Well, it's xmas morning, two a.m. Why am I up so early? Because Tom and I have just gotten the packing done for our pilgramage to Kansas. It was a good xmas eve, so the holiday's been very nice. Today we went to the credit union to do some depositing. Then we went to the pharmacy--again. Then we went to Payless to get socks. Then we went home. Tom went to work. I greeted some guests, who'd lost their luggage, and saved a bunch of my writing on discs. I've decided to leave my laptop at home--but I have fears of something horrible happening and me losing all my work. I'm thinking about investing in a zip drive. I went to the Washington Sq. United Methodist Church's Lessons and Carols service. It was very very nice. Good music--heavy on the jazz at times, but all the musicians are jazz artists, I believe--a lot of congregational singing, and it was done in an hour!

Tom and I had a nice evening of eating sushi, drinking pop, sipping hot and sour soup, and dipping veggie spring rolls. And talking to Ted on the phone. Then Tom's folks. Then we watched Love Actually. A good movie. Not a great film, as Tom says, but a great movie. It's been nice having Menno House to ourselves. Like we're really grownups and owning a place of our own.

I'm hungry, but I don't feel like eating, if that makes any sense.

I've been fighting my pharmacy, my insurance and a doctor's office the last two weeks about my medicine. Let's just say my doctor's office kept ignoring my calls about a prescription refill, then the pharmacy spelled my name wrong so when I came to pick it up yesterday when they finally called them, they said they'd never gotten it, and I had to wait for ten minutes for them to figure it out, then sat another ten for them to refill it. Then this morning I called to renew for my Lamictal, since I'll be gone to Kansas when it runs out, and they said my insurance wouldn't cover it until the 26th of this month--it's the freaking 23rd. But finally a nice guy at CVS worked it out for me.

My former boss at Pax said yesterday that she doesn't know any users, but I take more drugs than anyone she knows. It's so true. I can't imagine what people who are HIV+ have to do to get their drugs, if they can get them at all. Which is a whole other can of worms I have moaned about here.

Also, I suddenly received a bill from Mass General for 1,000 dollars. I have no idea why they're putting this on me more than a year after I had the treatment. So I have to deal with that.

I just bought some shoes from No Sweat Apparel. I could wax preachy on this subject, but I won't. (They're vegan-friendly, too.) I had the email sent to my new gmail account, which only sells adspace to the things you write about in your email, and this was listed, I'm not kidding:

"Child Labor for Sale. Affordable. Check out ebay now!"

So, I did. Checked it out. Unfortunately, it was all very politically correct. No "bright eight year old for sale" listings.

Well. My first semester is over. And I'm still standing, although my memory is seriously messed. Twice this week I've forgotten things, like on Monday when Tom had a office party after work. I remember now he'd mentioned it more than a couple times over the week, but Monday was an insane day, so I came home from school at 8ish (oh, I met Eve Ensler at Barnes & Noble--more on that later) and suddenly it was 9 and he wasn't home yet. I called his cell--and it didn't ring or pick up his voice mail right away, there was just silence. I left a message, and went on with other things. But then it was ten, then ten fifteen. I started to freak out. I envisioned buses barreling down on him. I called his cell phone several times, and it was just silent. I was about to put on my coat and look for him, when lo and behold, he called me...

About Eve Ensler--of Vagina Monologues, for those who are literarlily ignorant--I went to a reading at B&N. She talked about her one-woman show, upcoming projects, etc. One of which was interviewing young girls around the world. I asked her if she was interviewing a certain group of girls, and she said, "yes, I am, but I'd like to interview you." So, I gave her my email and phone number, she signed my little copy of The Vagina Monologues with the message, Bless your vagina, and that was that. For all I know it will never happen, and it might be weird if it does, but how's that for Meeting the Artist in Person? Usually I fuddle things up when I get autographs from writers. (See Feb. 2004 blog about my Toni Morrison encounter.) Although when I had Tony Kushner sign Homebody/Kabul, I did get a favorable comment from the gay, liberal New Yorker Jew on the t-shirt I wore. It was the Don't Kill for Us Amnesty International shirt.

He said, "I like that shirt."

"Thanks," I said. I felt quite proud.

I did sit in front of Salman Rushdie at a Michael Ondaatje reading. We made eye contact.

So, it's been a pretty good year as far as writer people are concerned. First, Pulitzer Prize winning author Edward P. Jones critiques my story in workshop. Now this.

Well, it is done. My last project for the semester, for better or for worse, is finished. And what a pointless one it is. What is this pointless topic? A summation of what my class, the oral history class, has learned plus a brief description of our readings. All of them. The bibliography is two pages long. I have to admit, it will be slightly helpful to the people coming in at semester. It's a year-long class. But they'll more than likely look at it for five, if i'm lucky, ten minutes, then it will go into a drawer or the recycle bin. Ah, the life of an academic. It makes me feel bad all the times i've tossed some book some academian has labored for years on. Whether it's any good or not, time was devoted to it.

For anyone (including you, MRC) who wants to read and argue with a much better arguer than myself, you should go to http://mybrainisopen.blogspot.com/. Yep, it's my little brother. In years, rather than height. I have a link to him to the right. Just wait (to argue, not read) until after Dec. 17th. He's got school like crazy.

Today I disregarded the final project due on Monday and went to B&N where I bought some xmas cards (if anyone reads Tom's blog, you'll find we're joining the adult club). Incidentally, some of the cards there were cheaper than the ones at Duane Reade's. And, the only ones without Santa or American flags at DR were large and needed more postage. I did buy them but on my way home I stopped a postperson and asked. So, I took them back. By the way, if you are unlucky enough to get one, yes, I know the angel looks like she's got a stomachache, but I liked the simple "peace and joy" message and it was for 8 dollars.

Anyway, there I was, drinking coffee and reading a book of short stories that I have to get back to the school library before the semester ends and so I can put it on my summary of what I have done for the semester and look that much smarter, when these two middle aged men sat next to me. I didn't even pay attention till one of them, M1, was talking to his daughter, named Jessica, on his cell. They were talking about M2's marriage troubles.

"There are five stages of marriages, and it is all about fertility and the need to populate the earth," M1 announced. I kept looking at my book, but was hooked. This is the info about marriage that I learned:

Stage 1

You are in love, forever and ever. You can't think without her. All you want to do is you-know-what.

Stage 2

You have children. Suddenly you are no longer #1 in her life. This smarts a little. Sex declines.

Stage 3

For the next 20 years, this goes on. The focus, for both of you, is the children and the money to raise them with. She becomes that person you sleep with, w/out sex, nothing more.

Stage 4

The children are gone. You are expecting sex more. At least once a week, but only if you are lucky. She becomes a friend you happen to live with.

