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About Jared Iorio
While in Los Angeles, on a lark, he took some photojournalism courses, edited his college newspaper and magazine - and then moved to Haiti for a time post-quake, documenting daily life while providing mutual aid to friends in the area.
Back in Los Angeles he lives between a van (everywhere), a boat (Marina del Rey) and a community organizing space (South LA). When he's not taking pictures he's fomenting community-based revolution and social justice or else getting into arguments about that stuff on the internet.
I count my days now by how many days Los Angeles has been occupied. 15. I’m never sure of the day or date, but Day 15, that I know.
Day 15 in Los Angeles marks a global day of protest. Against the banksters who have been robbing us blind, the politicians who’ve been bought by them and police that they use as the means to keeping the people in check. Who would of thought, huh? The prevailing wisdom was that America was too comfortable, too sedated — by hard work, too much TV and unhealthy food. And then, in an instant, boom! Hundreds of cities get occupied. Fuck, I like surprises! Tired of a representative government that is anything but, we’ve started working on a new system, based on consensus. Who knows what we need more than us? I’ve met people who’ve given up their homes, their part-time, underpaid jobs and the little time they had for family and friends to take a more active role in their lives and their government. When I got here 2 weeks ago, there were 30 tents up, today it’s over 300. And getting larger every day. It’s going to take awhile to figure it out — but that’s fine, we have plenty of time.
We’re not going anywhere.
When they want to kill a dog, they say it’s crazy. — Haitian proverb Like most everyone else, I was appalled at the destruction of the January 12th earthquake, by the slowness of the response. I was lucky enough to randomly run into some people who went shortly after to help clear rubble. All […]
I moved away from New York when I was 18, nearly 15 years ago. When I left, Gram was in assisted living — reduced rent and helpful staff, but she still drove herself around, came by the house for dinner or to babysit my younger brothers. I often lament the fact that I didn’t talk to her about her life as much as I could have, when she had all of her faculties intact. The last few years that I was there, the early signs of dementia and Alzheimer’s were already apparent. But they were cute, laughable symptoms. A bit of forgetfulness, an answer to a question that made no sense in context. We’d tease her about it, or mostly just laugh amongst ourselves.
I’m sure for family still living in New York, with her, that the change was somewhat gradual. For me, visiting twice or three times a year, they were like hammer blows. Every 6 months a different person, the grandmother who helped raise me slipping further and further away. Eventually she moved into my old house with my mother. When that became too dangerous, when she simply couldn’t be left alone, a nursing home. My mother and I had long talks about how we wished she would go. She was mostly miserable, yet every so often you’d see a spark, like she was flashing back to earlier times. For a time, she began to see her hated ex-husband, my grandfather, when she looked at me. She’d curse me out in broken Italian.
Not a very talkative woman in the best of times, unless she was talking about God or if you wanted more meatballs, it was then that I wished I could ask her about her life, what she was flashing back to. As it stands, I have only a few key dates of major tragedies in her life — events that I plan on researching through microfiche and microfilm at the NY Public Library soon — that shaped her early years and set our family’s history in motion. Smoking guns, faked deaths and truly mysterious events. And I have old, mostly worn, black & white photos that tell part of the story that I’ll never quite know the whole of.
She died last year on October 22nd. She had been largely gone for sometime.
The world on its side, an explanation of sorts…
It wasn’t supposed to be like this…
…it was supposed to be Bukowski’s hangout, Hollywood Park, a flashback to the old LA of his time. Well, time moves on, and Hollywood Park has been closed.
We went to the comparatively fancy Santa Anita Park instead, we needed ten races to make the math, and they had eight – we improvised.
the morning line
Assembled & edited by Jared Iorio
Photographs by Jared Iorio & Alex JD Smith
Audio: Charles Bukowski reading “The Creation of the Morning Line”
Music: “Rabbit One” by Masters of Reality
Any asshole can chase a skirt. Art takes discipline.
There is a time to stop reading, there is a time to STOP trying to WRITE, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass.
The world on its side
…a volcano, spilling wreckage and desire in ever widening circles, over a denude countryside
It was a long time ago, but I remember it well. I had come by bus, dusty to the skin, the dust of Wyoming and Utah and Nevada in my hair and in my ears.
I want a cheap room, I said.
I walked around the block twice,
passed 200 people
and failed to see a human being.
“Wildfires rage through Southern California every year. Mostly natural in origin, sometimes sparked by the impact we’ve had on the land, they come and remind us of our lack of absolute control over our surroundings, testing the spirit if residents and firefighters alike.”
“The fates of lives and property are decided by which way, and how strong, the wind blows – again humbling man before nature.”