'Heaven' Sign on "Nickelsville" abode in homeless tent city

'Heaven' Sign on Nickelsville abode, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

Nicklesville is a homeless tent city named after Seattle's heartless mayor, Greg Nickles in the spirit of the Hoovervilles that sprang up around the country in the Great Depression. I visited the camp last week after they had set up the 150 pink tents donated by the Girl Scouts on a huge empty and abandoned lot. The lot was owned by the City of Seattle. It was secluded, clean and quiet. The residents are impressively organized inside the camp, especially considering the instability of constant flux. They have a "kitchen", port-a-poties, a "city hall" (heh!),, an official "Nickelsville" mailbox, a Nickelsville sign (complete with American flag), and "office", security, rules and plenty of good humor.

Supporters, press and visitors were treated kindly and with respect. Security informed visitors of the rules and asked that photos not be taken of residents without permission. Residents were open, warm, strong and friendly. Sadie was with me on the visit and was so spoiled by all the love she got she didn't want to go home. I made some great friends during those visits, and plan to go back if more help is needed when they have to move--or take another stand.

(I still haven't found work--lots of apps, no offers-- and unemployment will run out in a few short weeks. It's good to have this time to help others, and one never knows when you might be the next resident of Nickelsville.)

Within a couple of days, city workers were ordered to walk through the camp and hammer green removal notices throughout, with a 72-hour deadline. Nickelsville stayed put. On Thursday, more city workers were ordered to swarm the camp with even bigger No Tresspassing signs, which they hammered throughout the camp. Supporters brought wood, hammers, nails, tarps and other supplies to begin build wooden structrures. As the deadline neared, obervers, supporters and press vans arrived. Friday's deadline passed. On Saturday morning, I received an action alert that the police had moved in and were sweeping the camp. Some residents were willing to be arrested' observers and supporters were needed immediately. By the time I arrived, police were just making the final arrests. Tents had been removed, some were lost, stakes broken, and some building materials were lost or destroyed. Estimated loss was over $2,000. Soon after I arrived, they got a call that arrestees were being released and they needed cars to pick them up from the jail. I joined the caravan of five or six cars and headed to the police station.

Meanwhile, Governor Gregoir sent a senior advisor to stop the eviction. As it happens, the parking lot next to the land the camp was on, also vacant and unused, is state, not city, property. So the governer sent word that the people could set up Nickelsville in the lot. for five days until other land could be located or other arrangements made. They remain in the lot as of this writing. The five-day deadline is tomorrow night. (There is a link for property owners who would like to allow Nickelsville to set up on their land on the website below.)

Ironically, mayor Nickels cited sanitary concerns as the reason they could not stay on the empty city property. (The property is in a largely industrial area, and the community signed letters of support to let them stay.) Apparently, he feels that sleeping in city doorways and alleys is safer and more sanitary.

More of my Nickelsville photos are here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/marywit/sets/72157607500277529/

For more on Nickelsville, check out nickelsvilleseattle.org . Their site has links to media coverage, the history of the camp, further information and how you can help.

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues--The Stage Production

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues Bookcrossing release at Book-It stage production of the book, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

I entered the theater with a cynical attitude, fully expecting to be disappointed--how could they dare to presume to capture the essence of a Tom Robbins book? Sacrilege! But from the first moment, the first chord of Jo Miller's guitar, the first words of her narration as "Dr. Robbins," I was smitten. Everything was perfect--they got it--the paradoxes, The Point. From the cast, to the costumes, the score and the dialogue, this production was as if they had entered the reader's (my) mind and made the impressions manifest.

I was suprised at the shocked murmerings of some audience members (primarily the coiffed, blue-haired old biddies and their creaking, rigid husbands) who had clearly never read the book and were unfamiliar with TR's work. They had lived for so long inside their dark, tight boxes that the vivid ideas presented before their very eyes was nearly more than they could bear. They tsk-tsked and puckered disapprovingly at not only the appropriate, sweet and delightfully brazen nudity, but at the ideas, paradoxes and challenges presented in stark glory--forcing them to come face to face their own prejudices, presumptions and prudery.