Stage 5

If one of you does not get the divorce papers, this continues until death. You need to make sure you are nice to her, because possibly she'll be wiping your ass before death claims you.

It's so funny. In a place like Hillsboro, and probably Harrisonburg, you could never have a conversation like that in public. Never. But here, it happens all the time. Because you know you won't see these people you're sitting by again. And if they do reappear, quite possibly they weren't even paying attention. I got a call on my cell as I sat in the cafe from my nuerologist's nurse, and I sat there, discussing my estrogen levels and relating some of my OBGYN's observations, in front of all these people.

Whenever people are denied life and are calling out for life, and are struggling for life, God is there. - Rev. Niall O'Brien, SSC

Alternatives to violent solutions exist...moral force is stronger than physical force. - Colman McCarthy

When you bow to the universe, the universe bows back. When you call out the name of God, it echoes inside you. - Can't Remember Who Said This

I don't know if I totally want to go the route of arguing in my blog, but, since a certain Mr. Roth-Cline is afraid to put a comment page on his blog, I am forced to do such a thing. My friend states:

The first and most obvious problem is that prayer has little instrumental value — in other words, it simply doesn't work to achieve the desired ends. I'm not aware of any evidence showing that prayer has a consistent, statistically significant causal effect. Prayer may make people feel better (which does, of course, have an effect on individual well-being), but prayer doesn't seem to change the course of world events. Jessica mentions the "destruction of thousands" that she seems to think might have been prevented by the election of Senator Kerry — but what about the millions of people killed during the Holocaust or other ethnic cleansings from Yugoslavia to Sudan? Ostensibly those situations deserve supernatural involvement just as much (if not moreso) than the US election, yet peace did not come through supernatural intervention: it came when people with more guns than the ethnic cleansers put a forcible stop to the carnage.

I won't and cannot claim to be as good at the form of argument that MRC is, but I'll share an excellent story written in the script of the West Wing's first season--the show is about the death penalty; Pres. Bartlett has to decide whether to put a stay to a federal execution. Bartlett has been raging about the wisdom God has not given him in this case to his priest. Earlier in the show a rabbi and a Quaker had spoken out against capital punishment in the Oval Office. The priest states:

You know, you remind me of the man that lived by the river. He heard a radio report that the river was going to rush up and flood the town. And that all the residents should evacuate their homes. But the man said, “I’m religious. I pray. God loves me. God will save me.” The waters rose up. A guy in a row boat came along and he shouted, “Hey, hey you! You in there. The town is flooding. Let me take you to safety.” But the man shouted back, “I’m religious. I pray. God loves me. God will save me.” A helicopter was hovering overhead. And a guy with a megaphone shouted, “Hey you, you down there. The town is flooding. Let me drop this ladder and I’ll take you to safety.” But the man shouted back that he was religious, that he prayed, that God loved him and that God will take him to safety. Well... the man drowned. And standing at the gates of St. Peter, he demanded an audience with God. “Lord,” he said, “I’m a religious man, I pray. I thought you loved me. Why did this happen?” God said, “I sent you a radio report, a helicopter, and a guy in a rowboat. What the hell are you doing here?”

He sent you a priest, a rabbi, and a Quaker, Mr. President. Not to mention his son, Jesus Christ. What do you want from him?

The travesties of this world are not isolated incidents that came out of nowhere. Because people with free will refused to see what was going on around them. The Holocaust, for example. Had the Treaty of Versailles signed at the end of WWI not been so devastating to the German economy, had the US and Britain recognized the terror in Germany around in the late '20s and early '30s when Dachau, the first concentration camp was created, which imprisoned homosexuals and gypsies, not to mention the burning of books and the exodus of a certain Einstein fellow and the huge amounts of Jews been let into the US instead of back to Europe and certain death, had the racism against the Asian population not created the horror that was Hiroshima and Ngasaki (both cities with no military sites), perhaps history may have changed.

God works through people. God is not a puppeteer. She puts the tree in our sight and lets us choose for ourselves. People are given choices every day to do good or bad in the world. Unfortunately, many in power choose the latter. They refuse medical care for those who need it. They choose to send four planes into giant buildings. They build a wall, demolish houses and steal water from a people in need of it. They send suicide bombers into restaurants and buses. They enslave children to make sneakers for a pittance a day. The list goes on.

Right now, it's 188 Kerry and 197 Bush. And I have to analyze two stories for tomorrow...

I'm listening to Bruce Springsteen sing "Highway Patrolman." Seems to fit my mood right now.

Me and Frankie laughin' and drinkin' nothin' feels better than blood on blood takin' turns dancin' with Maria, while the band played Night of the Johnstown Flood ...

Well, it's been awhile, but as it is voting day-eve, I figured I'd take some time off living in my brain to address a situation: is it proper to pray for Bush's defeat? Really, I wonder. I am tempted to do it. I don't officially pray with any regularity. I feel that with all the suffering in the world that my needs are rather paltry in comparison. Singing in church is probably the closest I come to in praying most of the time. But I am considering that this situation, which may be the saving or destruction of thousands, needs the hand of God involved.

But should a pacifist pray for a warrior like Kerry to win? Or would I be doing the same as the Reglious Right in being a one-issue person? Some said in the Mennonite Weekly Review that Mennonites shouldn't vote because of this issue and others. But I think of the health care issue, the oil issue, the Iraq fiasco issue, and I say: there is never going to be a president who is a pacifist, so I should lean towards someone who kind of says some peaceful things and I should focus on other issues. I don't know. Does this make any sense to anyone?

I'm voting for Kerry tomorrow. I just don't know if I can pray for his victory.

Oh...and a certain friend who shall remain nameless asked me awhile ago whether I could see any positive sides to the Republican party. I am sure there are--no one is all good or all bad. But I can't seem to think of any right now.

I know it's been a long long long time, but I'll only say this before going to bed: any undecided voter who is leaning towards Bush post-first debate has some kind of serious brain problem. I mean it. I dislike the man but I felt bad for him the entire debate. He looked in pain. He struggled for words like "group of folks." When he wanted the extra thirty seconds to rebut something, he'd interrupt Jim Lehrer but then he'd stand there and try to think of something to say. And then he'd finish long before his time was up. He kept hunching up until his head was low to the microphone...

Now, to anyone who is a die-hard Bush supporter: I don't understand you either but good for you in your steadfastness in your trajectory, since Bush seems to think that is the way to go in all things.

It's feeling a bit like KS today. Thundering constantly, rainy and humid. I managed to write, or rather, rewrite, a sentence. Then in frustration I went to Washington Square and sat before I had lunch with Pax Christi folk.

