Ugh. I've had this weird sick thing going on for the past two days. My stomach is nauseouss, my nose stuffed up, my head aches, my throat hurts, but not enough to keep me bed ridden. I took a Claratin because I thought that would clear my nose and take care of the throat. Which it did. But now I'm wandering about in a haze. I have no idea where this came from. Saturday I felt great, but late Saturday night I got a scratchy throat and it all just went downhill from there. I have done a lot of reading these past few days. I re-read In the Skin of a Lion and am halfway through The English Patient. Hopefully soon I will review them on Pileofgreybooks.

Job searching is depressing. This is really the first time in my life where IÂ’ve had to fight others for jobs. And not being as positive that I would win.

Well, since I've been back I've been job hunting. I've applied to two places. We'll see what happens.

Being back to Kansas was nice--and hot. Unlike here (until today where it is finally 70 degrees--before that the 50s). When we took off from LaGuardia, I managed to get a brief glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. It was all sultry and mystical looking. When I was on the return flight, the plane literally swooped over the island. It was night so the borough was lit up like Christmas, and we were so low I could see where we lived before and where we're living now. (Of course, the general area.) It was great. I went home via the bus for the first time, instead of cabbing it. It felt freeing to know I could step out onto the street and get myself home--not having to bum a ride. I felt proud to be a New Yorker. Being back in Kansas reminded me so much of how dependent people in those areas are on cars.

One little funny story about my trip back:

As I was waiting to board the plane at Wichita, this pouty-looking 16-year-old wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt came to the line and started complaining to I guess her mother about how the security folks bugged her and frisked her. She kept whining about it, until her father had enough. "That's what you get for being in the big city, hon," he said.

I nearly busted out laughing. The Big City of Wichita, Kansas. Good grief. I nearly added: "You better stay far from New York, then." I'm glad I didn't, because I had to sit by Miss Pouty-Pants on the plane.

I'm off to Kansas tomorrow for a little jaunt. Apparently it's in the 80's and windy, which is hard to imagine in this still slightly chilly New York. David is graduating from Tabor College, and is the last in line of our little nuclear family. What my mother is going to do without someone to worry about is now the question. I'm having the usual "I'm sure I'm going to die" fears. As I packed my bag, I envisioned it blowing up into little pieces. I know the chances of this happening is less than the chances of me getting driven over by a garbage truck while crossing the street, but I feel like I have some control of that kind of death than trusting people I'll never know with my life. Or that various terrorists will think a plane headed for Minneapolis is too innocuous of a destination. I imagine myself screaming at the potential terrorists: Don't kill me! I don't represent the USA! I'm in favor of a Palestinian state, I was against the war in Iraq, I try not to be a consumer, I see good in Islam! You can't think we all are a part of that!

So.

On a lighter note, the maintenence guy came to fix our leaky pipe--three days after I made the call, however. He was very nice and friendly. And I don't want to get on the bad side of the maintenence office.

Day 2 was yet another fun, activity filled day. I did laundry, cleaned, made an appointment with an orthodontist (I think I'm going to have to have a wisdom tooth that is causing much pain every couple of months pulled--the dentist said I should have all of them pulled, but I'm not made of money. He was shocked when I said it had been years since my last cleaning--I do believe it was childhood. He acted like I'd been neglecting a baby or something. I decided not to bother telling him about my long, drawn out medical history. "I'm sorry, dealing with brain tumors and leg tumors took up most of my time. Besides the fact that one needs good health insurance to do something so frivolous," I could have said), bought a replacement for this adapter thing that connects my laptop to the plug in for what seemed to me a ridiculous amount of money, a pair of jeans (frivolous I know--but my justification tells me I haven't bought a BRAND NEW pair of jeans in years. I think I was a junior in college. Between then and now I've always gone the thrift-store route. I think Sarah Diener Beachy would be proud. They were only from Old Navy, anyway.), a prescription and a bottle of pesto sauce. Now I'm at Tom's work pecking out this blog. So, I've managed to write every day so far.

