Early September

Time presses forward; it is fall, now. I'm just returning from a three week odyssey and settling back into my apartment which is always a process. It was hard getting my act together for the road trip to Oregon, it felt as though I was stepping into the unknown even though every place I went and everybody I saw was all too familiar to me. The traffic leaving town was a typical fast pace on a crowded highway. The first three hours of my trip, I felt on edge. The stretch of highway between Olympia, Wa and Portland, Or seems endless with cars bumper to bumper and dodging semis; it's like playing a video game. My eyes are weary from staring at the grey asphalt speed by underneath me. I take the 205 exit to avoid downtown Portland. I love the view of the city from the bridges carrying the cars across the river, however dealing with disappearing and remerging lanes seem too advance for my state of mind. When I rejoin the I5 on the Oregon side, it's as though I passed through the looking glass. On the other side, everything moves a bit slower making time go by faster. I soon come upon my exit 1234, how convenient. I'm in Albany, Or and making my way to Bear and Holly's place. I'd been there once before and remember having trouble deciphering the directions I was given. But somehow or another, I saw the mistake I made before: exit after the bridge (the first bridge, not the second bridge which seems like the only bridge). I merged correctly this time. With that small turn of the wheel, I was off the main drag of super convenience and on historic main street where it feel like the 70's again ( if not earlier). From there, I glided into the driveway as if it was only the day before I pulled out. Stepping out of the car and into the side door, I was greeted by a dog and a familiar face. It took me a few beers to set in and get the forward momentum of driving to wear itself off. The dog was more than willing to retrieve tennis balls. It was great to be standing in the back yard beer in one hand and a droolly ball in the other as the sun went down and others arrived; I need to come here more often, I thought.

I do spend much of my time alone and have mixed feelings about it. The thing I like the most about it is I tend to be less judgmental of myself. When I'm around others, I can become too consumed with how they perceive me. This hit home while I was attending a football game in my home town. I hooked up with a friend of mine who I have known since we were 5 yrs. old. We made plans to attend " the civil war" Pirates vs Bulldogs in pregame show down. Hanging out with her definitely felt like it always had, we just were. Her mother joined us at half time; great to see Marty. She sat between as and blend in with our easiness. I was offered a starburst candy some where down the line. And in my acceptance, I started to fumble with the wrapper. My fingers were cold, and my dexterity very gross. Unaware of being watched, I was taking my time to unveil the small cube. Marty on the other hand was impatient with my progress and took the half finished project from me and handed me back the candy. I was rather taken at first by her actions but was able to accept what had just happen and go back to the game. I can remember a time where if someone grabbed something from me because they didn't like the way I was dealing with the situation, I would have crumbled and been embarrassed.

Judgemental thoughts are the bane of my existence. I'm not too sure what that means but I like the way it sounds... thoughts are strange animals that feed on this rather nubilous energy. I could tell from hanging around my home town there was plenty of opportunities to fall into a depressing state of mind. I spent a week there which hung in space as an eternity. Living at home was never a pleasant experience and returning proves to be no different. I found plenty to be disheartened about. To overcome the urge to sink into silent isolation of self pity, I walked on the beach. My mother joined me there on morning. As we walked, she recalled that it had been forty-one years since we first arrived on that same beach; it all still looked the same. Am I?

It's All About Me

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the narcissistic of them all? Sincere empathy is hard to find. I feel as though people tend to patronize more than empathize, that somehow others misfortunes are how we measure our success. I just finished a book by, Andrew Young, The Politician. The story gave insight into the world of compaigning for the presidency. How issues such as, poverty, education, healthcare reform are hot topics, however, little is actually done to create real change. Especially, change in the lifestyles of the candidates themselves. More money is funneled into cover-ups and personal accommodations than attention to practical solutions to empower the masses.

This dysfunction is beyond baffling to me. As I think back through history, the rise and fall of empires, the genocides, the conflict between man and nature, there's the common denominator of destruction which in its wake leaves me with a profound sense of despair. I feel as though depression isn't so much a disease of itself but rather a defense mechanism for coping with anxiety. It makes sense to me, that a person would simply shut down in response to a stressful environment. I knew someone in Eugene who had epilepsy, his seizures were unpredictable and, sometimes, life threatening. He was noticing a strong correlation between seizure activity and cell phone use, he was hyper sensitive to the radio waves echoing through the atmosphere much like whales are affected by sonar. One time he was on the verge of tears as he talked about the situation and how he was losing the battle of habitation as technology took over the air space making changes with frequencies, impacting those with compromised nervous systems. Would his life style go from living in a small community, employed as a granola maker ( a good, stable local job), and riding his bike to an existence even further removed for society and human interactions? Give himself a chemical lobotomy with prescription drugs?