I'm tired of money. Yesterday I spent the better part of the afternoon haggling with my health insurance company, otherwise known as MMA. I'd like to get rid of it, since we have good insurance with Tom's job, but we don't know what we will do for insurance in the future whenever we leave NY, and with my health history, it would be difficult to get any other insurance company to take me. Even a guy at MMA once said they probably wouldn't take me if I dropped the insurance but came back later...

It is depressing. Knowing that not only am I trapped by my body, I am trapped by institutions and the fact that I don't have money.

People often pray for the Second Coming. I would like cheaper medicine at least.

Come quickly, socialized medicine, come.

I've just been a-wandering with Tom and Ted handing out condoms and info near Astor Place. It was great to see Tom at work, hollering out for folks to take condoms. This is the shy boy I met at EMU.

I also took a bunch of pictures of the neighborhood with Ted's digital camera for a website I'm building to show friends where I live. I think I've fallen in love with the city again just looking through it through a camera.

It has been 1 year since I began my radiation in Boston--as well as begun this blog. Life's a weird crazy depressing exhilarating ride.

Tom showed me a website that has counted the number of times words in the English language are used.  I know it probably shows how much time i have on my hands, but here are the ratings for the above sentence:

Tom (1822) showed (947) me (72) a (5) website (not in count) that (7) has (43) counted (5990)the (1) number (171) of (2) times (287) words (365) in (6) the (the) English (390) language (510) are (22) used (136).

The first ones are obviously the usual in between words.  Frankly I was surprised to find the as number one until I realized I used it twice in my starting sentence.  Following that, it is interesting to note what words are put next to what words.  For instance, man is 142 and might is 143.  Woman is 393 and real is 394.  

There are names as well.  Tom is 1822 (1823 is the word widely--Thomas is 1510 with 1511 being rock), Jessica is 8982 (8983 is consolidated--Dawn is 3712 with Nicholas being 3713), Kirsten is 42341 (thrice is 42342), Jason is 6810 (athelstan, meaning "King of Mercia and Wessex (924?-939) who was the first Saxon ruler to establish his authority over all of England" is 6811), Holly is 7099 (7100 is saints), Reuben is 42187 (42188 is museveni, meaning "Ugandan president (since 1986). A former guerrilla leader who worked to overthrow the dictatorship of Idi Amin, he is noted for his efforts to maintain political stability by repressing opposition parties and creating a strong economy"), Bethany is 56956 (56957 is misreprentations), Miriam is 15390 (15391 is blot--also Kansas is 20528 with 20529 being fiesta), Diana is 3876 (3877 is spell), Jennifer is 8472 (8473 is curled), and so on.

Don't think it means anything if you weren't listed, it means nothing about my love for you.

Check out the website: http://www.wordcount.org  

 

 

 

Tom and I have gotten cell phones.

Yes.

After mocking everyone in this city who had them, we've fallen into the trap ourselves.

Enough said.

So, I am now unemployed.  And pretty happily so.  I would make a horrible housewife, however, or thank God.  i have spent most of this "precious" time sleeping, wandering thrift stores, watching too much TV and renting movies, making random cell phone calls, etc.  Though I have been slightly responsible with wrangling with Sallie Mae, Aetna and looking for SLC jobs.  Little writing however.

So I've made the decision that I will spend time writing every day.  To work myself up to the deluge that will be school.  You would think someone who calls herself a writer would actually write without having to force herself, but no.  A lot of it is laziness.  A lot of it is also that I can barely write anything down because I have too many stories in my brain that I don't know what to do with.  

So.

A Final Reflection of Mennonite Voluntary Service
 
When I left Pax Christi Metro New York, I was given a three-sizes-too-big Pax Christi t-shirt, a Pax Christi button and a relief of Dorothy Day.  When I left Rauschenbusch Metro Ministries, I was given a book called Vertical New York and a pair of movie tickets, which I think are past their due date, though I am not sure.  Despite the sizing and due datedness of some of the gifts, I am fond of them all because they have symbolized some parts of my experiences in New York so far.
 
I’m fond of Pax Christi’s gifts because there was not a Pax event that didn’t have a gaggle of nuns wearing some kind of peace t-shirt, a cap or button.  In the winter, Sister Liz wears a giant yellow coat covered in protest buttons.  I’ve seen her arrested several times in that coat—six times last year, in fact.  It was always convenient because then I could find her in the crowd of folks being hauled off to jail.  When Grandparents for Peace staged civil disobedience at the recruiting station at Times Square, I saw her like a beacon among the brave but huddled group of elderly folks (one was 90 and wheel-chair bound) making their own stand on an issue that was three-sizes-too-big for them.  But they were there anyway.
 
I am fond of the relief because Dorothy Day is one of those saintly people I was first introduced to when I started hanging out with these crazy Catholics.  The fact that I’ve spent time where she lived and worked at the Catholic Worker and saw how the place was a place of refuge and beauty even though the lighting is somewhat dubious and the paint job is cracking and peeling, even though I’ve heard the rumor that Dorothy Day could be rather difficult to work with at times—I feel more comfortable with those facts because who wants a saint who isn’t a little rough, a little smudged around the edges?
 
I’m fond of Rauschenbusch Metro Ministries gifts because they come from a bunch of Baptists who have wandered their way north to serve people who are being slowly pushed out of their neighborhood with the encroachment of gentrification—and have stayed on because they have fallen in love with this city.  This city that has an emptiness, yet a spirituality all its own.  Like the aforesaid movie tickets, they give whatever they have to that place: they run a free afterschool program, free English for Speakers of Other Languages lessons and a summer day camp for neighborhood kids—where ostensibly the charge is $100, but few people pay more than $25—a food pantry, a clothes closet in the winter.  All this on a rather narrow budget.  
 
I am fond of the book Vertical New York, which has vertical pictures of the city and quotes about the city from various artists and elected officials.  Here are a few of the quotes:
 
“New York’s a place where even the ugly returns you to the beautiful boundless soul of its inhabitants.”
 
“A hundred times have I thought New York is a catastrophe, and fifty times: it is a beautiful catastrophe.”
 
“I’ve always thought that the look of New York, the architecture was fundamentally religious.  Manhattan is a cathedral you know—the modern cathedral.”
 
I have often felt that this city, this cathedral, is where I truly found God.  God in the ugliness of the Port Authority; in the nearby Probation Office.  God in catastrophe of the hundreds of thousands of souls who wandered by my office window each day.  God in the frustration and beauty of a kid who would rather tap his pencil and sing Outkast songs than do his math homework.     
 
These few epiphanies have come between hundreds of aggravations of the lack of organization and too-many-visionaries-and-too-few-managers of the non-profit scene; the monotony of stuffing envelopes begging for money to keep a tiny Pax Christi office going; the bland boringness of writing grants; trying to take charge of 30 children who want to do anything but the homework at hand with only two tutors available; the bewilderment of teaching ESL when one has had no training in the field; not to mention the months I spent in Boston voluntarily having radiation pumped into my brain.  These epiphanies have been hard won, and are by no means complete or even understandable.
 
