I was not on my way to Occupy Wall Street when a police officer asked where I was going. Actually, I wanted to be on my way to Occupy Wall Street but, actually, I’d promised someone something and someone who’d promised me a different thing couldn’t deliver – so I dropped my plan and sent some texts and didn’t receive any in return. I couldn’t get there alone, or that’s how I felt. (The word that kept coming to mind was ‘impotent’.”

I’d been down there before, sure. At one meeting in Greenpoint I’d learned about their plans. I knew November 17 was a big one. And yet, there we were.

“Miss, where are you going?” he said again. I said, “an art opening.” He said, “where”‘ and, in an uncharacteristically forthcoming mood, I told him. He knew the artist and liked her, I said I hadn’t made up my mind but she was a friend of a friend and famous enough to warrant consideration. Famous enough to warrant recognition from me and a police officer, standing together at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge just after 8pm on November 17. This is a true story: we were both wearing orange hi-vis jackets. I said, “Why did you ask me where I was going?” He said, “Because you were running.” Apparently that was enough.

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