clothes horse

Well, the weather's finally gone brisk in New York--at least for a day, and I finally got myself (after much rumination before the god of the closet) into a fall outfit: jeans, brown polyestering dress, those hippie beads that are so popular now and flip flops (I'd use the word "thongs" but Tom is always fake appalled when I say it: you go home (Kansas, for the totally ignorant) for a week and come back saying "pop" and "thongs," he complains). Even my hair behaved and I let it down instead of up.

I'm always at a loss (well, more than a loss than usual) when the seasons change. When summer comes I feel half-naked for weeks. Then fall arrives and I'm shivering in my cotton skirts and t-shirts. Fashion-wise I've always liked Fall and Winter better. You get to be more creative then; throw on a scarf or a hat or layer something upon something and you look like you actually have a little fashion sense--at least I think so. But in the summer there's not a lot of options, and unless you're a skinny minnie the options are even less. I have gotten into the whole New Yorkified skirt trend. I think I wore jeans or pants just a few times this summer.

I'm ashamed at times how much I think about clothes. There are people in the world starving and this is what I think about! And I give excuses like: well, I mainly shop in thrift stores, so at least I'm not giving it to The Man and forcing some tiny Chinese child to make my 500 dollar dress and she gets 5 cents. (And yes, I know the whole "well, they need those jobs in those countries so it's okay" argument--I'm not going there in this blog I'm merely being totally self-centered right now.) This is one of those few days I think: I wish I was having my picture taken right now, instead of at those usual inopportune times. Sigh.

crush

For the first time in quite some time I've discovered something: I have a crush. An honest to god, certifiable crush! Some may think I shouldn't be crowing about such a thing, since I am a married woman. And I am. A very happily married woman. But I still have eyes and a mind and I'm human, so there you have it. Tom and I discuss our crushes openly. In college we once held crushes at the same time, and when we saw each other's crush we'd report it to the other: Hey, I saw your crush today in the library, etc. I think it's healthier that way, being honest about attractions. A friend once dealing with a relationship that was at a crux moment confided in me that he still liked other women, so maybe the relationship shouldn't continue. I told him about my crushes, and that it didn't mean my love was any less deep for Tom; it meant I'm human. And you know how most crushes eventually die out, but the love we have is real and palatable and tough. Frankly, I'm glad Tom knows there's other women in the world. Because the fact that he comes home to me every night means I've won out above those ladies, and it makes me feel more attractive.

Last night I was telling Tom about my crush, and he said: describe him, so I know if I need to be jealous. I did, and he laughed, because my current crush is such a huge geek.

complete and utter waste of time

I did nothing at all this weekend, beyond mandatory reading and critiquing. Nothing. I was slightly ill with a random cold and so drugged up on medicine, so that's partly my excuse. Tom and I did finish the Firefly series, and eagerly await the opening of the movie next weekend. We're actually going to see a movie for the first time in months. Movies are so expensive here, and there haven't been any worth paying the 10+ dollars to see, so this is quite an event. If anyone out there in blogworld has time, you should rent the series. It's awesome. I also watched my beloved Pride and Predjudice, starring the ever hot Colin Firth. I have no idea how many times I've watched this film, and so many literary types pooh pooh it, but I have a soft spot in my heart of hearts for Jane Austen--and the A&E version is suberb, minus a few weird mirror scenes. I've a few partners in crime, however, which includes BJV and Kansas, so I feel good about my love. Once upon a time on a cold cold day in beloved Stone House we ended up watching the entire 6 hours in one sitting. We had homework and a newspaper to run, but Colin and Jennifer called. I also found out that Carolyn Ferrell, my advisor for my thesis and a beautiful writer likes Jane as well, so I'm in good company.

my life flows on

Something came to me as I rode the 3 train downtown today, listening to a couple of 16 year olds complain about a scratch on a new watch and about the letter people were writing to Bush (for a class project, I presume) all in the same breath.

He ain't gonna read it, really, so you can say whatever the fuck you want. Don't matter.

I'd tell that motherfucker what for, you know? I can't believe anyone actually voted for him.

