As I walk into the room filled with black clad anarchist activists, I'm conscious of the fact that I've got too much colour on - orange sweater, bright green jacket. I'll get over it soon enough, but the initial entry is always a challenge for me. That's the thing I loved about Brad - he always made you feel like you were on the inside. In fact, that there is no inside. No outside. We were all in this together. As for me, I don't want to be any ‘Ist' - not an anarchist, not a socialist, not a buddhist, not a capitalist, not a .... fill in the blank. I'm a human, being, thank you very much. And better still - a human doing.

The memorial is held in a community church in St. Marks Place. It's packed with friends of Brad, mostly activists of all stripes, a motely crew of committed souls. There are videos from his many incarnations - his work in the lower east side, where he helped save 300 community gardens from destruction, including an action in which he built a giant 40 foot high metal sunflower, which he chained himself too. He's smiling and happy as the police cut through his locks, and jokes as they pull him away. In another moment, the squat he lived in was about to be demolished, and all of the tenants had been dragged away. Just as the wrecking ball sways back to begin the destruction of their home, a figure appears on the roof, hands held to the air, a gesture of triumph, joy, or supplication - it's brad. Images of him blowing fire in a critical mass ride - a monthly event in which cyclists take over the streets. Legalize bicycling!

A statement is read from the people of Oaxaca, in appreciation for his great sacrifice. Images of the beautiful day of the dead altars they built in his honour. Another statement comes from the latino community gardeners who Brad worked with in the Lower East Side, helping to transform vacant lots into gardens, and then defending these places of regeneration. Regeneracion. An altar at the front of the church is laden with the articles of his life -his indy media press passes, a little buddha, candles, momentoes from his journeys, flowers and incense.

Songs are sung, his last dispatch is read aloud, tears are shed, and then a marching band comes in and we rise to our feet, begin dancing, dance out of the church and onto the streets - who's streets? OUr streets! - without permission, snaking through the lower east side, white birds flying high above on poles, the cry: Brad Will. Presente! A puppet of brad on a bicycle, holding a camera as he rides, tribute to his participation in the critical mass bike rides, past the squats that Brad lived in or helped to save, stopping for a speech and explanation of the historical signifance of each place, writing in chalk on the ground - B-rad. Bradisaatva. Bradical. Oaxaca - resiste! I run along side, filming as usual, somehow so fitting right now as on any other action, Brad would be there too, running alongside me, catching the action in aspic for the rest of the world to see. We pass Charas, a community center and school that is slated for demolition, now boarded up, and the crowd surges in and onto the roof, occupying the space, hanging banners and chanting gleefully. The police do not intervene - they're staying out of this one. We continue on, to a community garden, where we plant a spiral garden of hyancinths in his honour, then stand in a circle around a bonfire, offering our own personal memories.

The night continues with more music and videos at Times Up! A bicycle collective. It has become a wake, joyous and sad, lots of hugging, and heartfelt exchanges, no worries about being cool or not cool. By the end of the weekend full of events, I am full, and sad and happy that the death of our friend has inspired so much action, so much energy, new possibilities We're all in this together, and we have lost a radiant soul.