I can't say, I was to empathic to his plight. At the time I was faced with my own struggles with making ends meet, and he seemed to being doing better than I, and I retreated into apathy.

Falling into the cracks is a devastating experience; it's also the realm of infinite possibilities. This duality is often a double edged sword, taking the good with bad is a masterful skill. It wasn't until after Malcolm X was incarcerated did he start to empower himself by the process of education. Then, later became a radical voice of the civil right moment, an act of empowerment despite adversity. Stories where individuals raise up from the ashes like phoenixes and profoundly make a mark on society giving us the faith in "The American Dream" and also, gives capitalism a good slap on the back do exist - Oprah, Obama, Gates, YouTube sensations, common folks overcoming the odds and doing the extra ordinary ( I'm a fan). However, there are many of us who do not, or content ourselves with some sort of Ikea lifestyle full of quick fixes and the appearance of the status quo. I get the feeling that somehow because we are Americans, symbol of the free world, We The People, are immune to the kind of self reflection we expect from other countries.

I wish I was better read. For me, a primary source of information comes from documentaries. I was watching one about Vietnam Veterans, it was complied of individuals with varied experiences from the war. The documentary was filmed decades after their return back to America. All the people who participated seemed as though they had successfully integrated back into Americana. However, they all carried deep scarring and baggage varying from dealing with alcoholism, divorce, intimacy issues, birth defects passed on to their children as result of being exposed to agent orange, etc. Everyone was unique. This one man was a pilot who job was to drop bombs on villages. He was able to disengage from the death resulting from his actions sense he didn't have to witness the aftermath, he just flew over his targets and returned back to the airstrip. And if others didn't return, it was a clean void quickly filled by another plane. It wasn't until much later until it hit him. He had blood on his hands as a result of his actions that killed thousands. He stood at the podium and recalled his story. His conclusion: it all came down to ideology, I forget his exact wording. It was something like, not everybody shares the same ideology. And to impose an ideology on a society that may not share your values is a dictatorial act.

When it comes to maintaining my own sense of identity, I do become over bearing with my philosophies, my sense of esthetics, my desired outcomes to the point of, I'm the only person in my universe just as Narcisus sat fixated at his own reflection. To get myself to leave my inverted cocoon lined with apathy where I can sit comfortable confused is an act of self empowerment, I'm the only one who can make it happen. The perceived cacophony echoing from an unknown is calling. It's all the same, only different.

Seeds of Frustration

At my last Vipassana sit, I had this dream: I was standing in this large pit of what seem to be some kind of an excavation project, the dirt was freshly dug and loose. Scattered around were these deep hole with piping lining the perimeter and out of the center grew these very large almost Jack and The Bean Stalk size parsley plants. They were very thick and sturdy. There's a ton of symbolism in that story. One of the philosophies taught in the practice of Vipassana ( I'm not a teacher, this is my interpertation) is we carry with us, the seeds of past experiences, and out of these seeds grows our reality i.e. if we are experiencing hardship and confusion, we are nourishing those qualities that result in hardship and confusion, you reap what you sow. The practice is to train ourselves not to react to situation but observe in a very conscience manner, be objective but compassionate, if it was only that easy. Back to the dream, growing up my mother always had parsley growing in the yard. I hated parsley. The mere mention of parsley would send me into a tirade ( there's a foot note here, however, I'm not going there). So symbolically, the excavated dirt, to me, represented the part of my conscious mind which is receptive to change and the parsley was more out of my subconscious which is holding onto deeper issues and manifesting themselves in the midst of clearing. At least they were contained.

