this will be short

Well, it's been a while--for actual reasons, rather than fancied ones. As most of you know, I had my middle and ring fingers removed from my left hand, so I'm half typing, half hen-pecking. Once the cast if off (next week), I believe I will be able to get more back into it.

Apparently, during the operation, I sang throughout. (I wasn't "put under." They merely sedated me. Which I was happy about, really. I've never liked getting the gas. It feels too much like dying.) I remember looking at what I imagined to be stars, and discovering if I sang, they would blink at me in turn with each note. I kept getting frustrated and having to start over, and changing tunes mid-line. What was I singing? Hymns. Be thou my vision, What is this place, etc. All good Mennonite hymns for the wandering soul. I also talked politics. Mainly about Bush.

I asked my doctor last week if I'd really sung out loud, and he said yes, it sounded like you'd had a couple of beers. But don't worry, he added with a smile, it's all confidential.

Major operations aside, I do have one thing to crow about: I'm reading to a group of complete strangers next week. I'll read the poetry I had published in VoidMagazine.com a few months ago. (All that is on the web is my bio, but you should check it out anyway.)

indiana jones

I watched Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade this afternoon, and it struck me at the end how in the first and the last in the series there are religious articfacts destroyed. At first, I found myself wondering: what does that mean, exactly. What is the Spielberg/Lucas cult trying to say? Are they saying religion is no more than dusty artifacts that are placed in a box and forgotten or are buried under the stone of Petra?

But then Sean Connery spoke.

He said--and I paraphrase--She [the obligatory blonde who died while reaching for the Holy Grail] never believed in the Grail. She saw it as a prize.

Indiana said: So, what did you find from the grail?

Sean Connery said: Illumination.

An interesting comment on religion in today's world. People seeking faith and meaning, instead of depending on objects or dogmas to cling to.

At least, that's what I draw from it.

nose picking

Today on the M14a bus downtown, a guy, a normal guy: black shirt, jeans, hipster haircut and goatee, was picking his nose in a rather extravagant manner. I mean, he was seriously going at it, and to top it all off he studied whatever his fingers came up with. Although it wasn't the grossest thing I've seen while in New York (I've seen men pee on streetcorners, men in tighty whiteys wander around parks and harassing women out sunbathing, a guy wandering Lenox Ave with his pants around his legs and no underwear--you get the point), this kind of behavior strikes me as more odd when "normals" do such things. If a guy who was not obviously out of his mind was walking towards me with his pants down, I'd be a lot more nervous.

Today a woman on the street who looked like an Orthodox Jew asked me for money, and I gave her the contents of my little coin purse I keep with me in case I need busfare and have no Metro card, or to buy a Coke--usually it's a Coke. Why? Because I was feeling guilty about not giving a woman on the subway who looked like she needed a hit of something fairly bad. (I pulled the ol' New York stunt of pretending to not see and about to drift off to sleep.) And no, I didn't not give her the money because of that; I don't care what they do with the money once I give it to them. They're not going to quit drinking or using because I wouldn't give them the change out of my pocket. I was feeling guilty because for all my crowing about the US's gobbling up resources and contributing to others' starvation, I would sooner buy mysef a pop than give it to someone on the subway. One's ideals quickly fall apart when things like this pop onto one's own personal radar. I talk the good liberal Jesus follower talk, but I rarely do it. I hate war, but if someone was holding a gun to the head of a loved one, I would do anything in my power to stop him or her, which probably means something violent.

a resurrection, of sorts

I began to wonder yesterday what the world would be like if no one ever died. If Isaiah (or the tens of Isaiahs or no Isaiahs at all--depending on your view) was still wandering around, I suppose our view of things like the Bible and the Koran would completely be different. I mean, we'd have to believe what he said, and maybe he'd lie and tell a different story than what really happened, but then again, what's truth anyways...? Would we have made the kinds of strides as a race of human wanderers if the folks who believed the world was flat and that leeches were good for you? Or would they have changed with the times that flow so precariously onward? Would King Tut be working at the 7-Eleven, dealing with the slush machine? Would Apostle Paul still be the rock of the Catholic church--or running an evangelical TV show with Pat Robertson? The world would be a crowded place.

