication as is necessary to be involved in such a movement.

My last photo of the day, Jan.

I talked to a few people before quickly saying some goodbyes and ducking out. I wish that I’d stayed longer. I had a lot going on in my head, however. For a while, all I felt was a mixture of happiness and nervousness. But, it all catches up, and I needed time to think, and to write, and to work on the photographs. I spent hours processing film that evening. My mind wandered as I haphazardly mixed chemicals together, filling and emptying tanks. Memories of high school, where being an artist with questionable gender identity and highly socialist beliefs meant being under constant surveillance, scrutiny, criticism, mockery from peers. Where watching race-based fights break out in front of you was nothing out of the ordinary, and the punishments so trivial that the best course of action was generally for victims to just transfer away. Where so many of the truly open-minded classmates I knew have by now overdosed or committed suicide. This, all in the same county where I saw seeds of change being planted on January 28, 2012.

All in all, an amazing, powerful day.All in all, an amazing, powerful day.All in all, an amazing, powerful day.

When I snap back to present-day, my photos are hanging up to dry. I’m still unemployed, depressed, confused. I still have concerns about my interference in a democracy I can claim no place in. I still have reservations about the role of documentation. But I have met new people, and (in my mind at least) solidified an alliance with a group that has far fewer reservations about welcoming me than I have about intruding. I have set memories to silver, immortalized an event that may prove to be a powerful precursor to real change. I kill the lights, pour myself a drink, and turn on Prokofiev Then I wait patiently for these memories to dry.

The other side of the camp.The other side of the camp.

Ocupemos.Ocupemos.

Note: I am not affiliated with Occupy Frederick, and these thoughts are mine and mine only — I do not and cannot speak for anybody else, though I hope dearly that I have not misrepresented anyone or anything involved. If you’ve done this much reading, I urge you to do a bit more at the official Occupy Frederick site — http://occupyfrederick.wordpress.com — as well as check out their zine (PDF). Thank you.