I started working with a shaman in 2002. Since then, I have had much work done in the shamanic realm. This work is mostly done in a form referred to as journey work. The work starts off as somewhat of a counseling session. In this session, there is discussion about the issue at hand i.e. control issues with my mother. Through this process, an intension is set. In my experience, the shaman will determine the wording of the intension to assist it, as it translates into the shamanic realm ( I'm not a shaman, so I can only speculate, from my experience, what exactly "the shamanic realm" is, to me, it's a dream world using imagery more than verbal context). After the shaman returns, they will describe the journey to you and present you with gifts often acquired during the process. On this one occasion, the journey I was having done was a soul retrieval surrounding issues I was having with my mother. One of the aspects of this journey was it features a black cat. This was intriguing because the issues I was having in the Wilmont Apartments also involved, a black cat.

The cat was one of two that were abandoned by a tenant. She left them in her apartment, as well as, the apartment door off its hinges so the cats were actually roaming the building. Her attitude was one of, Amber will deal with the situation, which was the crux of most situations at the Wilmont. My job as " apartment manger" was to be, an enabler. The more I was asked to assume this roll, the more frustrated I became often with dramatic results. I often wish I could have been more creative and deviate with how I dealt with the issues that arose. However, given my personal situation, maintaining more than the bare minimum was often too overwhelming for me. The more I tried to simplify what was happening around me, the more the extent of the exploitation reveal itself; everything and everybody seemed coated in denial. My attempts to expose this, lead to accusations of being paranoid and delusional (it was driving me crazy). Mainly, I was just dumbstruck by the corruption around, and its acceptance as being, " the norm". The only explanation I can concoct to explain Dave's responses for many occasions was, his identity was so consumed in being a "nice guy" (or rather, he had the role of Catholic martyr down) that instability was his balance. Our relationship come down to: good cop, bad cop, and I was getting weary of policing. What does this have to do with a black cat? The cat began to symbolize the neglect that was so often practiced in the building. The neglect to pay rent, the neglect to clean after yourself, the neglect to be quiet after hours, neglect to be accountable, etc. I felt my presences only served as an escape goat. Likewise, the black cat in the journey could have represented the same neglect and ignorance commonly practiced in my parents house.

The reason why I participate in journey work is my belief that it promotes resolutions to problems by making shifts in this othery realm. I'm unsure how long I stayed at the Wilmont ( I was no longer the manager but did kept on there after the dismantling of the black cat in shamanic space). However, transition did occur. I moved out in spring of 2009. The process was as stressful as it was living there, my clinging to what was known seemed like a white knuckled grip. I had tremendous fear and anxiety over change. It took awhile for me to settle into my new location and my seeds of frustration did sprout up. Even though the other tenants and I seems to maintain a peaceful coexistence, my land lord is still a source of contention. The one thing I like about where I am is, I have my own door leading to the outside and am able to do a little gardening in the front. This spring, the garden looks alive with flowers. And there is even a little parsley thrown in.

What's Fair?

FOR THE FOLKS down in the Willamette Valley, the real July celebration comes the second weekend in July, The Oregon Country Fair, a gathering that's been occurring for the past 41 years in the woods outside of Eugene, Or. It started in 1969 as a renaissance fair and gradually has morphed into this party of multidimensional layers. Ask anyone and they will tell you a different story about it. My date back to when I was 10 and my mother took my brother and I there for the day. Needless to say, it made an impression on me. I think it was the topless woman walking by with a giant dragon tattoo across her chest. She had along skirt, long hair, bare feet and this gorgeous dragon tattoo that wrapped around her torso. I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. In the mid eighties, I started going with a group of friends. It was way casual. I could drive right up and park, buy a ticket from this cute little wooden ticket booth, and waltz right in, wander the paths until someone or something caught you attention. And the next thing you know, you are high, without your clothes on, sitting in a sauna pouring buckets of freezing cold water over your head. At twenty years old, it was fun, it was new, it was liberating. It was the OCF, baby! In the late eighties, I left Oregon for a while convinced there where greener pastures, and I was going to find them. I found a few and some good friends along the way but ended up back where I started, at the OCF. The site still held the character and charm. There's something timeless about walking the paths passed the well decorated booths. The crafts seem to have some magical touch to make them sparkle. There is always some functional artwork to take with you whether it's a coffee mug, a homemade toy, a feathery mask, or shimmery pants. Or watching the acts ranging from strolling musicians, jugglers, bubbles, stilts walkers to the various stages, I had morning coffee at Liberty and in the afternoon ate ice cream from Kesey's creamery. I loved hearing direction, such as, take Strawberry Lane to the Junction, cut through Community Village, right on 13th Ave till you get to Pooh's Corner. Then, left past the Ritz, down Snivel to the Dragon.

