victory is mine! - Stewie Griffin

I feel vindicated at last by the New York Times!

bit of earth

If any of you have read The Secret Garden at some point in life (and if you haven't you should immediately), you'll remember the moment when Mary asks her hunch-backed uncle: Might I have a bit of earth?

I thought of this as the airplane I rode circled around New York before landing in LaGuardia some time ago. (It was at night--the only time to arrive in this place by plane.) New York is so tiny! (And when I say New York I really mean Manhattan, because that's what most people think of first.) It's a blip on a radar screen. A bit of earth. But an intriguing one all the same.

What is it about those little skyscrapers and flickering lights that attracts and disgusts people? After all, it's only a place. A mere place in a world of places. A place that will someday crumble into the earth like ancient Rome.

As the plane circled Queens, I saw the big metal globe erected for the World's Fair in 1964. Someone in New York explodes light on this somewhat ugly planet every night. When I first moved to the city, I searched for this globe. I figured it was in Manhattan--as everything worth looking at should be. I wasn't much of a web surfer then, so it took me awhile to find that it was in Queens, of all places. (I discovered YouTube not too long ago--a million years after everyone else.) When I finally visited the sight, there was this huge Ecuadorian festival going on all around it. A nice reminder that there are more places in the world than New York--or the US.

All of the sudden we were skimming the river to the earth. And just like that I was sucked into the beauty and grossness of this world of merely 8 million. A gypsy cab driver tried to seduce me into his cab when I left the terminal, but a New York-styled me curtly refused. A few years ago, I may have been persuaded.

no millions, but a good time anyway

I had my first New York reading--of my fiction--on Friday night, at the Lucky Cat in Williamsburg. I think it went really well. After much agonizing and a flurry of editing, I managed to get a piece of a story that filled the 12 minute slot.

Not that some of my co-readers tried to do the same.

One chick took at least 12 minutes preaching to us about the facts that had 'inspired' her to write her (unpublished) novel. Although the news of the treatment of prisoners during Katrina were horrible and need to be talked and written about, by the end of her diatribe I was just plain tired. She was completely self-righteous in her tone and had that I Know the Suffering of the Prisoners attitude. Now, how much empathy a white, mid-30s woman going to NYU (much more ridiculously expensive than Sarah Lawrence) can get for a population she hasn't met remains to be seen.

Only after a long sermon did she actually read her fiction. I must say I can't remember but a word or two. There was something about breasts rising and falling, I think.

But it continues to prove a theory a friend and I have cooked up for readings--there always has to be one amazing and one hideous reader. (This has only been disproved once--in October I went to a New Yorker Festival reading and both readers were beyond reproach.) This is not to say I was the amazing one, since there were five in all, but I didn't get the hideous rap.

There is something calming about a bright light in your face. As soon as I stepped up to the mic, I was competely covered in light and couldn't see a soul. So I felt comfortable reading words only a few have read and even fewer have heard out loud.

No agents or publishers came forth and pulled out a million dollar contract, but I feel pretty positive about the whole experience.

(Oh, and a drunk poet hit on me after the fact, telling me how much he liked to replace words like 'song' with 'thong.')

huzzah!

A student recently gave me what I think is a great compliment: Class seems to go so fast when you are here. The class before this one seems so long.

Is it more than an hour and a half? I said.

No, it's the same. It just feels longer than yours.

I thanked her. She practically skipped out of the room.

I've felt rather crummy these last few weeks about my teaching. So it was good to hear.

oh, tannenbaum

Last weekend we bought our first Christmas tree. A fake tree, mind you. (I'm sure my older brother would groan at this.) But Tom's allergic and the pine needles would make our already messy apartment that much more so and the fire hazard...if we ever get a bigger place with a fire escape, I'd get one of those little trees in a tub and put it outside in the off months. Real Christmas trees are kind of horrible, really. Cutting down a perfectly healthy tree so people can bring it inside for a few weeks and then dump it is a bit wasteful. Most people in New York (people actually somehow fit trees in their apartments) take them to the shredding place, but you do see them dumped in the gutter with wet tinsel in their branches. It's rather sad. The Christmas tree sellers take all of the unsold ones to the curb the day after Christmas.

But this was supposed to be about our tree.