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and the papers reported a tragedy at the high-rise. http://wr.brhfl.com/2008/02/01/and-the-papers-reported-a-tragedy-at-the-high-rise/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2008/02/01/and-the-papers-reported-a-tragedy-at-the-high-rise/#comments Fri, 01 Feb 2008 05:00:57 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=73 drunk on the thin,
high air,
i touched you
but a minute before we died;
we were delirious,
so content and saying
‘i can’t go
‘without
‘you.’
and as we tossed small
last-minute words around
we heard a serviceman yell
a rapid-fire mangle of
requests for sanity and
he probably dialed nine-one-one,
but anyhow
we leapt.
a minute before we died,
drunk on the
thin, high air,
i kissed you
and we stared down
at the dizzy street,
at the cars, the kiosks
with striped canvas roofs
that we maybe bought
two hot dogs from
on our very first night out.
and i reminded you that
men and women
do… not… fly.
but softly you smiled
and you went first.
immediately i followed
and from then on
we spent our nights
cozy together
in shrouds.
i have made at least three people cry reading this. i know this is a hard poem, and i have tried to brush this fact off by introducing it with a very plathlike understatement of, ‘this one is just a little love poem,’ at readings. but in honesty, this is really difficult, it’s essentially romanticizing suicide. and that’s not an acceptable idea, though we see it in literature throughout history. pyramus and thisbe each kill themselves by the same sword out of love for one another. but i’m missing context here, and that is because i hate context. i like slices, slivers, moments in time. the reader will establish their own context, their own backstory, or else they won’t and they’ll just think i’m some insane asshole. anyway the whole idea fascinates me, a love so strong that the absolute most important thing is to die together, whatever the surrounding situation may be. this one is still a bit hard even for me to read, but it’s certainly my favorite of my older works.
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11.59pm, inner city gas station. http://wr.brhfl.com/2008/01/01/11-59pm-inner-city-gas-station/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2008/01/01/11-59pm-inner-city-gas-station/#comments Tue, 01 Jan 2008 05:00:49 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=71 this is the place where i die,
staring over the back of my
polished red four-door,
eyeing the infinite row
of empty pumps,
barely dipping
in murky shallow nonwhite light.
i see them through a
tunnel-vision,
and i picture a phantom,
six pumps down,
with a handgun beneath his jacket.
but i stand still, staring,
listening to the lub/dub
of carcinogenic blood
pum•ping
through the vapor-lock vein
that tethers
mechanical heart to
mechanical body.
the phantom does not approach,
and he does not move his hand.
i feel my fingers gently pulse
as my heart pushes harder, but
inside… i am calm.
and it is here that i stand waiting,
staring, listening, waiting, until
this pump
clicks
off.
this was a very real&hellips; i mean, i was never murdered at a gas station, but i had a very strange foreboding feeling, almost the experience of a premonition, as i was fueling up once. at the time i wrote this, i did indeed drive a red four-door, a 1989 saab 900 in imola red. anyway it was one of those very emotive moments that pushes a feeling deep inside of a person, and i was able to draw this out of that. i’m still pretty pleased with it. i think i did a good job pacing it, and the title as introduction works for me.
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following a picnic, late march. http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/05/01/following-a-picnic-late-march/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/05/01/following-a-picnic-late-march/#comments Mon, 01 May 2006 05:00:21 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=65 inkblot clouds
act out a play in old english
that we watch together, alone
in the center of this infinite field
surrounded only by
occasional spring sneezes
the thick grasses
bite at my bare feet,
a sharp sensation that makes me long
for your satin-soft touch
tickling my body
your flesh, a sensual sarong
that slowly slips around and off me,
reveals my subtle side, and
suggests that you show yours
to sate some curious fantasy,
some eager yen
but the inevitable cacophony
of a sky now filled with
cawing crows
quickly kicks me back to this reality
of sharp grasses and inkblot clouds
and an invitingly infinite
aloneness
with you.
sexy time! this one still works pretty well for me. it is, of course, a bit sexual, and it is, of course, disgustingly romantic on top of that. i think i took good control over my words here, the overall sound and rhythm of this still pleases me years after. the title is successful as an establishing element, though it is also unfortunately a direct reference to a (now-)former anniversary.
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dyad http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/04/01/dyad/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/04/01/dyad/#comments Sat, 01 Apr 2006 05:00:05 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=67 why is it that you jitter
when i touch you?
and i can feel you
radiate warmth
a feeling like curled up by a fire
but we are not, no
we are just two nude statues
toppled together.
i touch you,
you jitter,
and you crumble apart.
your trembling heart
bleeds to the ground
and spatters like a rorschach
that i stare at, frozen
for endless hours,
trying to make meaning of you
and all of your details,
so complex, like a mandelbrot.
you smile and stare at
me… staring back at you
and for just a moment i stop
decoding, analyzing, understanding
who and what you are.
and in this moment i reach out
to pet your marble-smooth lips
and with your sweet-kitten giggle,
you ever so slightly
jitter.