Something came to me as I heard this exchange: I like the messed-up-don't-make-no-senseness of New York. I can hear a conversation like this and smile, not because of the political sentiment, but because, and I'm going to put this poorly, I like it when things don't make sense. I don't need things to be logical. Didn't someone big time say that things that are logically correct aren't always true? (I seem to remember in logic class (which somehow I got an A in--don't ask me how) that we as a class decided Clinton never actually lied about the whole Oval Office debacle, but that he didn't tell the truth, either.)I can see why people want/need things to be one certain way, whether it's religion, politics, philosophies, etc. Heck, I want that myself, at times. But I don't need it, if that makes any sense.

I like things up in the air, things unwilling to be caught with a firm hand. It's like I'm on a two-legged stool, wobbling around on the one side, then moving to the other side with ease. Not to say I don't tie myself to things, either. It's a human reaction to desire a hold on something--and that is an idea I tie myself to gladly.

That hymn, my life flows on, has been in my head off and on these few days. The imagery of a river has struck me, I guess. A river flows with the ground it finds, but it has power to move the earth, to carve stones, to give life and, unfortunately, destruction.

My life flows on in endless song,
above earth's lamentation.
I hear the clear, though faroff hymn
that hails a new creation.

No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that Rock I'm clinging.
Since love is Lord of heaven and earth,
how can I keep from singing?

I wouldn't mind being a river. I like to move among the ways of the world. I want to make a mark. I want to give life. I don't want to destroy, but we are all destructive somehow, I suppose.

prison break II

Let's just say I saw our governmental justice system at work on Monday. Women between 18-40-something housed in small, small cells, with a population of 42. All but a few were black or hispanic. Why were most of them there? Not for violent crimes, but for drug sentences. They cannot go outdoors ever, but have a little fenced in balcony for their recreation. They only have TV access between Monday thru Thursday. No newspapers. You can't tell me in a nation whose majority is white that there are so few white drug users in this country. But because often they have access to money and better representation, they receive lighter to no sentencing, if they are prosecuted at all. Our nation is not colorblind. It is not classblind. I probably will regret this, but upon google search I found this paper documenting the things I mentioned above. I haven't yet had time to read all of it, thus my probable regret, but upon skimming I found significant data, not to mention "on the ground" data from Tom's workplace.

bus stop patience

As I was waiting quite some time for the M1 to take me home the other day, with a fair amount of others waiting with, when an older, rather buxom woman began to speak in exasperation, and I paraphrase: This bus ain't comin cause that president is down there at the UN, tying up traffic, telling more lies, lies that got people killed down south and are killing folks in Iraq. But you know, you reap what you sow, and I can't wait to see him reap. Cause God knows what he did, yes he does.

People around me grunted their agreement. He was at the UN that day with Kofi and the like, was soon to make big speeches, etc., and was tying up traffic downtown with the extra security, which meant that anyone uptown had to wait.

I found myself wanting to sound an AMEN to her voice. Although the politically-conscious side of myself wanted to say, not necessarily to her but to my own amening self: even though it's annoying to deal with all the security issues at the UN, and though a lot of it is going to be grandstanding with Bush and the like, the UN is trying to bring good to the world, and we should be happy that such a thing is happening here in New York City.

But there was the tired-out New Yorker in me. The federal government, the state of Louisiana, and the president had failed its poorest in New Orleans. The president was allowing the dead US soldiers (not to mention Iraqis, etc.), litter the ground because of his lies. And now he was tying up traffic during rush hour when people like us who just want to get home and sit down for a moment before the rest of the day jumps upon us. It is a small thing, but its usually the small things that break the back, because finally you just get fed up. The woman who spoke probably knew people from down south; she might have a relative in Iraq. She had more than a right to her disgust.

prison break

I found myself in jail for the first time in my life--not as a prisoner, but as part of my orientation for the Right to Write program. The Right to Write program was started by one of my workshop teachers, I believe, or at least began to involve Sarah Lawrence students with it, several years ago. Once a week, I and 13 other SLC students will be leading several classes of incarcerated women in creative writing workshops. Today we sat through a discussion about what to do and not to do around inmates (can't give them paperclips, must count out pens and take them back at the end of the session, never give or take things from inmates, don't give out personal information like where you live, etc.), got fingerprinted and photos taken and received volunteer "badges"--an ID card. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to talk about it in my blog, with issues of confidentiality and such. One officer told us he had to sign a paper saying he wouldn't write anything about his experiences until he had retired.

