There is a quote which I'm going to totally misstate about writing that says: "The best writers are the best liars--yet they tell the greatest truths."

I'm not saying anything about this statement in reference to me, exactly--but I've realized a lot since I began school that a lot of what I write doesn't necessarily come from me or from the gods above, but from ordinary things I have encountered. For example, today I was just reading the City section when I glanced at the personal ads, and the following ad caught my eye:

God Commanded Moses…to be smart, handsome, successful, creative, witty,
sensual, compassionate, mature, energetic, and blessed. Be his female
match, 40-55, and share with him the Promised Land.

Now, this totally opened my mind to a whole new tack for my present story--where the Moses trucker seeks a wife--and it was already written! I only changed a few words when I wrote it in my scene. Now, I'm not saying that this story will ever be in anything great, but I've realized that little chance finds like that push my art more than anything I can conjure.

It's been one of those days. You know, the one where you don't have the heart to do anything at all, even though you have more than enough to do. The only constructive things I did today were setting up a Monster account and buying file folders and an ink cartrige for my crappy printer. It was blessed cold out there, though I wore two layers of everything and a heavy coat, scarf and mittens. My face was numb when I got home. Compared to my blog entry a week ago, I sound like an old woman complaining to her cats.

My class was cancelled for tomorrow because of the snowstorm that pretty much blanketed the whole NE. Frankly, the snow wasn't as bad as the cold that came before it. Friday, when Tom and I went to this ridiculous Anti-inaugural Ball (For more on that, go to Tom's blog. I must say I didn't see the penis, because of my shortness in the crowd, but I saw the shaking, rubbing breasts and heard the words pussy dick cunt etc. more than I'd expected in any setting, much less a church sanctuary. There was also the use of the n-word at the end, which definately offended me. Some white student-actor-who-is-rich-because-Mommy and Daddy-pay-for NYU said it. And they say, "It is art, so it's okay." This is Judson, though, so I can't say I was totally surprised. It is a great place, really. I don't necessarily blame anyone in the church itself for any of it. This summer I went to an exhibit in this same sanctuary protesting the Iraq War: all it was composed of was pair after pair after pair of soldiers' boots, some of which were the actual boots worn by soldiers who had died in Iraq. Just the number of boots and the listing of names, mixed with the smell shoes get when worn by humans no longer around to wear them--I could only stay a little while. It was such a powerful experience. And now it has been smeared by this ridiculous show that only confirms any right-winged Christian that liberals are the spawn of Satan.), we actually took a cab to a place less than half an hour away, it was so frigid.

Then we ran into some Menno House folks and stood around talking to each other and drinking Bud Lite from little cans. A friend of mine from Pax Christi days, Karen, a minister at Judson, seemed a little pissed at what was going on. Then we saw Bryan, another minister from Pax days who now is a friend. We talked. He went home to go to bed. And we decided to leave. So, we hopped another cab. I felt so like an Upper West Sider.

But the real cold didn't hit until around two a.m. I know this because that was when Tom realized his bag was missing. He had left it at Gramarcy Diner where we'd met for supper--again. This has happened a total of three times. Twice at Gramarcy and once at Kyber Pass. So, we bundled up to go over there and see if it was still there. It was. When we walked back, I realized I could not feel my face. It was numb from a cold from a walk that took less than ten minutes. That's how cold it was.

I just read my first ever graphic novel. I'd seen parts of Mouse, the holocaust one, but never read it through. It was my first assignment for my writing workshop. And then I am to create one of my own! It's called Persepolis: the story of a childhood. It's a story, a memoir, about the Iranian revolutioni seen through the eyes of a child. I am, I believe, hooked. I read most of it at Barnes and Noble--though I bought it at the Strand, which made me feel cool. I didn't buy and books there but I sat in their cafe and read it. I did buy a cookie and a coffee, so maybe I wasn't as cool as I thought...Then I went home and finished it, listening to The Miseducation of Lauren Hill.

I'm slightly in ecstasy right now. This is what I get to do. These are my assignments: to read novels and write stories. This is called school for me.

It is fucking fucking cold out there.

At last, here I am.

So many blogs have gone unwritten in the last few weeks: I've called family members on the carpet, been royally pissed at friends, the name "Jessica" according to blogger is actually cheesecake, been royally pissed at family members' landlords for their Byzantine behavior, have met the husbands of high school friends for the first time (all answering to the name Brian), found out that good college friends are in the whole tie the knot group, started a story about Moses and a truckload of cows, and since last night, I have dyed my hair a shade of blackish-red.

School starts tomorrow. I don't have class until Wednesday, but I feel like I have to start really being responsible beginning on Tuesday. Both Anya and I dyed our hair yesterday. We both felt we had to do something brash and new before going back to SLC. Hers is much more muted and natural-looking. Mine reminds me of a darker version of "Run Lola Run." My brain is in a muddle. I have no idea how I'm to survive this semester, especially since it's gotten so damn cold. Probably any money I'll save on not having to go up three days a week but only two will be spent on taxi fare to carry my wimpy ass to school.