So, my time with MVS is closing.  I’m now officially unemployed, heading to grad school in the fall with a large debt to the federal government looming in my future—but I’m pretty happy.  I guess service in the city makes one more than a little crazy; one smiles in the face of negativity.  Two things happened yesterday to make me feel like I’ve become a true New Yorker: Tom and I bought cell phones, for one thing.  And two, I found myself thinking smugly of a Vertical New York quote as we were out in the wilderness that is Brooklyn waiting for the G train and seeing the Statue of Liberty from underneath the huge canopy of concrete:
 
“The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding.”

The other day Tom and I had a New York moment.
 
We were sitting in a park on Houston and 1st, eating Chinese dumplings and drinking Coke, watching a yupster mom push her kids on the swings, listening to Arab taxi drivers argue loudly in Arabic and English and watching a man having a conversation with himself and chain smoking.
 
To sound a cliche--only in New York.

This is the thing. In a little more than a month, it will be the first anniversary of my entry into the photon-proton world. It seems somewhat unreal that it even happened. That I daily went in to have protons or photons shot into my head, that I can never have radiation directed at that part of my body for the rest of my life. It also seems unreal to me that in twoish months it will be the third anniversary of my brain surgery on Sept. 11. I've written in my journal the various places I've been in the past years: 1) On an operating table in NOVA (northern virginia for the uninformed, near DC). 2) Sitting on the steps of Washington Sq. United Methodist Church in Manhattan. 3) Having protons shot into my brain in Boston, MA. It is only a sick coincidence that I have been near the Pentagon on the day of, in New York City, near a park where I've been told one could once see the WTC, in Boston where two of the planes took off. I wonder what will be number 4. Supposedly it will be Sarah Lawrence, but I have ceased to expect what I actually expect.

This is one of the essays I submitted to Sarah Lawrence for my application:


Essay #1: Autobiography

I tend to look at my life as a series of stories—The Religion, The Body and The Adventure—all of which overlap and make a messy meld of a life.

The Religion

I am a Mennonite caught in a Mennonite embrace—for good or for ill. A definition of this embrace is tricky. Some Mennonites dress plain and live in tight-knit communities. Some do not. Some live quietly with their beliefs in simple living, nonviolence and justice for the economically and politically oppressed. Some do not. Some believe in the literal Second Coming of Christ. Some do not.

I come from a group known as the Molochna Colony Mennonites from the Ukraine. The older generations still speak Plautdeutsch; we make New Year’s Cookies and Paypanate during the holidays; Zweibach, Borscht and Verenika the rest of the year. I grew up believing the rest of the world lived as we did, since almost everyone I associated with was Mennonite.

My world-view experienced a shock when I went to a different Mennonite sect’s university instead of my own. I was still among Mennonites, but all were Swiss rather than Russian, had little to no ethnic food, sang different hymns and some had a different, more liberal view of everything. This was all rather bewildering

“Don’t be surprised if people think you are a lesbian when you come back,” I was told before I left. Apparently, this was a place where students, women especially, came out.

I wouldn’t be surprised if people back home wiped their foreheads in relief when I was married to a man—though they can’t understand why I’ve kept my own name.

I have many disagreements with the church. But I’ve also kept to my faith—though not necessarily in ways acceptable to some Mennonites. I feel liberated by these things my religious identity has granted me: the notion of living in this world, participating in the stories that surround me while having a counter-culture vision. I live with the belief that the last shall be first and the first shall be last is not merely for a future time, but is here among us, right now.

The Body

At age three I was diagnosed with Ollier’s Disease, a rare genetic disorder that causes cartilage tumors to grow on one side of the body. It stunts the growth and strength of the bones and twists them out of alignment.

Throughout childhood, I had a dozen surgeries to lengthen and straighten my left leg. A contraption called the Illazerov fixator was used three times for this purpose. My leg was broken and metal pins were drilled into my bones. The pins were held by a brace. Three times a day little screws were turned with a wrench, which pulled the brace apart. The bone created new bone as it healed. The skin was stretched at the same time.

In 2000, I discovered I had an Ollier’s-related brain tumor. It had slowly grown from the base of my skull until it began touching the left frontal lobe, which caused seizures. A little over a year later, they began to intensify, finally resulting in a grand mal seizure.

On September 11, 2001, I had a surgery to remove part of the tumor. It is a strange experience to wake up to a world so utterly changed both individually and globally. When someone told me about it, I came out of the fog of sedatives to angrily state I already knew. Perhaps I had heard people talking or saw in a haze a television report. Perhaps certain sorrows are felt keenly, by osmosis.

It took an entire year for me to heal. My right side was partially paralyzed and I had difficulty speaking and writing. It is frightening for anyone to be subjected to such a paralysis of words— especially when one has linked their entire identity with them.

This summer I opted for proton beam radiation to treat the remaining tumor. For seven weeks in August and September 2003, I went into Massachusetts General Hospital in Cambridge every day to lie on a table and be strapped down in the Cyclotron machine. It looked like the inside of a giant dryer. I was inserted into the drum (i.e. the dryer) and a huge telescoping cylinder shot protons at me for twenty minutes. Afterwards I went home, wrote the day’s story in my web log, sometimes puked, and slept.

The Adventure

In the fall of 1999, I went to the Middle East for a semester-long cross-cultural, a requirement for graduation at my university. My group studied religion, history, literature and Arabic in Egypt, Israel/Palestine and Jordan.

While at Gaza University, I draped a veil over my head and entered a world I didn’t really understand. The women of our group were led to the women’s side of the campus. Our men heard arguments about Americans’ lack of comprehension of the significance of English literature. On the women’s side there were no such debates. The women we met were more eager to hear about our lives, our families. They wanted us to take off our veils and show our hair. To encourage us, they took of their veils and chadors. I had seen this again and again with Muslim women: in refugee camps, at weddings and at this university. It was a gesture of intimacy that intrigued me, this unveiling of one’s body but also of one’s spirit. I am sure these women had many disagreements with our culture and way of life, but they chose to learn about us as individuals. I felt honored to be given such a gift.

Another gift given during my time in Israel/Palestine was when some of us were invited to a Shabbat meal on a cool Friday evening with the family of National Public Radio’s Linda Gradstein. Her two gorgeous children tried to give us their few shekels when they heard we were poor students; her husband invited us to a Shakespeare play for which he had suddenly been recruited. As the wine and challah were served in silence, and the sushi and saki were served amid laughter, I had a sense of connection with an ancient tradition made new. A fresh chapter in an unbroken story.