In the nineties, the masses were coming to the fair in groves and was leading into a new order that carried guide lines and restriction. Just the thought of this alone didn't sit well with traditional '60 style of antiestablishment. I remember sitting at the midnight night show on Saturday Night when the MC came on stage. He started to tell this story, something that just occurred out in the parking lot. Someone was having a bad trip, and the police had to be called in to help deal with the situation. As the policeman was trying to get the man calmed down and focused, the man just starting going back into this rant... " No, man, no... you don't get it! The hippy dream is dead!". The policeman frustrated by having to deal with idealism gone bad replied, " The hippy dream is not dead". There you have it straight from the voice of authority. However, change is inevitable. I wore dozens of hats during my ten year stretch as a fairy. I got to know the ins and outs of the production and somewhere along the way, the magic was beginning to fade into realism. I was getting caught up in the doings and being was becoming more and more elusive; the fair was becoming my tar pit. The more energy I put into everything, the more judgment I had about what I was getting back. I was thrashing, struggling and digging myself deeper into the despair of my own delusionment. The fair just wasn't living up to my ideals. It was heart breaking for me to face the fact: utopia was a drug, and I was an addict. Even when I decided I wasn't going to the fair one year, someone got me a camping pass. Then I had access to this wonderful campsite located behind the sauna. It seemed as though there was an undertoe at work. I can't remember too much about that year other than I felt like I was on the outside looking in. I'm sure I had fun. However, the conclusion was, I had to come to a conclusion. The fair simply wasn't working for me and there wasn't a greener field in sight ( or a yellow brick road). The Monday after the fair, I got in my car and drove back to my apartment at the Wilmont unsure about my future, a current seemed to be pulling me away from my support system.

The tide made a bunch of shifts in the following years. I found myself back in Eugene numerous times throughout the year including during fair time. I was back at the fair grounds as a prefair worker and a Sunday fair goer. During the fair itself, I stayed on a large piece of property with my own hot tub and sauna, didn't have to wait in line to use the bathroom, and had my own supply of cold beer while listening to the fair being broadcast over the radio. It seemed fair. In 2009, I took my first real break from the scene. I had started my mediation practice which proved to be what I was missing at the fair, grounding. During the fair, I went to the center, sat, and did some project. I was outside and in community the two elements of the fair that I enjoyed the most. I still was feeling a little sad about not actually being on site. During the following year, I was in contact with those people who I considered fair family and always they asked, if I was doing the '10 fair? It seemed like an option. However, I found myself staying home. I am tuning into the broadcast on line and am enjoying the music of main stage as well as, interviews with people at the fair this year, such as Patch Adams. He talks about his vision of health care in American. Stating, a movement toward socialism in our health care system is not the downfall of our government, but a duty of capitalism. Also, I listened to stories about the fairs origins and the move towards sustainability. The hippy dream is still alive and is being broadcast on the internet. YA, BABY!

A Patriotic Act

I'm not one for celebrating the Forth of July. I usually let the day slip without much attention. Perhaps because I'm not big on loud noises, crowds, or traffic. Or because, I haven't been behind our government and its policies, ever. All my life the government has been about corruption starting with Watergate through Reaganomics, the rise of corporate rule into globalization which has aided the diminishment of the middle class, farther widening of the gap between the haves and the have nots. Education, healthcare, environmental responsibility, wild life sanctuaries, clean energy acts, everything to do with creating harmonious living seems to be an act of terrorism against the capitalist monopoly of the ruling class; don't tell me the American Revolution wasn't an act of anarchy. Likewise, the motivation behind the Civil War, I'm sure, was underlined with the intention of industrializing the southern states ( buy stock in the cotton gin), and our involvement in WW II fueled by interested in the German Empire capabilities in the art of domination. Of course, I'm not attempting to down play the humanitarian acts of liberation associated with both these wars, however, I feel, it's necessary to look beyond the obvious.