Ahhhh....my first day of freedom. So far I've done well on the not slumming around thing. Today I put the rest of my clothes in the ever-shrinking closet, went to the Brooklyn Museum of Art with Sarah and Alex (SLC writing friends), ate Vietnamese food (deeeelicious), and now am writing...well, on the blog, anyway. The museum was really cool. Way better than 25-dollar-a-pop MoMA (Museum of Modern Art, for those not in the know). This only costs 8--4 for students. I didn't have to pay this time, because Alex was with his art class, and some of the students didn't show, so I got in for free. I figure SLC owes me anyway, with her expensive tuition and all.

One thing about living in Harlem is the fact that all the white people around me think I'm totally bad-ass because of it. The art prof asked me where I lived and at first I just said Manhattan, but since Manhattanites always want to know where in Manhattan you live, I added, Harlem. Well, she said, awe in her voice, that must be interesting.

Yeah, I said, assuming a cool pose, it's pretty nice.

In reality, the part that we live in is pretty nice. There are projects around, but fairly nice ones, for projects, and the crime statisically is no worse than where we used to live--and that was in hotchy-dotchy Gramercy Park. The only thing that I'm really troubled about is the way the men call at me. I've been called Snowbunny, Goldilocks, several Baby and Beautiful Girls have been thrown my way. The thing is, I don't know how to respond to it. I've just ignored them, and I'm developing a nasty street face for when I walk out the door. It may be working, because when I have the face on I don't get bugged. Now I know why African-American women are so tough. With African-American men (at least the ones who call you Baby and Honey--obviously not every black man does this) you can't show fear, because then they pounce on it. The thing is, too, some of the men (and women) that I've dealt with at the rental office and maintenence call me baby--but it doesn't bother me. I feel that there are times when its out of affection rather than anything sexual. Like guys saying Brother or girls saying Sister. Or Latinos calling each other Momma and Papa.

And you can't say white men are all angels. Sarah, my friend at SLC, says that a lot of white men in Yonkers call out at her--probably because she's Asian.

I have to say that New York is still so segregated. I thought when we still lived in Menno House things were pretty integrated, but now when I'm downtown how white it really is. I wonder if black women in Gramercy feel the way I do in Harlem at times. I'm sure of it. Rachel, who is African-American and another classmate, says she was once wandering around Bronxville and people literally stared at her like she was shit. Apparently a teacher at Sarah Lawrence was asked to leave a store in Bronxville, because black people always shoplift.

So, it doesn't make me any less scared, but it's not like other people haven't had to deal with that kind of shit.

So, I've got only two classes to go and my first year of MFAing is over. Wheeee! Although it will be harder to write without a deadline, so I must be very vigilant. Very very vigilant. I'm also going to have to get serious about looking for a job. Not only will the money be nice, but I need something to either get me out of the little ledge we now call home--or at least give me more structured time. Honestly, I can see myself slumming my way through the summer, tapping on my laptop every once in awhile to prove that I'm working.

Being without internet has been both a blessing and a curse. Now the only thing I have to distract me when I should be writing is solitare. Today I was considering trying out Tom's vile violent computer game, Mafia...

I've been feeling rather, well, stupid lately. In my craft classes, people are always bashing the authors we're reading and praising to the sky William Faulkner and how no one can equal him, blah blah blah... It's not that I don't have things to say, either positively or negatively, but I feel my ways of putting them are not on the same, I don't know, plane or something. I can't express it in the ways some of my classmates chant: "The story thread just didn't work with the imagery and really, how can you bring up Christ symbolism in the dichotomy of today's post-post-colonial-modern age?"

I ate lunch with a different crowd than I usually do on Wed., and all they talked about the whole meal was writing, and William Faulkner, and blah blah blah. I like reading, I love writing, but people who spend all their time just making fictional jabber to impress each other and themselves just bores me to tears. I like to talk about other things, inane things, like gossiping about people, etc. Especially at lunch. I just need a second to connect with the lesser parts of my soul...

I will be glad to see this semester end, I believe.