And

The logistics of story-telling is fascinating. Every time a person hears or reads a story, he or she can find something new to interlace into the narrative. The tale does not end with the final paragraph. Life works the same way. My religion, body and adventures do not merely exist in the past; they are ongoing because my perspective of them changes with time. I recall something differently or more clearly than before. Each morning when I wake up I have that many more memories between the self then and the self now. They have inspired my visions as a writer in my fiction. But the true essence of my story remains the same.

Yesterday was sunny; today it rained or drizzled. Yesterday Tom, David and I wandered Bronxville and ate lunch on Sarah Lawrence's lawn; today we wandered to Coney Island, ran around on the beach wet as it was, stood on the pier staring out into the fog and ate a hotdog by the boardwalk.

How on earth does someone explain the Israeli/Palestinian conflict to a ten year old? Especially when this Japanese-American child lives in a world devoid of any faith-leaning (as he says, he's got no religion)and a world which is very diverse racially, culturally, you name it. (There isn't a single blonde, blue-eyed kid in the bunch that go to this after school program, they are all Hispanic, Asian, Bangladeshi--mostly first generation Americans.) Leo was trying to answer some pretty sophisticated questions based on the tiny article in the Times for Kids magazine. One article to explain something that's lasted fifty years.

How does one explain this without getting her own views on the subject, but telling the truth (as I see it, so of course the question is "what is truth?").

This morning I saw my coworker's friend (see previous blog) on the front page of the Times. Her naked body was found in Inwood Park. I sat there, eating my raisin bran and drinking orange juice and this person I'd never met was dead. She was only 21. And her story was over. Just like that. Over.

Death (?) Marriage Drunk Missing Song

It's been a weird few days. Friday moring a guy called me and said he had gone to this church back in 2000 when he was suicidal, and he was suicidal again. He kept saying what was the point of living. The world was fucked up. Did I think so? Yes, I said. Doesn't that make me want to kill myself? Yes. Everyone thinks of it, I said. But life is precious; we really don't know what awaits us on the other side. So I'd never do it. Because maybe I'd never get a chance to live again. Had I ever been fucked over by life, he asked. Yes. I told him about my brain tumor etc.

This went on for awhile. I didn't quite know what to do. I'd never dealt with this before. No one was around except for me. I didn't know if he was even serious. I just kept talking and listening. He said he had a 38 and what was the point etc. He would get back at the world by doing this. He had been sexually abused by his father, now dead, and his mother was dying.

At one point he got cut off. I about freaked out. I *69'd him, but was told it was a private number. I felt responsible.

When David and Ronnie came, I told them. There's not a whole lot you can do, they said. Sometimes they just need to talk. Sometimes they're faking. Sometimes they want to place the responsibility on another person. Tom said the same when I told him.

Pretty much the whole day was shot for me. But as I left for the day, a group of homeless folks were sitting on the church steps. One of the men said, this is sort of our home--it's our sanctuary. Everyone needs a sanctuary, I said. Then he asked me to marry him, I was so cool. I'm already married, sorry. He laughed. I laughed, and felt a little better.

Friday night we had a crazy Menno House party as an Alicia sendoff. I got drunker, etc, than I'd ever been. I drank tequila for the first time and made vodka shots. As the evening progressed, some craziness of other kinds surfaced. But I'll leave it at that. I woke several times during the night. I got totally paranoid, thinking I would feel this way for the rest of my life.

Monday morning I told the Metro staff about my Friday eve. They loved it. And I loved that I was telling Baptists. It was like the first time I'd ever consumed alcohol in the presence of a religious figure; I had Thai beer with a nun.

Monday morning I found out that one of my coworkers friends was missing. I'd seen her on a flyer that morning as I zoomed to work. I studied it on the way home. I felt an emptiness. I can't explain it. This was life fucking someone over. You go out for a run in a park and don't come home.

Monday afternoon the suicide guy called again. His first words were Why are you fucking around with me?

I was in a meeting at the time, and I was amazed at how calm I replied, mainly because he was alive: I'm in a meeting right now. Can you be more specific? He continued on the fucking mode, and finally I got his name, though I don't know if it was true. He said he'd cut himself and gone out into the street and no one cared. I said, do you want to talk to the pastor, he's here, and more qualified to talk to you. I passed him on to David. I don't know what happened after that.

This morning David gave me a recipe for Ugly Rum Cake. He smiled as he showed it to me.

I'm listening to Cat Stevens right now. Trouble and If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out totally fit my conflicting moods today. A few weeks ago, some Menno Housers and I had a hymn sing. When I'm singing that is when I truly believe there's a God. How can something as beautiful as music just fly up to the sky unheeded?

A horrible day behind me, I boarded the A train at Times Square, followed by two fellows in the usual rapper gear. As the train pulled out of the station, they whipped out two violins and began a duet. It was great. They played in time to the train rushing along the tracks. I found myself smiling and smiling at them the whole time. As the train stopped at my stop, they did a little flourish, and as I got off and the doors closed, I heard them begin again, to a never-ending audience.

I took off-brand NyQuil last night, so now I'm doing the floating thing at work...

This morning I talked with an EMU friend I hadn't seen in years--literally--she's thinking about moving here next year. Her parents met in this very house. It made me think about how Menno House is this weird nexus of Mennonites and Mennonite converts. That like Lancaster, Winnipeg, Newton, Harrisburg, Harrisonburg and Fresno, you're destined to come to these places at some point in your life, if even for just a moment. No wonder some call it a cult. And some non-Mennonites who come to this house get swept up into this whirlwind of these people, never to be quite the same again.

Apparently one of those boy band boys is Mennonite. Which is weird in its own way.

COMING SOON: Woolf T's

Apparently, there's this web thing called cafepress, and you can sell t-shirts etc. on your website or blog site with slogans or artwork you send in to them. It doesn't cost you any money up front. They set a base price that they will collect when someone orders something, and you profit from whatever you price above that!

So, all my creative friends and/or enemies, start thinking. I'm definately expecting something from you, Ted.

The reason I haven't written lately (the usual excuse) is because I've been crazy busy...the director of the afterschool program is in Thailand, so I'm taking over that, a major project that is due at the end of the month, and all the little things that take up time are upon me. Now I'm just hanging around the office, waiting for a banquet to begin. It's to honor the church's volunteers. Which is great, really, but it's Friday, and I have to come back to work a stint at a flea market down the street...I just don't wanna be here!!