I guess I'm trying to grapple with the idea of death at all. It's so cliched, I know, to think about the mortality of the self, but there it is. Some people live to 103, others much much less. It makes it very difficult to believe in a god at all. Why would this god have made the world such a hideous place at times? A place where millions upon millions have perished from starvation, genocide, disease, murder and everything in between. And for what? What kind of a "lesson" are we, the living, to take from this? People still die from genocide, starvation, disease, murder. It seems to have failed to give us a lesson in humanity towards our brothers and sisters, to give out of our abundance to those who have nothing, to wake up and deal with at the very least preventable diseases by giving people medicine for free, allowing condoms and clean needles all over the place. This is not to ignore all those diseases that are in our very genes and we try and try to save people and sometimes win and sometimes fail. Those things that cripple people from birth and make their personal journeys in life that much harder.

It's been said that death is the great equalizer. But we die in such unequal ways. If there is life after death, truly a resurrection of the body, then maybe it is. But if this is the only moment of our existence, the only point we'll ever know before we drop into nothing, than the experiences of death really do matter.

subject subway

As I rode the train downtown today, I looked around at all the people sitting near me, and wondered how anyone in that car could imagine themselves dead from a bomb. Then I wondered how anyone could consciously kill them with a bomb. How someone could look a person in the face and decided to detonate something that will end their story is beyond me. I guess people all over history have done it.

My life remained untouched in a physical way. I did laundry, I went to the grocery where the bagging-groceries lady called me "mommy" (yea! I'm making an in at the Met), and glued the snout of my bookend elephant. I placed the pair on the kitchen table. They looked so cute, standing there side by side. I felt they must've missed each other while waiting for my healing hands.

I read an article in The New Yorker about how kids of a certain age believe that everything has a consciousness, and there comes a time when that stage ends. I have to admit I don't think that stage ever left me. I still believe in a way that my toys from my childhood have consciousnesses (if that's a word), and that they feel betrayed because of my abandonment of them. Some are still at the farmhouse (including my Barbies, my "just like a newborn" doll--this doll even smelled all baby powderish--and others (I think they're still there)) and others are in the Great Unkown (a giant teddy bear named Big Bear, an elephant that played a little song named Ellie and a giant purple turtle (I have a memory of me finding my mother affixing a price tag before a garage sale and making her take it off). I even have some still with me, though at present are crowded into a little box in a trunk in our studio (a snail named Seymour, my lamb named--appropriately--Lambie, a Kermit the Frog and others). I do have a beanie baby monkey that Tom gave me for our first Valentine's day named Myron and a nameless beanie baby bear sitting on my desk. Hell, I believe my books and clothes have thoughts. I feel bad sometimes when I haven't worn a piece of clothing for months or I truck them off to the thrift store. The prospect of the End of the World made me cry at times because I imagined them heading towards the sun on the road to God's destruction. I guess my consciousness theory stopped when it came to being saved and going to heaven.

I couldn't have been more than three when I began to think of The End. I have no memories of my parents ever talking about it, so I have no idea where those thoughts came from.

Death so surrounds us. Not just at times like today. It amazes me that I can go out the door and face this Death. I ran into Alicia yesterday, and she was going to a memorial service for a man who had hit his head, said it was okay, then never woke up from his sleep. I sometimes forget that people who were such fixtures in my life are no more. A while ago I found myself wondering what a guy I knew in high school was up to--then remembered he had died.

margaritaville

There are so many cute women that work at LESHRC. Right now I'm secretly watching Carla about her business wearing a bright pink shirt and Andrea who just planted something with rocks. Tanesha has a cool underthelip ring and a tongue ring and just dresses wonderfully. Raquel has this look that's always verging on some sneaky joke and Evelyn has this jaunty little scarf and geeky glasses that accentuates her eyebrows. Apparently, according to Tom, they all think I'm cute as well, so what's not to like about them? Oh, and Annie. Annie's this tiny little woman with a tiny little dog named Sparky--both are cute and excitable. She did a show the Xmas of 2003 at the Slipper Room, I believe. Her singing and monologuing were great. As Tom says, she's one of those people who knows EVERYONE in the New York underworld celebrity-wise. Apparently, Bjork is afraid of Annie. Of Annie!

