Proxy Post 78/96 Chapter 13 part one

Before I could proceed through the street of groves, a woman walked up to me with something to say, trailed by five or so men of varying height and age (but all carrying the same expression: "listen to her").

"Hey young man, a word."

I said nothing but stopped in place and looked at her.

"Now I don't know what you're up and doing, but you just got out of a siren. You look like trouble." My face must have reacted, prompting her on: "Oh, you think this place is trouble, do you? I'm here to tell you, you are trouble greater than that. You know that?"

I raised my hand to speak. She was about to interrupt me but stopped herself, looking at me with worry. I said "I promise you, I only want to go through. I will not trouble you."

Her eyes passed, through suspicion, into an understanding beyond even my own. "Alright."

I said, "Is that okay?"

She nodded, mouth pressed shut. "But you've got to know."

I asked, "What?"

She said, "Grove Street is some blocks away from here."

"Oh. Then where am I?"

"This is the corner of 13th and Rhodes."

"Do I need to go through Grove Street to reach the Pentagon?"

"No. Just go through-- the Pentagon, you say?"

"That's right."

A pause. "..yeah, you're going to want to tread between the Crown and the Canoe for that."

"Thank you." I bowed my head lightly for her, which she acknowledged as polite, and then I walked on.

When I was farther down the street, one of the men behind her shouted out to me, "Aye aye! You'll run into Mister Everyblogger, say hey!"

I had no idea what that meant then, unlike now while writing this post, but I still raised a fist without turning around, to express my acknowledgement.

Proxy Post 77/96 Chapter 12 part seven

I Dove as They Drove on Grove Street

They shot the van. I took this as the signal to bust out of my mobile prison and breathe freedom anew. The seam created by their bullet holes, spilling fresh nighttime light into the interior of the van, is where I applied the full force of my foot to effect an exit.

The door opened. I dove out. The van was speeding, so when I hit the ground, I rolled to apply torque to my body and thus dilute the dizziness. The force of the ground (pull me under, othello) versus the forced self-sufficiency I was bringing manifest through my body (the spirit must carry on) erupted in a turf war of asphalt, concrete, tarmac, and granite. An alphabet of conflict within me, without me, jumbling before your very eyes.

Bang. Bang bang, bangarang. Here bangs the ways of crime, west to east coasts and north to south neighborhoods. Guns flying, fired from their bullets as the impoverished shoot themselves to stand their ground. The laws of the land, cause before sand, protest an inborn truth as they blackmail our urborne youth, black male, into the ways of vagabonds and aqualungs. I'm not erasist but. Inebriated, it's that or incarcerated, thy names are all the system promises for their future.

I think the cops in the van saw this in me, this urge to put truth to power, and so after I dove out of the van, they kept driving, afraid to face no blogger at all. Also, the gunfire.