I too took the belief-o-matic quiz (a set of questions about my spiritual beliefs, then rates your answers to what faith group they go with), and here's my results:

1. Liberal Quakers (100%)
2. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (95%)
3. Unitarian Universalism (94%)
4. Neo-Pagan (86%)
5. Mahayana Buddhism (84%)
6. Theravada Buddhism (84%)
7. Orthodox Quaker (79%)
8. New Age (78%)
9. Secular Humanism (77%)
10. Taoism (76%)
11. Reform Judaism (72%)
12. Jainism (67%)
13. Bahá'í Faith (60%)
14. New Thought (57%)
15. Scientology (54%)
16. Hinduism (51%)
17. Sikhism (50%)
18. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (49%)
19. Nontheist (47%)
20. Christian Science (Church of Christ, Scientist) (44%)
21. Seventh Day Adventist (43%)
22. Orthodox Judaism (39%)
23. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) (39%)
24. Islam (35%)
25. Eastern Orthodox (28%)
26. Roman Catholic (28%)
27. Jehovah's Witness (25%)

Here's the kindness of Mennonite institutions revisited:

Hesston College has been advertising an opening for a Theatre prof with guarantees of full-time work. The woman who previously held the position is an aunt to one of my housemates, Anya. This is how she came to leave said position:

Theatre and costume loft was infested with toxic mold. For quite some time, apparently. After 12 years working in such an environment, the woman, with a master's in theatre and a seminary degree, fell very ill. Now she cannot be near deoderant, car fumes, perfume, etc. without her chest constricting and keeping her from breathing. She has moved back in with her mother in Ohio and basically can't leave the house unless she wears a mask. She has applied for worker's comp through the college, but apparently the college isn't liable for anything to do with this toxic mold. So, no worker's comp. The college has taken no responsibility for the illness and subsequent disablilty of their former faculty member.

Ahhh...the usual community spirit that is so advertised in the Menno world...makes my MMA struggles look harmless.

I read a disgusting pro-violence pro-bush pro-everything the US does, even shits smells good blog site. I won't even tell you where it is. It just reminded me of the saying: fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity. So true.

On Wednesday, Tom and I trekked up to Bronxville (which is a pretty nice place as far as suburbs go--an idealized version of Harrisonburg) for a poetry reading and info session at Sarah Lawrence. It was New Englandish, the weather, ie wet, but we slopped around campus and got lost. One of SLC's drawbacks is they have little signage. We stared at the undergrads--they looked young young young. Tom and I tried to pick out who the theatre students were, and waited to see where they went. Some entered the theatre eventually and we hooted when they did. Then we made our way to the library for the reading. The library reminded us of Tabor College's library, somewhat of EMU's--kind of 60s/70s attempt at futuristic architecture. There must've been extra funds around that time for small colleges to build libaries.

The reading was good. They were all alumni/e (sp?) of SLC, which was a heartening thing. One man had very heady works, the woman had very Mennoish poetry (you know, writing about PA, coal mines) and the last fellow was very sensual. He was the only one who read the poetry well. Not that cadence poets often get. It seemed he was the poetry, that it took over his body.

The info session was good. But I tried to ask a question by raising my hand (I can't help it) and people kept butting in on me. Finally I gave up. I'll email the admissions person later.

This woman came to the door this afternoon, asking for shower, shelter and food. Apparently she was in a abusive relationship and was recently homeless because she'd left the bastard--my words not hers. I said, I'm sorry, but we didn't have any of that. She said, yes we did. She'd been told by many people. Like I was hiding it up my sleeve or something. That if she bugged me enough I would give in. I mentioned that perhaps she had mistaken this church for the shelter across the street, called Open Door, run by nuns. She said no, it was here. And that she'd been to Open Door before and it was horrible and she's not racist, but the black men there were skanky. I didn't know what to say to that. She asked me what the hell did we do here if we didn't run a shelter and I listed the things we did do: Head Start, ESL, Clothes Closet, Food Pantry on Saturdays, Afterschool program. I said I would get some addresses of some women's shelters for her. So I looked and got an address of a women's shelter and a list of soup kitchens. She pocketed the papers and talked for awhile. I let her talk--it sounded like things were pretty bad with her husband--and suddenly she accused me of not doing anything to help her. I pointed out that I had given her an address of a shelter and a list of places to eat. Oh, she's not going there. She'd been there and it was horrible. They were full anyway. I said I would call and find out. After several trys I finally got a living person on the phone. And she said they only took people who had lived in previous shelters. So I tried another shelter and after several dead ends (the amount of bureaurocracy at homeless shelters is amazing) and finally got an address of a women's shelter. I gave that one to her and she'd been there too and the women were horrible. Besides, they were full. I let her call them and they were not full and the guy on the phone said he would wait. I let her use the bathroom and she came out talking again that we had a shelter; several people told her. And she'd called here once and a woman had said there was one there. How long had I worked here? Long enough to know there isn't a shelter, I said. She spoke of a number she knew about called 1 800 Safe Home I should call. I asked her why she didn't say that earlier. She'd forgotten. I called the number but all I got was a busy signal. I said she should go to the shelter I'd found. She didn't want to. She wanted Safe Home. I said the other people could help her more than I could. You had to take steps. She left saying she was going to kill her husband.

What the hell are you supposed to do in a situation like that? How can one be a humane person or a Christian or whatever?

The church is across the street from the Port Authority, which is the home of basically every bus bound for this city. When I first started here, I wondered if the sound (constant sound) of the buses passing within feet of my office window would drive me insane. I don't even notice it anymore. PD (Pastor Dave) said once that he found out nearly 500,000 people go by this church in those buses and trucks and cars every 24 hours.

500,000. Full of people that I will never meet. Some of who could be dead, dying, giving birth, marrying, etc. at this moment. Stories I'll never hear of.

Rainy. Cold. I'm bored. As good as this job has been, it's definately in a slump right now. I've only been here for an hour, and already I'm done with the stuff I planned to do. I don't think my boss, Pastor Dave, knows what to do with me. He's kind of a control-freak. Not like he's mean about it or anything, but it doesn't cross his mind to delegate. Though he is improving. I don't know if I'm supposed to come to his office every time I finish things, or what. Yesterday he came in my office and said, "What are we going to do to keep you busy?" In my fluster and guilt about it I began asking him some real, but small questions, and he got distracted answering them and then he started talking to someone else and that was the end of it...I stood around, waiting for them to finish, but finally I walked away.

But on the positive side, the trees are blooming outside of the church. It will be like an archway of leaves when summer comes.

I walked the Pax Christi Way of the Cross on Good Friday. For the uninitiated, it's a modern Via Dolorosa, or the way of the rose (Christ), which use the Stations of the Cross to address humanitarian issues, like lack of health care, starvation in the midst of plenty, etc. Definately better than Mel Gibson's Passion. Different Pax Christi groups did each station--the Mennonite did a station (the resurrection) with the Methodists. It was really good. Great weather, a good crowd, a lot of good stations, although some went a little long-winded. Here's part of our station. I don't have Bryan's (pastor of the Methodist church) reflection, but the scripture and the prayer I wrote:

Pax Christi Metro New York
Good Friday Observance

Station: #15 The Resurrection
Leaders: Washington Square UMC and the Mennonites
Location: 42nd Street between 8th and 9th
Theme: Gift of Resurrection: Transformation

Scripture: Matthew 27:62 – 28:8

The next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate and said, ‘Sir, we remember what that impostor said while he was still alive, “After three days I will rise again.” Therefore command that the tomb be made secure until the third day; otherwise his disciples may go and steal him away, and tell the people, “He has been raised from the dead”, and the last deception would be worse than the first.’ Pilate said to them, ‘You have a guard of soldiers; go, make it as secure as you can.’ So they went with the guard and made the tomb secure by sealing the stone.