one of my more sexual pieces from the past, laced with unrealistic romanticism. i simply cannot help but love love, such is my lot in life, i’m afraid. this one relies on some weird imagery, and i guess that’s okay, because it’s surrounded by very accessible and much more poignant imagery. if you get the references, fine, but if you don’t i think it still holds up. i’m not sure how much i like that approach, some of my pieces rely fairly heavily on jargon, simply because i am very strict about the precision of my words. and my attitude has always been, well if it doesn’t make sense, look it up. and if it does, i think there’s a deeper connection between writer and audience. but when it’s watered down like this, i don’t know. anyway i still like this pretty well. though i don’t know much about kittens giggling.
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(if it turns you on) http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/03/01/if-it-turns-you-on/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/03/01/if-it-turns-you-on/#comments Wed, 01 Mar 2006 05:00:12 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=59 if it turns you on
one final time
i will recite this poem
in semaphore
as you drift away
forever,
slip off to become
just the subject of some
vers libre
from an occasional lover,
with words, always quick
to turn you on.
this one is untitled, which is astoundingly rare to me and suggests i never actually got it to a point where i considered it finished, or finished enough to be canonical. it’s got a couple of things going for it – it’s a metapoem, which definitely became a big part of my writing around this time. or, at the very least, a thing that i was very willing to play with. it’s also a love poem, a sickeningly sweet vomit of my emotional immaturity cum hopeless romanticism. it’s short, it’s untitled, and for whatever reason, i still think it’s worth clinging to.
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poetry is love. http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/02/01/poetry-is-love/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/02/01/poetry-is-love/#comments Wed, 01 Feb 2006 05:00:55 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=62 cigarette flicked in his beer
like in some silly sitcom
that couplet has ended
in ten quick words, ten quick
minutes for that couple to end,
he tested her humor with some
one-liner crack like i’m not one
to be coy are you one
to be easy?
her cigarette flicked
in his beer and she
stormed out, her stamping
stampamplified,
like in some silly sitcom
and the laughtrack reel
rolled what a silly ending
to a silly metaphor,
poetry is love.
this piece i still rather enjoy. it’s quick. not just short, it has a fast pace to it, and i’m happy that i was able to control that. it’s just kind of silly and playful, in contrast to a lot of my work. but it’s also rather cynical, i suppose, and that’s very much me. it’s sort of about love, but not in my typical grasping, emotionally immature voice. i guess because it’s about failure. and to me, finding success in love is rather unrealistic, and my more ‘romantic’ pieces are thus quite fantasies. this is also a metapoem, although that’s less the point of it than many of my pieces from the time. but it is unavoidably aware of itself, wrapped up nicely at the end. though it’s more playful than i can imagine myself being right now, i’m still pleased with this older piece.
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titles are simple. http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/01/01/titles-are-simple/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2006/01/01/titles-are-simple/#comments Sun, 01 Jan 2006 05:00:00 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=56 tonight i must be a poet.
i must squeeeze out
images,
suckle the newborn page
from the generous breast
that is my soul.
images are difficult;
they come to me
as naturally as
the gazelle
eating
the lion.
tonight i must be a poet.
i must bleeed out
images,
slit and drain with golden nib
the tender wrists
that are my soul.
images are dangerous;
they come to me
as peacefully as
the man
in the dark
with the knife.
but endings are the hardest.
they come to me
like death.
this is another old piece that hasn’t aged particularly well in my mind, but one that i’m still mostly comfortable hanging on to. the gimmick of the words elongated by the triple ‘e’s shows an embarrassing immaturity and lack of restraint. the images make no sense together. but it was well received by my peers at the time, for whatever reason, and i think it probably marks the start of a few recurring themes for me&hellips; it’s not confessional per se, but it is approaching that more than my previous work had. it’s also one of my first metapoems, a theme that continues to play out at times when writing occupies my mind more than most things, and therefore starts to also occupy my writing more than&hellips; well, more than makes sense. it’s also one of my earlier pieces to really play with the title instead of just slapping something on.
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dirty money, killing true women http://wr.brhfl.com/2005/12/01/dirty-money-killing-true-women/ http://wr.brhfl.com/2005/12/01/dirty-money-killing-true-women/#comments Thu, 01 Dec 2005 05:00:47 +0000 brian hefele http://wr.brhfl.com/?p=47 Mary Kay, Inc. is a mafia.
Mob bosses drive pink Cadillacs and
Sell killerdruggyfacepoisons
To misguided teenaged babes,
To women who wish
To get out of themselves
Once you dip in
To the pastes and
To the powders,
You may… never… stop.
(Ad•dic•tion
To who you are not.)
I•den•ti•ty,
You are killed.
Your dealer’s dealer’s dealer
Knows precisely who to be;
She’s a pretendpretty pinkandperfect,
Enhancing Women’s Lives.
this is a piece from when i was in community college. i was asked to read it at a women’s event of some sort, and then asked not to. over concerns of offending the audience, over legal concerns, whatever. at the last minute i was basically told ‘fuck it,’ and ended up reading it. it went over well enough. as far as my older work is concerned, this is probably my least favorite that i am willing to hold on to as canon. it’s gimmicky, it’s from a time when i had little control over my gimmicks. it’s also very much before what i would describe as my confessional period. but it has sentimental value, i suppose, and i still believe in the message. natural beauty for life!
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