We bought our little four-foot tree at a drugstore (the cashier looked at the box and said, We sell Christmas trees?). It was underneath a bunch of gaudy ornaments, just waiting for someone to take it home. We got some of the less-gaudy ornaments (even a nice glittering angel) and were on our way. The tree already has lights in it (so hickish, I know), so we didn't have to worry about that. It's all set up on two boxes in the corner (nicely hiding a coffee stain (yes, a coffee stain on a wall--long boring story)) with its little lights glimmering. I even found some fake snow to wrap around it's "trunk"--some scraps of fabric left over from my wedding dress. See, hanging onto things works out! Yay for Mennonites!

Tom and I always intended to get a tree, but since we lived in Menno House the first three Christmases (which had a nice huge fake tree), and last winter we just never got around to it. But this year, dammit, we were going to do it. And did. I'm also going to break out my nativity from Bethlehem--I just need to find a flat place to put it. When I opened the box the other day, the olivewood smell wafted up, and I remembered Tom handing it to me on a dusty road in Beit Sahour (it was my birthday present).

There is something comforting about a Christmas tree. I've been home all afternoon, trying to write but reading or sleeping instead, and every now and again I look to our tree. Fake though it is, it's doing its best. And honestly, that's the most anyone can do. When I was little, I'd lay underneath the tree and look up at the lights and our felt animal ornaments (some of which can be seen in the photo above). My brothers and I would play with our matchbox cars on the presents (my parents never fooled us with the Santa Claus notion) with nothing but the Christmas lights to guide us.

just another day in queens

Yesterday I taught for nine hours--almost straight. I had 20 minutes for lunch and then an hour or so during which I did class preparation and graded quizzes. They needed a sub for a class that meets at night, and I, the glutton for punishment that I am, said I'd do it.

Then I came back to teach a pointless class today. My intensive grammar class took their big test yesterday, but we were scheduled to meet today anyway. I asked them if they'd actually show up, and they all promised, but only 5 people showed (all women). We talked about grammar and life, watched a rather silly video and ate chocolate and this yellow Chinese candy. It was okay, but I ate a lot of it, because I didn't want to hurt people's feelings. These women have done so much for me. They've brought me coffee, given me candy, a banana, etc. This was a good class of people. (One of the young guys had asked me several weeks where to look for jobs, and I told him about CraigsList. He got a job the other day, and came to shake my hand and thank me. How cute is that?) We haven't heard who passed the test, but I'm hoping the best. I think most of them will.

One of my students has taken this class twice, and she certainly didn't pass--I don't know for sure, but her quizzes are enough proof. I'm suspecting she has a learning disability. When I tell her to copy things I have written on her paper, she either writes letters that aren't there or just copies the first few letters and thinks she's done. I feel so bad for her. She asked me if I was interested in being her personal tutor, and I had to say no. I can only do so much.

I love the teaching. It's everything else that stinks. The grading, the planning, etc. And only being paid for the hours I'm in the classroom. The worst thing is I feel like I never have any free time. My weekends are spent working on everything for the coming week. I knew it was like this, since my mum's a teacher, but I didn't know, if you know what I mean. And I haven't written anything at all. But, now that the intensive class is over, I'll have more time. And less money.

dun dah dah daaaaaah!

The amazingest thing happened the other day--you know, the fact that BOTH the House and the Senate are once again in the hands of the Democrats. (My slip is showing on this, I know.) It was a nice feeling, back on the 7th when I pulled this over-large red handle and deposited my vote into a void, hoping against hope it would do something. Apparently, a vote does matter--at least in Virginia, where Webb beat Allen with merely 7,000 votes. Tom said last night, That's how many people live in this neighborhood. It really puts things in perspective.

There wasn't much of a contest in New York. The state now has it's new governor (a Democrat), Hillary's back in office--the only Democrat I was sad to see win is the state comptroller. It's come out in the last few weeks that he's had state workers drive his wife around for years with taxpayers' money--$82,000 worth. He said it was for security reasons and the fact that his wife is ill. I don't care if she's flat on her back! I've known plenty of people who are have long-term ailments--they don't steal people's money for transportation. They work it out themselves.

I couldn't stomach voting for him or the Republican candidate, so I voted for the Socialist Party's candidate--a guy named Willie.

The state may fire the comptroller anyway. I will be glad to see that.

Now the real race begins--for the Democrats to get off their asses and do something. I say, Let it all hang out. Actually have some kind of backbone!!!