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples.

Prayers of the Faithful:

Watch! Wait! The day of God is at hand! The plans of those who prefer ruin to resurrection have been foiled by the power of justice.

Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!

The day of God is at hand! It is not in some far-off time or place, but in the here and now. As Christ cast the stone of death aside and breathed life, we must cast our stones aside and breathe life.

Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!

The day of God is at hand! We must cast aside the stones of hate, judgment, degradation of our brothers and sisters, mass-consumption and destruction of our planet and the people who live upon it. Like the women who were the first to run to share the good news, let us be ready to do the same.

Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!

The day of Transformation is at hand! The mighty wind has blown; the mantle of darkness is torn away. In the daylight, let us grab the hand of the Christ of compassion, the Christ of love and the Christ of peace. Let us build the upside-down kin-dom spiritually and physically. The bud has blossomed. Christ is risen!

Christ is risen indeed!

I received my rejection letter from Columbia on Friday, which was no big surprise. (And somewhat a relief--would or should I turn down COLUMBIA and go to SLC?) But it was the nicest rejection of the three I'd gotten. It was four paragraphs long--and large paragraphs. Brooklyn was only two short and New School was two and a sentence. Which is better than some places, I've heard. A friend got a postcard--a postcard! At least the other schools took the time and money to send a letter. The Columbia letter said things about the large number of applicants (which could just be a way to soften the blow, although I've heard there are a lot more people turning to grad school because of the economic slump--one good thing out of GWB's administration, I would guess), and the fact that arts-related fields are very subjective when one is choosing students. Which was a lot nicer than BC's statement: "Your submission was not the strongest." Never mind they'd taken a little more than a week to decide no and then when I applied to the English MA program, took less than a week to say yes. Not that I don't think I am a brilliant English candidate, but for God's sake, let the ink dry on the application.

I realize as I write this that my opinions of NS and BC are very subjective as well--it would be a different story if I'd gotten in. Well, maybe not NS. They were snobby from the start.

But I'm an artist, dammit, I can be as subjective as I want! :)

I took the plunge the other day and sent in my registration form with the 150 for SLC. I'm going to start classes in the fall. Good heavens, what the hell am I doing? I'm going into huge debt to get a degree that won't necessarily bring in much money. Oh well, you only live once.

GLOAT TIME

I received an acceptance letter from Sarah Lawrence College into the MFA Creative Writing program the other day........I can't quite believe it. I was rejected by Brooklyn College and New School, so I was feeling pretty crappy about it and wondering what the heck I was going to do with myself next year and I was getting old and felt I couldn't go on--and then Wed. evening I returned from work to find a FAT envelope sitting in the mailbox. I never believed the whole fat envelope skinny envelope thing since I didn't get a fat one from my undergrad schools and I was accepted into those. I tore the thing open and pulled out all the papers and read the letter and read the letter again (to make sure) and let out a scream which brought Kevin, Kara Daniel, Brian, Mike to see and I really couldn't believe it.

When I called Tom about it, his coworkers sang "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow" and shouted at me through the phone.

Thomas said: "Make sure you gloat. And don't gloat like a Mennonite; gloat like a Baptist."

So.

I admit I am feeling a little superior towards BC and NS. SLC is rather selective--and said so in the letter. Besides that, it was my first choice.

So.

I did redirect my application at BC to the MA in English. This is before I found out about SLC. For a while I've thought about that, and what I should do. I thought: maybe this is a sign or something.

But I got into f-ing SLC!

In celebration the other night, Tom and I had a very Christopher-like late night repast of tortellini, pesto, grated parmesean, wine with candlelight.

And Ben and Jerry's.

So, here I am at work, feeling and being useless. Not that I don't have things to do, but I am waiting for other people to get things done and they aren't for one reason or another. I'm feeling bad yet I think: hey, I'm a volunteer! Not that I'm going to totally just hang around doing nothing...

Right now one of the other volunteers is on the phone, which is certainly a personal call, and I think he's using the church long distance code. Hmmm...

There are some high school kids painting my soon to be office during their spring break. Pretty nice people, although they're playing the music a little loud...

Okay, enough of that.

The other day a man got on the L train who was carrying pieces of a flute. I was sitting at the time, he stood in front of me, which was no big deal except for the fact he was nodding out (for the unintiated, that's the high taking effect) and stumbing all over the place and into everyone. I could just see him falling into my lap. Luckily, he didn't.

Last night I was teaching my ESOL class, and a couple of difficult-to-pronounce words came up, at least for Hispanic and Japanese speakers: comprehension and humiliation. When this happens, I have them look at my mouth and I say the words syllable by syllable. COM-PRE-HEN-SION COM-PRE-HEN-SION COM-PRE-HEN-SION COM-PRE-HEN-SION HU-MIL-I-A-TION HU-MIL-I-A-TION HU-MIL-I-A-TION. Then I have them follow me. COM-PRE-HEN-SION COM-PRE-HEN-SION COM-PRE-HEN-SION HU-MIL-I-A-TION HU-MIL-I-A-TION HU-MIL-I-A-TION. For a good ten minutes we were saying this in a chant-like manner. It was hilarious. When I said I should write a chant for them, they looked confused. I tried to explain what exactly chant meant, which led to a discussion on Native Americans, which led to talking about pow-wows. The SIO and THO and OUGH sounds are very hard for them. I have no idea what to do but have them chant. I'm probably breaking some sacred ESOL rule. But everyone was laughing and having a good time. They were chanting as they walked out the door. It was great. I'm going to try to write a chant.

Carlos, my UNO fellow, has yet to appear for afterschool sessions, so I'm safe for the time being...

I'm listening to my Black Crowes CD, which I found after Ben moved out for college. Sorry Ben! It's all mine now. I remember feeling like such an evil person then, listening to nonchristian music.

Smallness Take Two

Both Kevin and I (the KS connection) have seen Michael W. Smith in concert at the Kansas Collesium.

Talked to Mum on the phone last night re the church. It was basically a loss at about 2 million. They're having services in the high school auditorium, and the school has offered it to Big MB for the next 2 years. She also said there's been renewed vitality in the congregation. A lot of lay people have really stepped up and taken leadership. She says people in the church have opened up to one another in a whole new way.