When I turned 18 and registered to vote, I chose the Democratic Party even though everyone in my family was very republican. Mom clenched her teeth when I told her (she has a very tight jaw and a twitchy eye). At that point, I really had no idea exactly why I choose that party other than I was instinctually going against my conserved upbringing. It was the start of a political pattern, my vote is usually cast against someone ( or an issue) rather than for them. It was after I moved to Eugene, Or. in the early nineties I started developing some political awareness. At the time, I thought Eugene had it together as far as being grounded and progressive. However, the longer I resided there, the more frustrated I became at the town's politics. Overall, I like Eugene's mayor and Oregon's congressman, Peter Defazio who are very good representatives of the state's tilt to the left. However, Eugene is more to the far left. A place known for its radical ways and controversial people: Ken Kesey and his band of Merry Pranksters hosting the likes of, The Grateful Dead, Timothy Leary, The Hell's Angels, Hunter Thompson, and countless others. Also home to The Cascadia Gorillas of Anarchy (they were blamed for a lot of the property damage during the WTO protest in '99). However Eugene is in Oregon, Oregon is not in Eugene. The majority of the state ( though not necessarily, the population) is very conservative with strong generational roots in the timber industry. Being a logger, a log truck driver, or a mill worker were the top blue collar jobs. The employer, the red necks in the white collar world of Weyerhaeuser ( now, that's patriotic). In presidential elections, Oregon will waver due to these two polar opposites. One election the state will go red, the next, blue.

I've always assumed Washington State was liberal like Oregon is liberal sense both states make up the Pacific Northwest. It wasn't until I become a resident did I start appreciating the state's politics on a level that reflected a truer democratic process. I attribute this to it having a large metropolitan area, the majority of the population seems to be well educated, and its diversity which adds a level of tolerance. I registered as a Washington voter to participate in the presidential election between Obama and McCain. This was an election where, I was voting for a candidate who I really wanted to take office. When Barak Obama was declared the winner, I felt a strong shift in the tide. Perhaps, We the People, really did exist.

This last Forth of July, I did adventure out in search of a firework display. I'm in walking distance of the Tacoma water front so I set out on foot. The neighbor was lined with people hanging out in their yards with bbqs, lawn chairs, and coolers. Kids played and dogs wagged their tails. Small american flags decorated flower pots, fences, and everything else. A quintessential scene; it felt as though everyone had a piece of the pie. As the sun sank and the night sky filled the air, a cool wind arose sweeping over the sound. I started to move back towards home with the booms of firework cascading through the night. I would stop periodically to take in the rockets red glare, and shimmers of color before they faded into darkness. At one point I was standing half way up the hill. The street was blocked off to traffic and taken over by spectators. I could make out the faint shape of the boat launching the rockets on the distanced water. A street lamp illuminated an american flag waving gently in the breeze as fireworks broke behind. The spirit of America was prevailing.

The Mirror has Two Faces

I had an epiphany a while back concerning the relationship I had with my mother and sister. It seemed to me as though their realities were built on the illusion that: I was not well. This realization come to me last fall when we were all together. Mom came up to stay with me while I had surgery. Somewhere in the wake of doing, there was a revealing moment. Almost this unconscious conspiracy in which I felt all my decisions about myself and my care were being challenged. It seemed to me, the only way both of them had any sense being well was to keep me in a state of frustrated and confused. I felt deeply hurt by actions taken, especially by my sister. I could see this as our relationship pattern and probably was the first impulse telling me to retreat, an act of self preservation. I felt, I was being continually being crushed by pounding waves. It seemed every time I was regaining some sort of balance, something came along to knock me down, disorient me, and take my breathe away. I got to the point, I didn't want to get up and try any more. Metaphorically, I would lay in the surf and hope the tide would carry me off; I'd rather have drowned in a sea of misery than get bashed by it. For years, others have recommended developing a mediation practice and even though I really want to give it a try, I always had an excuse not too. I suppose all my excuses ran out when I signed up to participate in a ten day vipassana course. After I did, I had a massive panic attack and almost bailed. Wanting things to be different and actually doing something different aren't necessarily the same thing, in fact, they're not even related.