I'll stop now.

boots cross paths

On the way home today, riding on the 7, my boots (pictured left) met their twin set. A woman sat next to me, and I saw them, proudly displayed with a pair of excellent jeans. She was reading this huge textbook, I was reading a worn out copy of Jane Austen's Emma. It was another of those crazy New York moments...

weirdos, take two

A man on the subway winked at me the other day. I don't think I've been winked (for real, at least) at in my life. Two days later, another man sat next to me on the 3 and plopped down a large bag of who knows what. He looked at a woman across from us and pulled his mouth up into a big smile with his fingers. Then he began digging in his bag furiously, muttering to himself: Yes. Yes. Here it is. He pulled out a pad of paper titled Model Release Form, tore off a sheet, scribbled, and wrapped the pad in a plastic bag. Then he pulled out another plastic sack covered in rubber bands. He slipped them off. For some reason my first thought was: oh no, a proselytizer. I quickly closed my eyes. I could hear him shuffle around; I peeked at what he would do next. The bag contained a little box with large negatives or something like that. He held them up to the light, muttering again. Then he packed everything up. We were about to stop at 42nd St. Ah, here we are, he whispered.

loneliness vibe

Yesterday evening I was sitting alone in a Starbuck's cafe in Barnes and Noble, minding my own business, reading a copy of Marie Clare. A youngish man approached and asked if anyone was sitting there. I said no, cleared off the table a bit, and continued reading. (For those of you non-urbanites, this is completely kosher in New York to have perfect strangers sitting at the same table in a coffee house. Frankly, I was a bit nervous about it the first time it happened to me, but now I sort of admire it. We all crush ourselves into stuffed buses and subways, why not do it in Starbuck's?) Of course, there are ground rules: you don't talk to the other person--and if you do, it's very short, like Can You Watch My Bag While I Get Another 4 Dollar Cuppachino? You can say hello or goodbye, or comment on the book they're reading, but beyond that, you say nothing. You act as if the other doesn't exist. I think this is mostly a survival method.

This fellow didn't know the rules. He sat down and played with his non-Starbuck's beverage. No books or magazines or notebooks appeared. I kept my eyes down, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. After about five minutes, he blurted: What are you reading? Without a word, I showed him the cover (I was a little embarrassed--but I'd just taught English for three hours and sat on the train for another hour--I deserved some time to be a little girly.) Since I said nothing, I figured that would be a hint that I wasn't interested in conversation. He didn't say anything for awhile. I thought, He's gotten the hint. But no. A few minutes later, he asked: Are you from around here? I looked up, said Yes and looked down. I knew he wanted me to reciprocate. That little angel whispered, You really should do it. The demon said, Don't you dare. If you speak now you'll be in for it later.

This reminds me of an incident about two years ago: I'd gone to see Donnie Darko with some friends soon after I'd started at Sarah Lawrence. By chance, I ran into a guy from school after the movie. We talked for a bit, and I said, well, I gotta go. My friends are waiting for me to go somewhere. I turned and walked away. He followed me. And followed us to the restaurant. And sat at our table. It was horrible. He had nothing to say, which made it worse. It was one of the more awkward moments in quite awhile. Finally he had to catch a train back to Bronxville.

I think now that he took my words to be a kind of invitation. So I didn't want to lead this other fellow on. I wished I could have a wedding ring to flash, but since I don't have a left ring finger, this was impossible.

He continued to sit there. I was completely miserable by this point. I wasn't even reading. I just was flipping and flipping, wondering how to get out of this. Then he asked, leaning ever so slightly towards me: I'm going to go get something. You want anything?

That is a call of desperation. No, I said nicely, but thank you.

He didn't return.

Of course, after he disappeared I began to feel guilty. Would it have hurt, my angel said, to have a little conversation? He was lonely. He had a lonely vibe. He had an eastern European accent. But, I'm glad it ended quietly. I hope he finds some happiness somehow.

About five minutes later another guy sat down. He was wearing the ugliest sweater vest I've ever seen. It was loosely knitted out of mohair-like yarn! Luckily, he seemed disinterested, and soon left after talking to someone on his BlueBerry (or is it BlackBerry? I can never remember). I'm on the third floor, he said. Okay, fine, he said, sounding annoyed.

shoes and oates

I am thoroughly sick of two things: myself and my clothes obsession, and Joyce Carol Oates.

First, let's deal with me. Does anyone out there ever try on a pair of shoes in the store, walk around in them for quite some time, are amazed at their comfort and good looks, and decide: hey these are great!!! I'll buy them! But then, when you get them home, one day you take them out to wear, and lo and behold--they aren't comfortable anymore. No matter what you do, you can't get those damn things to act like they acted so cunningly in the store.