I really feel like I've been churchy-talky of late, when I don't see myself that way at all...

I haven't heard anything from about the church fire. Get this on how small the world is: there's a guy here at my new job who was born in Hillsboro, then moved to McPherson (about 45 min from Hillsboro--his parents still live there) and is good friends with a guy from Tabor College who married a woman I went to high school with, AND his dad who sings in the Mennonite Men's Chorus, possibly was at Big MB when the fire started.

Today I made a bet with a 10 year old. We were playing UNO, and I was on a winning streak, so, when Carlos suggested we make a bet with the final round, i of course agreed. I don't know if this was a good idea morally, but you know...

His bet was that "I will always do my homework and not fool around."

Mine was "I will stuff 8 jet-puff marshmallows in my mouth."

Five minutes later, I was trounced.

I was so angry at Ralph Nader I sent him this letter via email--it sounds a bit self-righteous but that's how I feel at the moment:

Dear Sir-

The fact that you are running again for president is, how shall I say this--appalling. Not to mention grand-standing, self-serving, etc. I voted for you in 2000--I will never do it again. And it is not because I am not in agreement with many of your stances politically, or the fact that this country should have more than one party running. It is because we need to get rid of the "compassionate conservative" that is in the White House today. We must elect a democrat to try to regain respect in the global community, restructure our failing economy, stop this anti-gay and lesbian diatribe--need I say more? I am not fooled by the democrats' statements that all is perfect in their party. But the past four years have shown how much more imperfect the republican party is. Funding for Head Start has been slashed (in spite of "no child left behind), jobs are being lost, taxes for the rich are cut yet average americans pay the bills for the military prowess of our nation--instead of for programs that will help them in their day-to-day lives. I work with people daily who have been affected by this man we call president. My husband is an outreach worker with users in a needle exchange program--which Bush would like to eliminate. The people who suffer are not you or I, but the under-paid, over-ignored classes that serve our french fries for a few dollars an hour. These are amazing people. I am honored to work with them. Change must come, yes. I believe it must come. But it must come slowly, and not hurt the ones it is meant to serve, which is what I believe you may do if you pull Kerry supporters to your side and consequently, put Bush back in again. Act locally, think globally. Work to get small politcians in office. They can make a difference.

That is all.

I wonder sometimes if I'm fit to be a mother becuase the kids I work with drive me nuts sometimes. For example, I told Billy to shut up last week! I couldn't believe it. I felt horrible for days after. It reminded me of the fuck you! incident back in August or September (see archives) And then one day I soundly beat a girl at UNO, and I think I hurt her feelings becuase she didn't want to play anymore. I like all of them, and they are fun to be with, but I'm always glad when their mamas come get them. ESOL is very cool. I like teaching and talking with them. It's a weird juxtaposition (million dollar word) how I work with kids who don't want to do homework to teaching adults who love it.

Speaking of motherhood, I have been asked at least three times in as many weeks if I'm going to have kids. It's not MY biological clock ticking, it's everyone else's.

Well, my hometown (hillsboro, ks--Mennonite Brethren) church burned down yesterday, as well as a house next door. No one was hurt. They aren't sure what started it (it began in the sanctuary), but a thought is that it was the furnace--although arson isn't ruled out. Someone tried to a few years ago. My mother said on the phone last night: "I'm sure there are plenty of people glad to see it go." It was a huge fire, apparently. The church spans basically half a block, thus the local nickname, "Big MB". Everything is gone. Up in smoke, if you will. That's horrible, I know. Even though I haven't really been there for about 7 years now, and I have issues with the church as a whole, it still is pretty sad. I spent a lot of my life at that church--i was baptized there (full immersion for you sprinkling heretics out there--hee hee), I am still officially a member, youth group, etc. And there a lot of friends that go there, and good old grandmothers who know more about my family history than I do. A lot of fiery debris was floating around, and started grass fires in places. My family's house is about a block and a half away, and my mum spent most of the afternoon hosing down the house and yard and choking on smoke. While my dad, a fire chaser alll his life--one of my first memories is him carrying out furniture of a burning house--was there getting furniture and taking pictures.

Passion of Crap

Okay, so it's a little harsh. I'm not saying you shouldn't see this movie, but be forewarned. Frankly, I think it's an excuse for Gibson to have "Christian" violence, hints of anti-semitism and mysoginy (guess which gender Satan is, with a snake slithering through her legs--slightly fallic, I think--might as well have an apple in her hand, though there is a spooky baby) and a Jesus that I have no connection with at all. And it's hailed by the Gary Wiens and James Dobsons of the world as a true description of the suffering of Christ. Never mind Gibson pulled out his story from all of the Gospels, which all tell the tale in different ways. But the thing I think really did it in for me, was the fact that we never really know why Christ was killed in the first place. No real concentration on the Sermon on the Mount, no healing, no parables, no widows giving her little for the temple. Of course in the movie we have the stoning of the prostitute, which happens to be Mary M., though there is no proof she was the prostitute. And the fact that the resurrection is given about five seconds at the end. Never mind that's what made Christianity a belief system. The fact that Christ destroyed death, that he spoke of it and actually did it--that is the Jesus I know.

Alright. Because during an excellent conversation with Teddy, an old college chum, who told me "I haven't read anything in your blog of late," and others have hinted the same (okay, two, but anyway) here I am, ashamed as ever to be keeping any secrets from folks. So here's what I've been doing/saying/thinking/seeing...

The other day I watched several mothers tote their children (in strollers) down the subway stairs and back up again. Whoever called women the weaker sex didn't see this.

I did that suicide run in front of cars again. I have also done the dash into the subway doors mindless of the doors or the slippery floors beneath.

I felt like a real NYer the other day when someone dissed Tom and I talked to my friend, Kansas, about kicking that fucking bitch's ass. Of course I didn't.

I sent off my last (well maybe last) application to grad school, my FAFSA, etc. this week. I don't know if I have mentioned it here, but I'm applying for an MFA in writing. One of those millions of wannabes in this city I am sure. I don't know what to do with myself now. All this hawking of my writer's wares has made me somewhat weary of words. I'll need to get over that. I have a couple stories just hanging in limbo. And I haven't tried to get them out.

well, it's been awhile...

let's see what's happened: the other day I was riding the subway across from this guy who appeared to be sleeping when I sat down. I didn't pay attention to him until he began to take off his left shoe. It seemed innocent enough, as he scratched his foot like anyone else. Then he took off his sock and began scratching his feet. At this point I pretended to be asleep and watched him through a veil of eyelashes. He began rubbing his fingers between his toes--and--ate the junk he came up with!! I stared at him in that horrible fascination, the ambulance on the side of the road stare.