To tell you the truth, I wasn't very frightened by the experience of walking among prisoners--all male. Not that I was enjoying myself or anything. I guess the knowledge that there were all kinds of officers around lessened some stress. I don't know. It will be different when I'm in a room full of them, attempting to sound like I know anything and seeing them as people.

vote or die

That was the slogan used during the prez election back when. I don't know if that was national or just in the city. I never quite got it. It didn't seem to encourage me to vote, but maybe I'm strange. If you've read Tom's blog, you know we voted in the democratic primary this morning. It was the most streamlined voting experience ever. At our old place, the volunteers were confusing and hostile. Here it was grandmas and grandpas kindly directing the way. What interested me most was the tooting-horn-poster-draped vans that roamed the streets, shouting out campaign slogans and hispanic music. I didn't think people did that anymore. It seems like something out of the 30s.

stupid people

Today as I ate my lunch by the "Pub"--the name students gave SLC's snack shop, a young, obviously too impressed by himself undergrad swept onto the porch and exclaimed to his friends: The library doesn't have A Streetcar Named Desire!!!! This college doesn't have one of our nations most important scripts!

He went on and on, talking about how horrible this was. He had looked in the catalogue, typed in the name of the play, and nothing came up. I thought about suggesting he put in the name of the author, and look for anthologies--but I recalled the pertness I received last year when a self-satisfied senior talked about the stupidity of an MFA program in writing, so I said nothing. When I came to the library later, I did just that. And I found the play within an anthology entitled "Plays." This took me maybe a minute.

This boy's parents are paying 46 grand for his intelligence. He needs to go to Library Use 101 first.

millenium approached--and left

Sadness is one thing--sorrow another. I realized this morning as I listened to a piece about a widow of a fireman who died on September 11 on the Brian Lehrer Show that the fourth anniversary is in only a few days. I've had this sort of numb, tired feeling ever since. For both myself and the people of that place and that time. I've found myself truly thinking and grieving for the permanent damage to my left eye lately, but more acutely as this day approaches. For those who don't know, I was in an operating table in the INOVA-Fairfax Hospital, just miles from the Pentagon when the planes were crashed into those buildings. A portion of my head was popped open and part of a very large tumor was extracted from my brain. Besides some mild and temporary paralysis of my right side, trouble speaking, etc., a nerve in my left eye was damaged and the muscles controlling my eye movements have never returned to normal.

I have wondered at times whether I would have gone through with it if I'd truly known how devastating this surgery was. Although I had seizures that were growing worse, and danger to my right eye was being monitored--I honestly don't know if I would have done it. Because of the pain and all that went with it, of course, but for vanity's sake: my eye will be forever shut to the world. I remember taking my contacts out the morning of the surgery, not realizing that I'd never use the left one again. It's silly I know, but it is as if I'd begun to bury it at that moment.

It was weeks before I understood in an emotional sense what had taken place on that day. I knew it had happened, but I didn't know it. I began to wolf down every bit of information I could get my hands on. I watched all the TV shows that everyone else was weary of. I tried and tried to wrap my mind over how a tiny plane in a fuzzy camcorder shot could wreak such pain and anguish to thousands. Perhaps it is now that I'm letting myself really feel the pain of my own personal loss without the guilt of reminding myself that at least I am alive in the world, and no one I knew had been directly affected. It doesn't make my pain any less real.

In 1999, everyone obsessed about Y2K and the end of the world as the millenium approached, even though technically, it wasn't until 2001 that the true millenium came. And I wonder if that was a millenium moment in the world. The world will never be the same again. And now we have left the millenium behind, shooting in the darkness at what we can't see, can't feel.

My own personal millenium came that day at the very least. My sight has been cut in half. Life will never be the same for this little body of mine.