This has happened to me more than once. The other day I tried on, wandered for quite some time, then bought a pair of dress up loafers to wear with my new pants (I got my suit back yesterday, wore it today, and received complements)--since I am unable to deal with a heel that's more than a half inch apparently. I put them on yesterday morning, and was shocked at the immediate discomfort. So, that evening I returned to the shoe store to see if they had the same shoe in a larger size (I have the weirdest feet that need several different sizes with no rhyme or reason--they're known as Egyptian Feet). No. So I looked for a replacement pair, found some, wandered around in them, bought them and took them home. The jury's still out on whether they'll turn uncomfortable like the other pair.

Now Joyce Carol Oates. She had a story in the New Yorker recently and I'll be blunt: It stank up to high heaven. It was basically a rip off of a true and gruesome story about a college kid being killed when friends pushed him down a garbage shute. Being a writer who also takes (or steals) real life and fashions it for her own craft, one would say I should talk, but the difference is that I actually make it into something of my own. This story (and I've pasted the link here so you can judge for yourself) does not do any crafting. It took the facts and that was it.

The writing was rather sloppy as well. I did not ever have any sympathy for anyone in the story (which according to Oates, the reader should)--not even the victim of the crime. The father was horrible and the mother was ridiculous. In writing you don't have to like any of the characters, but there has to be some kind of pull towards empathy.

Oates said in her defense:

In an e-mail sent Wednesday to The Associated Press, she likened the school's criticism to the reaction of Muslim fundamentalists who issued a fatwa, or religious edict, against Salman Rushdie for his "The Satanic Verses."

She said it is a case in which a writer draws upon real events to write a fictional story, but is then met with "astonishing hostility on the part of people who do not 'read' fiction as symbolic or representational, but literal.

"Where I had hoped to evoke sympathy for a young man trapped in a nightmare situation, with symbolic resonance (I had thought) for all of us, I had succeeded, in some quarters at least, in arousing only great anger," Oates said in the e-mail.

I have no anger for the story. Just a general blahness.

I'm willing to bet that if some unknown writer had sent in this story, the New Yorker editors would have trashed it immediately. Can you imagine a big-name author being rejected by anyone? I've always liked her short stories. Her story, "Where are you going? Where have you been?" constantly sends chills through me.

the 7 experience

My intensive class has started again, and though it's nice to be bringing home some extra bacon, I must say I'm the most tired I've been in a long time. I remember feeling this way in college after a spending most or all of the night in the WeatherVane office (my undergrad newspaper, for those who didn't know me back then) and dragging myself to an 8 o'clock class. It's not exactly the hours. I'm teaching the intensive class M - Thurs and two other classes M and W. All hours counted, I'm teaching 18 hours week. Which, in the normal work world is less than part time. But those hours don't include grading, planning, and all the other piddly details (like figuring out my worksheets ahead of time to give to the receptionist. I know that full-time teachers do more than me, but the difference is they get paid during those hours for preparation. I'm only paid for the hours I'm in the classroom.

Not that I'm complaining or anything, of course. It's mostly the tiredness talking. And the hour and some change commute pipes in as well. My commute begins on 135th Street in Harlem, and ends eons away (about 5 miles) in Flushing, Queens on the very last stop of the 7 line. The 7 train and I have gotten to know each other rather well. I try to get a certain seat so I can semi curl up and grab a little unconsciousness for a bit before and after my teaching. As I flicker my eyelids I see the glorious scenes of Queens fly past (not so much fly--the 7 is the slowest train ever). LaGuardia Community College, Shea Stadium, the big metal globe built for the World's Fair--and the best of them all: there's this stretch of buildings soon after the train pulls above ground that are covered on every inch of space with graphitti. The colores are this gorgeous clamour that circle around the buildings and on their fire escapes and rooftops and you wonder how on earth the artists (some would say vandals) got there. I keep meaning to bring my camera.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I love New York.

The other morning on the Brian Lehrer show there was this discussion about immigration in the city, etc., and one caller blabbered on and on about how few immigrants even bother learning English anymore, and complained about all the signs in various languages. It honestly pissed me off. Everyone at my school is Asian or Spanish (the only gringos are the teachers), and though it has a large ESL component, it's a business college, so these folks are studying not only to gain English but to contribute to NYC's economics as well. True, some of my students have lived in the city for 20 or more years and are just starting to learn English, but when you live in the Chinatown in Flushing or in Manhattan, you often don't need to know English, because all of your needs are met right there. Most people need to learn Spanish rather than English, because they deal with them more. If I was new to a country and I had to learn one of two languages, I would choose the survival language first.

