It’s been a year now. A year ago, almost to this day, I was piddling away time rewashing the same glasses, chatting with my manager about the then-newly emerged pandemic. Dust was settling on the stools and chairs around the bar; business had dried up weeks ago. Cable news played on the screens around us, each reporter breathlessly telling the same story. A memory from two weeks ago of a group of customers who were for some reason trying to lick every surface and take selfies while doing so put shivers down my spine. …


Since Kevin Peterson was murdered by detectives Jeremy Brown and Robert Anderson and deputy Jon Feller there has been an upwelling of anger at yet another Black person killed by police. Streets in Vancouver have been packed to the gills, full of people demanding justice. Nights are punctuated by candlelight at the site of the murder, illuminating the signs and flowers hung up on the fence next to where Kevin’s body lay for hours. …


Fashionably early, I rolled into Elizabeth Caruther’s park. It’s a very nice park with little nooks and crannies, and a lovely hill you can relax on and look at the sky (you might even be able to see some stars that shine through the light pollution of the city). Across the park from where I lay lounging on the hill a medic tent was being set up and a trickle of people draped in dark clothes were showing up like apparitions. Across the street, the snack vans (now with 100% less predator) were staging.


“This is the Portland Police Bureau, this event has been declared a riot”

The R-word. It used to make my heart race and panic run down my spine, but after months and months, it barely phases me. It’s almost becoming mundane. Riots are declared across the whole spectrum of praxis; from standing around and vibing too close to A Special Building to throwing some soup for your family at a cop.

In an abstract and sensual way, I know what a riot is. It’s sweat pooling in my gas mask that’s struggling to filter gas-filled air as I gasp for…


You are all absolutely fucking full of shit and should be licking the boots of your local antifascists and thanking them for their mercy on you based on the sole fact your homes haven’t been stormed by the torch and pitchfork wielding people you have betrayed. Let me be clear that I’m not threatening violence; I already do as much violence and crimes regardless of what silly rules you make up, which is pretty close to 0 (it’s really not worth the “legal” trouble to me, I already waste enough energy on you fucking vampires; but I have definitely jaywalked…


A pair of Portland residents hold up a banner reading “Wheeler tolerates nazis, we will not”

Let me start with saying: goddamn! What a fuckin day, and what a fuckin’ show out by the Portland area community. At its peak; Joey could only muster at most around 250–300 people from his cabal of closest cultists,


What could have happened, if it not for Joey Gibson’s histrionic drive to quench some insatiable thirst for attention, fame, money, and glory? Imagine how different these days leading up to August 4th, 2018 would be if Joey Gibson had stopped his hysterically greedy lust for fame, and any point in the past? How would the beautiful city of Portland be functioning if Joey had the cognitive capability to put aside his ego and let people just be? What could we be doing on August 4th instead of yet another political brawl? …


Joey Gibson, seen with another one of his sex-offender friends, Sam “The Rapist” Resnick.

A few months ago, I penned a short letter to people living in Portland, Oregon regarding the rising tide of far-right extremist violence. It seems that despite the repeated warnings by myself and countless other individuals (and some organizations) the wave of fascism has been allowed to grow and spread across the coast. I speak of Joey Gibson, Patriot Prayer, Proud Boys; and all the violence, hatred, and destruction they leave in their wake.

Since that chilly night outside of the Arlene Schnitzer hall that prompted the first letter, the horrifying acts carried out by these individuals has only continued…


A red light shone down upon the camp, casting a light reminiscent of fires of civilizations past. Similar camaraderie hung in the air. It was somewhere around midnight in Portland, Oregon; in front of the soon to be former ICE offices.

For the past week I had been inundated with images, video, audio, and all sorts of commentary surrounding what I can only describe as the slow descent into another holocaust. The suffering is so overt, and our “leaders’” reactions are either absurdly hollow or nauseatingly inhumane. It seems the suffering of those thousands of children is seared into the…


Look around you, scroll through Twitter, attend a peaceful demonstration against police brutality, call your representatives. What do all these things have in common? That’s right they mean absolutely nothing to the officials who have the power to change the situation you are upset about. All of these politicians and highfalutin capitalists and lobbyists have no interest in The Working Man. This is where neoliberalism fails in its attempts to band-aid over the necrotic wound we dare call a society. This is where conservatism fails; with its pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstrap rhetoric, simultaneously robbing those who need to pull themselves up of said…

Sisyphus Jung

"Dunked on 'em, now I'm swingin' off the rim. Bitch ain't comin' off the bench, while I'm comin' off the court fully drenched" - Nicki Minaj

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store