BLOGGERY: DON’T TALK TO COPS!

PART 1:

PART 2:

NO MATTER WHO YOU ARE, THESE CLIPS ARE WELL WORTH AN HOUR OF YR TIME.

PHOTO STORY: Toronto BLOCK THE TORCH! Rally…

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[food not bombs feeds the fire.]

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[pre-march speeches at college and university.]

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[
information and background. click to enlarge.]

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[these camera-guys were there from a couple of the major news stations. when they noticed me taking pictures, they struck some poses, which i said looked nice. "don't worry," i told them, "you'll be on the cover of the star tomorrow." they laughed and said they didn't believe me. then the one on the right piped up and said "yeah, more like the communist star." nice one, buddy.]

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[as the dozen-or-so police realize that this protest isn't going to stay put, or stay on the sidewalk, they scramble to figure out what to do. on their bikes, they attempt to box us in at college and elizabeth.]

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[just when things seem to be dying down, we find a hole in the armor and spill out and down elizabeth, heading towards yonge and gerrard.]

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[protestors spilling everywhere. cops confused as all hell.]

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[a cop carved out of wood. another temporary blockade of police bikes. click to enlarge.]

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[we arrive at yonge and gerrard to see that the protest is having an effect. there are about 50-75 police, on bikes and in cars, blocking yonge and gerrard going south. to the north, yonge street is empty and people line the streets as the  torch makes it's way down.]

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[standoff at yonge and gerrard. click to enlarge.]

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[the improvised police "blockade" at yonge and gerrard. click to enlarge.]

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[we determine the location of the torch and head north to yonge and college. the police are unable to catch up and retain us, so the intersection turns into a complete clusterfuck and blocks the torch's path. at this point, the torch is up around yonge and wellesley, and has to be "split in two" and diverted. apologies for the lack of focus. most of the time, i'm barely even looking through the viewfinder.]

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[it's a weird scene at yonge and college. some people boo us, other people join us, and others just whip out their camera phones and start snapping photos. in a weird way, we've become just another aspect of the olympic spectacle for these people. a strange feeling to say the least. click to enlarge.]

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[
reinforcements arrive in the form of cars and horses. the spectators there to see the torch seem bewildered by the whole thing. click to enlarge.]

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[the mounted police always piss me off most. i think if the horses knew that the work they were being forced to do was so unjust, they would be pissed too. click to enlarge.]

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[some people there to see the torch are indeed quite... charming, as jeanette put it. in this bad photo, a man in a cowboy hat gives me the finger and calls me an asshole. off-camera: i return his sentiment.]

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[we make our way up towards college and wellesley, even closer to the torch, and the mainstream media is swarming at this point. unfortunately, they aren't terribly interested in talking to the protestors. instead, this reporter asks dozens of spectators what they think of the protest ("it's ridiculous! these bums should go home!"), a nice "balanced" view.]

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[somewhere around yonge and maitland, the cops bring in serious reinforcements and start being more serious about pushing people around. the intersection fills with somewhere between 150-200 cops, some of them looking like they just rolled out of bed and still putting on their uniforms. they fall into various formations and split the protest up on either side of yonge street. two minutes after this photo was taken, one of the apparent "leaders" of the squad said quietly to the cop in this photo "that guy over there (referring to one of the aboriginal protestors in a bandana), if something happens, take him out first." i ask loudly "who are you going to take out." the cop who said it says "we're not going to take out anybody" loudly. i ask her to repeat what she said to the other officer. she refuses.]

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[at this point, it's impossible to move forward. but some of the protestors that have been split off make their way down to nathan phillips square and drop a banner to disrupt everyone's "good time."]

this blog post is pieced together from my recollection and documentation of the fast-moving events from last night. for a more articulate and complete retelling, check out the official torch block blog.

also, for an eyewitness report from someone who wasn’t actually a protestor, but who provides some good insight, check out nealj’s livejournal entry.

PLEASE NOTE: reposting of photos is welcome, but MUST be credited – “photos by karol orzechowski / decipherimages.com”

PHOTOGRAPHY: Place Hands, Tomcat Combat & A History Of…, Project 165, Toronto – 06/18/09

Place Hands:

Tomcat Combat:


A History Of…

On June 18th, 2009, for the first time ever, an all ages show was held at the Project 165 space that I am a volunteer at. The show featured bands from Toronto and Halifax, and was so fucking loud I almost couldn’t stand it. It was part of a larger installation of the Remember Who’s Emma project, a film that I made the DVD menu for. The director of the film, Lyndall Musselman, put together an amazing piece of work, and did a fantastic job of sifting through history to present a coherent story.

The all-ages show was a joint production of Cognate and Project 165. Recognize.

SHORT FILM: Remember Who’s Emma DVD Menu


View on Vimeo.

This is a menu clip I made for an upcoming DVD called “Remember Who’s Emma,” a documentary about an anarchist infoshop that used to exist in Toronto’s Kensington Market area. I’ll post information about the DVD release as soon as I know what’s what.

[it's silent because music will be added to it by the director.]

WORDS (AND PHOTOGRAPHY): under the bridge downtown…

Saturday this past weekend: I discover the spot all over again. It’s not that hard to find. In fact, it used to be much more difficult. You used to have to stroll on past a big office building, and squeeze yrself through a sketchy fence hole, then rappel down a stone wall just so you could walk through a bunch of thick brush. But now, there’s construction. Two huge sets of tracks carve a path right down, and the only thing to negotiate now is a bunch of loose soil that gets into yr shoes.

We go there once in a while, for no reason in particular. It always feels like a celebration but there’s rarely an “occasion” to speak of. Wait, no. The occasion is life, I suppose, if that doesn’t sound too Hallmark. G brings a bunch of scrap wood, someone always brings musical instruments, and we construct makeshift seating arrangements out of whatever we can find. Tonight, we make a bench out of a long 4×10″ balanced on a car tire. Put an equal weight of people on one side as much as the other, and you’ve got yrself a bench with some bounce, and good support to boot. Some others sit on the bare ground, or use some local plant life for cushioning. A song starts up and the instruments trickle in. Voices bounce off the concrete supporting beams with a sweet reverb that would rival any expensive club. And we’re all the main attraction.

Also, tonight, someone brings a little over a dozen vegan biscuits, infused with dill. So fucking tasty, I have to eat three, which isn’t very generous of me, I know, but it’s been a long night with a lot of biking. Though twenty minutes ago there were only four of us, now were approaching ten, maybe more, and the circle is spreading. Greetings are made without the usual awkwardness reserved for social functions. Hugs are the order of the day. We’re all friends here.

The fire gets bigger to accommodate the swelling group. Someone makes a speech about the recent election and a fresh flag is thrown on the flames. The story goes that the flag was stolen from a police station just outside of Ottawa, one where I myself was harassed by cops for hitchhiking. I laugh at the symbolism, and the gutter poignancy. We are good people, trying to do right by our words and our actions. The polyester bubbles and melts, and we laugh at ourselves for not predicting it: In a way, the flag is “burn-proof.”

I leave close to 3am, with a smile on my face. I know you might say that it’s easy to romanticize, but there are so few romantic moments like this left in the city, it seems. If I can’t romanticize this, what’s left? As I walk away, back up the bulldozer ramp and back into the world of taxes, political simulacra and joyless jobs, I wonder if that’s really the real world. Maybe the real world is under that bridge, singing and hugging and sharing whatever we have, while the imagined world is the crust over it all, the world of paperwork and e-mail and racing through the game of life.

Or maybe I’m just romanticizing. But when I get home on my bike, my hoodie still smells like campfire. And that’s real.