My unemployment benefits are quickly running out, they'll end in a few short weeks. My savings are gone. I've applied and interviewed for many jobs, but none have come through (it's hard to stand out when 2-300 people are applying for the same jobs!). Still, I'll say this, if you're going down in flames, there is no better way to go down than with the vision of wild, wild Cowgirls and the Chink before your eyes. In TR's own words, "So you think that you’re a failure, do you? Well, you probably are. What’s wrong with that? In the first place, if you’ve any sense at all you must have learned by now that we pay just as dearly for our triumphs as we do for our defeats. Go ahead and fail. But fail with wit, fail with grace, fail with style. A mediocre failure is as insufferable as mediocre success. Embrace failure! Seek it out. Learn to love it. That may be the only way any of us will ever be free." Amen. And it was in that spirit that I bid on two Cowgirls outfits in a silent auction to benefit Book-It theater--complete with bent-up cowgirl hats and dusty, hard-worn cowgirl boots.



I released a copy of the book in the theater lobby and had the great pleasure of seeing the finder find it, open the "free book" bookcrossing bag and tentatively tuck it into her own hand bag. After the play, I saw her stop, take it out of her bag, open it, read the BC label again (did she wonder if it was really ok to take it?), smile, and leave with the book. This morning, she had left a BC journal entry. I had hoped that someone who hadn't read the book before would find it and discover the delights of Tom Robbins's writing. She was that person! And even better--she, too, had visited the Blue Moon in the 70s ("a girl wearing peter-pan collers") TR was writing the book, and remembered his friends (including Darrell Bob Houston? Ray Collins?). She was excited to have found the book--said it reminded her of something TR would do--and can't wait to finally read it. It was perfect.

Tom Robbins and The Corpus Clock

Ticking off the minutes before Stephen Hawking unveils the Corpus Clock today in Cambridge, one is struck by the pundits' failure to connect this marvel with Tom Robbins's clockworks in his 1976 novel, “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues." Oh, sure, Stephen Hawking is a brilliant scientific mind, but of equal brilliance is beloved and esteemed author Tom Robbins. His literary and philosophical brilliance is of another kind entirely. Both masters shine dazzling light onto the masses. If this were a just world, the two would share the unveiling equally--TR on the left, SH on the right.

“

Take now the clockworks… The clockworks, being genuine and not much to look at, don’t generate the drama of an Earth-tilt or a flying saucer, nor do they seem to offer any immediate panacea for humanity’s fifty-seven varieties of heartburn. But suppose that you’re one of those persons who feels trapped, to some degree, trapped matrimonially, occupationally, educationally or geographically, or trapped in something larger than all those; trapped in a system, or what you might describe as an “increasingly deadening technocracy” or a “theater of paranoia and desperation” or something like that. Now, if you are one of those persons… wouldn’t the very knowledge that there are clockworks ticking away behind the wallpaper of civilization, unbeknownst to leaders, organizers and managers (the President included), wouldn’t that knowledge, suggesting as it does the possibility of unimaginable alternatives, wouldn’t that knowledge be a bubble bath for your heart?”

~Tom Robbins, “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues”

The back of the bus in progress on Wednesday, with Henry's dog and logo, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

I came upon this beautiful, rusty old 1968 Ford school bus in the Golden Gardens parking lot, two dogs peering out the window, two guys with buckets of paint painting it, and a lady sitting in a lawn chair. I was dazzled! I stopped to talk to them. They said the smoke stack goes to the wood stove inside. The bearded man turned out to be muralist Ryan Henry Ward, or just “Henry”, who’s faithful black, paint-spattered dog was never far away.

The couple (and their two dogs, Jellybean and Sis) bought the bus on CraigsList for $800 and were fixing it up, before moving in and taking it on the road. I went back the next day, delighted to see them still there; the painting was progressing nicely. The second day, Tuesday, Henry was painting alone On Wednesday, I left the young home/bus owners sitting on an old blue bus bench seat on the grass laughing with delight, “that’s our HOME, man! That’s our new home! This is where we live!”

I’ll follow the progression each day until the bus is gone. To see more photos of the school bus metamorphosis, see my flickr.com set “1968 School Bus” http://flickr.com/photos/marywit/sets/72157607333979228/

For more on Henry's murals, see this NW Source article here: www.nwsource.com/entertainment/visual-arts/visual-art/loc...

Scott Free, the best damn busker around

Scott Free, the best damn busker around, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

I asked him his name at the Buskers' Festival at the Pike Place Market. He shook my hand and said, "the name's Scott Free."

Scott Free's Guitar Case

Scott Free's Guitar Case, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

Both Scott and his guitar case have many miles on them. He plays the blues like he feels them, and by the looks of him, and his guitar case, too, he does.

This photo was taken at the 2008 Buskers' Festival at the Pike Place Market.