Surrounded by yellow banners and flowing blue writing, they're the Falun Gong, who claim a thousands year old mystical tradition, but seem to be some kind of offshoot of Buddhism. All over the city, they've set up cages with horribly bruised young women -- faces swollen, caked with blood -- with stolid guards seated nearby, swing their billy clubs. They say -- and I see no reason to doubt them -- that in China they are repressed, imprisoned, beaten, and sometimes killed.
They are everywhere. Three blocks away from where I now sit, Falun Gong members are moving in synchronized motions, billboards placed in front of them, young volunteers trying to engage passersby. When I run, I see seven of them on a hill in Central Park. They try to hand me a brochure along Ninth Avenue, miles away from their other locations.
This invasion started in the weeks before the Republican Convention, and it feels like a sign of the unspooling of the universe. As the election approaches, a culture of madness emerges on both sides, and bizarre occurrences have become commonplace. In the anime movie "Akira", the sudden appearance of a godlike mind is greated by religious exoticism. Here, in New York City, the dark twists of this political campaign lead us to retreat to activities that seem devoid of any political content. I find myself tempted to stand there with the Falun Gong, moving my arms slowly, finding the basic peace in our continued living, instead of that awful weight of tension caused by anticipating future disruptions in our world.
The Republican Convention ended weeks ago, but the Falun Gong still occupy the open areas of our park, strangely disconnected from the honking taxis and pedestrians that rush past them. Their existence seems like a warning to us that there are currents we don't normally normally notice, and that this tide will only strengthen as events unfold, unconcerned about how we try to shape reality.