Well, Tom and I did watch the fireworks, in our own way. We sat in The Thirsty Scholar on 2nd Ave., drank a Margarita (me) and Jack Daniels (Tom) after a delightful supper of borscht and pierogis and watched them on TV with Bruce Springstine caterwaling in the background while reading the New York Post. (I used to so be snobbish about anyone who read the Post, but now I'm sans the Times, and the Post is so much cheaper!) It was one of the better bar experiences I've had. We had the whole place to ourselves. Even the slightly bimboish bartender was outside trying to get a glimpse of the fireworks over the buildings. The margarita was a little more than I had counted on, but honestly I can't remember the last time I drank, much less sat in a bar to do it.

yellow subway

On my way downtown this afternoon a father, son and mother got on the W train. Father and son (son about 6--father I'd say early 50s) were both wearing yellow--entirely yellow--outfits. Pants, shirts, socks. All yellow. And the funniest thing about this was the dad's outfit was a bright bright yellow, whereas the son was a more muted shade. Oh, and the dad wore a blue fatigue print backpack. What was the mom wearing? A fantastic brown tank top and frilly brown-and-white skirt. She had long, gorgeous legs (which the dad kept touching) and she looked at least ten years younger than he did.

The Hasidm were out in full force today at the train. The other day Tom and I watched a documentary called "Trembling Before G-D," an excellent depiction of the lives of LGBT and religious Jews. An interesting comment made by the first Orthodox, gay rabbi was that even if religious Jews consider homosexuality a sin, the Torah says nothing about one not being able to go to shul because one is a sinner. Otherwise, he said, there would be no one there. An interesting companion--for Christian-based folk--is Jesus telling the Pharasies only one who is without sin can throw the first stone at the accused woman.

Well, happy fourth. I've always felt weird about this holiday. So much when I was a kid all I thought about was fireworks. Heck, now it's all I think about. Now that we live in Harlem we have no roof to watch them on, and I don't want to sit in a huge crowd for hours. Who knows if we'll even watch them this year. So, happy birthday to this country that facilitated religious freedom for some, who killed off an entire nation of people, who enslaved Africans, who treats Asians and Hispanics like they were nothing, who gave people a chance to start again (my ancestors included) but denied it to others, who gives us so much power to say what we wish--stupid or not and who knows what definition one would use to the word, stupid--yet uses that power via the Patriot Act...Well, you get the point.

A week or so ago I said to my mother: "The [institution that will remain nameless] is so horrible--but there are so many nice people there, it would be hard to leave!" I feel that way about the US. I hate it but I love the people in it. Enough. I'm off the soapbox for the day.

going to "church"

I realized the other day as I was about to sit down to...that the brand of our commode is "church." I know there is some guy or girl, named Joe or Jane Church out there who own a proud and odd, though necessary, factory that produces commodes, but good heavens.

Today after a lengthy doctor's visit, I bought a coke and a starbuck's cookie and sat on the steps at Union Square park. Some guy dressed up as a king or clown or both was parading around, stating who knows what. A couple of girls settled down beside me and used the word "like" with valley/new york city accents, if that's possible.

As I sit here I'm thinking: if someone out there actually has a living out of making toilets, then others have weird jobs too. Like this bottle of white out sitting here; although I suppose they have a lot of machines to do a lot of the work, someone's job is to screw the caps on, right? Or is there a machine to do that? Do pencil factories have someone put the eraser on the end? Talk about crazy cocktail hour small talk: yes, I am the foreperson of the eraser attaching division at my company. It seems crazy, but those damn erasers are necessary! So these people, if there are such ones, should be proud of their work. Of course, these days it is a distinct possibility that it's done by some little kid in Taiwan for 1/2 cent a day.