During a vipassana course between group mediations which are silent, you listen to lectures ( or instructions as they are referred too) on tape. In the evening there is a video and it's more relaxed atmosphere. These instructions are to assist in the understanding of the practice. No matter how many course you take, the instructions are always the same. Although basic, there is always something to pick up on or to take more in depth. The practice of objectivity is highly emphasized. What does that mean exactly? Someone made a comment about me stating: I was the least objective person they knew ( or something like that). I have to say, it took me awhile to grasp what they meant, but yes I have to agree: when it comes to being objective, my inner drama queen starts yelling, off with their heads; there is no other perceptive than my own. Now, there's something my mom, my sister and me all have in common: when it comes to justifying our actions, we take it to heart. I have this image instilled in my mind from a story mom used to read to me about Br'e Rabbit... One day Br'e Rabbit got hisself stuck in a tar pit. The more he tried to fight his way out, the more stucker his got. I remember the illustration: This skinny rabbit in overalls lifting his huge back feet up only to have them dripping in tar, kinda like gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. When I hear lectures about being attached to outcome, ideas, situations, etc, this image pops into my head. The rabbit can symbolize ignorance, the pit can be the situation, and the tar the attachment. When I put it into a context such as that, objectivity seems accessible. However, the practice of it is like getting out of a warm bed on an early winter's morning. No matter how many times you have done it, it's never going be easy.

I Scream, You Scream

We all scream, for something ( or at someone). Mine was getting to be a little ( well, a lot ) out of control. It was controlling me. I remember the first break down I had living at The Wilmont. I had been there a few months and things had been relatively uneventful. One afternoon someone was moving into the unit across the hall from mine. I could tell by the banging up and down the stair well, and the way their voices carried through the hall they weren't only going to be loud, they were going to be invasive. Then, another person moved in with her young son right next to mine unit. She was a very young mother with no parenting skills, a taste of big screen TV's, fried food, and big, black men. In both cases, I think alcohol played a big role in a lot of episodes where the next morning they swore to god, " I don't know what she talkin about".

The couple residing in Apt I had lived in the building before and were from the Tacoma. They had both been in trouble and had done some kind of jail time (prison/ local?). They had a history of corrupt and immoral behavior which seemed all too obvious to everyone except Dave. He saw only people who need a chance and were probably going to be good renters because they could afford an eviction on their record; he didn't have to live with them. They original lived in a unit on the first floor near the main door and really wanted that apartment back. And the reason why: they were dealing drugs late into the night. For awhile, I dealt with door bell buzzer that when pushed from the outside didn't only ring the intended unit but was audible throughout the building. This one time, it didn't stop there. I can't remember the details clearly, I only have the vivid memory of laying in bed half asleep, hoping whatever was occurring outside my door would soon dissipate. But it kept on escalating. It went from a slamming door, to yelling and stomping down the stairs, to standing on the front stoop yelling at who knows whom. At this point I snapped. I remember laying there repeating ignore, ignore, ignore then frustration taking over. I just couldn't lay there and allow whoever this was to carry on in such a manner so I decided to make it worst.

I grabbed my phone, walked out the apartment slamming the door behind me ( I got good at slamming that door and throwing shoes at my wall when people chose to ignore me after asking them to turn down their music. After a while folks were down right scared of me), I stomped down the stairs, and yelled at whoever this was to shut the good damn, fuck up. Initially, their reaction was one of shock. Then the woman charged me with her fist ( a lame attempt to scare me off). At this point, I wasn't backing down. I stood there for a second before I presented my phone and proceeded to punch in 911. They shit. Last thing in the world these people wanted to do was to deal with the police. They probably had been drinking ( and smoking) and would be in violation of their probation if caught. However, my phone was a hand held and out of reach of its dock so the call never went through but the attempt was a buzz kill. As we all went back up the stairs, Tovah kept yelling and threatening I forget what, then we each disappeared into our separate realities. Back in bed some time later, I heard the doorbell ring again. Then, someone coming up the stairs, then a knock at my door. It wasn't Dave.

The police had responded to the 911 call. If the phone goes dead after 911 is called, the police are obligated to respond. They had first talked to the person who let them in the front door who sent them to my apartment. After asking who it was, I opened the door. I was wearing these flannel jammies with hearts on them that my sister gave to me and wasn't really looking like the a typical hilltop terrorist by the expression on their faces ( it was like, say what?). They asked if I had placed the call into 911 and I explained my side of the story and said, I suspected drugs. They listened, said my story made sense, and that they had trouble with drug dealer in the building before, and left. Months later, Charles was busted while sitting his van in the alley beside the complex. I think from that call the police started watching the building for suspicious activity... the building was full of them.