One more note to the ramble: I had to reprimand three young men today for their lateness and not doing their homework. There was a time I would have hated doing it and felt bad. I felt neither emotion this time. Ah, how times change.

not dark yet

This weekend we went to a renaissance festival at the Cloisters. It was one of those days when you knew fall had come: the sun was hot without the fierceness of summer, the scent of the leaves and earth had turned ever so slightly to that time of decay.

I love fall. Even when it toys with you. You never know if it's going to be 80 degrees or 50. If that sweater you brought with you will be enough or a too-warm drape. Almost two years ago, there was this day in November when everything was perfect. It was cold, but if you wore a jacket it was enough. The leaves were falling and rustling in Central Park. We went rowing on the Lake, and a thready fog surrounded us; the spires of the city peeking in from time to time.

There's something about being confronted with the mortality of leaves and grass that comforts and frightens me at this time of year. Something about the absence of light, I think. The light leaves New York so quickly. The buildings are so huddled and we're so far north. She collects her darkness with a smile that is not quite benign.

I've had Bob Dylan in my head these last few days:

Shadows are falling and I been here all day
It's too hot to sleep and time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal
There's not even room enough to be anywhere
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well my sense of humanity is going down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain
She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writin' what was in her mind
I just don't see why I should even care
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well I been to London and I been to gay Paris
I followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down to the bottom of a whirlpool of lies
I ain't lookin' for nothin' in anyone's eyes
Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

I was born here and I'll die here, against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin' but I'm standin' still
Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

happy days are here again

I've found myself a little depressed these last few days. I can't quite pinpoint what is the culprit, although it may be the little things that have happened that have added up to larger issues. Sometimes I freak out about the small stuff, and am completely calm about huge things. Or so Thomas says. I think he may be right. It may be a kind of survival mechanism. Freak out about the things you can change. The things you can't change...well, you can't change them, so freaking out is out of the question.

Maybe it's my birthday. I'm now 28. Which sounds incredibly old yet incredibly young. I don't think I would have imagined my life 10 years ago the way it's turned out thus far. But then, I tell myself, when you're 18 you barely know anything anyway.

I've often thought, post-undergrad and post-grad student, that people shouldn't be allowed to attend college until they're at least 25. Make everyone do some kind of labor or public service. Really live on your own first. I think I would have made a lot of different decisions about my undergrad years had I a few years under my belt.

Of course, there's this idea pricking my brain about I wouldn't be where I am today had I not been young and foolish when I had the great gift of education under my nose.

Maybe it's because I'm having post-grad school blahs. For the last two years I had a purpose, and now that purpose isn't so clear. I like my job, I like where I live, I love you-know-who, but still I feel like I have no clear course of action. What do I do now? Of course, there's the whole writing thing. (I've sent some work to my Tin House contact, but she warned me it might take a month before I hear anything!) There are more contest to enter, of course, and I should do some actual new writing, but I've just felt too exhausted and probably lazy to come up with much material.

I don't know where this post is headed. I just have this sense that something--something--needs to happen.

family

My birthday is coming fast (the 9th, if anyone reading wants to send a card or a gift or cash), and some various (yet uninteresting) things have made me reflect on the nature of family: specifically, siblings. When you're a kid (I'm 27 going on 28--I may sound like an old coot about this), conflicts are there, but they're more about your brother stealing a toy or your mum making you go to bed in the summer when it's still light out. My older brother once hit me with the high heel of one of my mother's shoes. I still remember the sound it made on my head--and my mother's voice as she reprimanded him (there may have been a spanking involved). I have no idea why he did such a thing. But no matter what the conflict was, we somehow resolved it and went back to playing whatever games we usually played: Dukes of Hazzard (we had the Matchbox General Lee, Rosco's beep car (my brother's word for a police car), and Uncle Jesse's white pick up), "Farm" (we also had mini tractors, balers, etc.) or just rode around our street on our banana seat bikes with April and Justin, our childhood friends.

It's strange how, when we get older, the (physical) conflicts may be fewer, but they take on a different meaning and people are stained by them in a weird way. And some of it isn't anybody's fault, per say; some of it stems from the person that you become when you grow up. A lot of it doesn't even come because of conflict. You just grow up and your siblings grow up and your parents grow older and there you are, tied by blood, but somehow divided by it as well.

Some of this division may be from our modern society as a whole. Now that people can travel faster and farther, families disperse and go their own ways. It's healthy, in many ways, to not feel like you're tied down to a place simply because you were born there. And it's good that you can feel like you can return at any time, since our sense of distance has changed. If I had come to New York 150 years ago, I quite possibly would never see my family again. But I do see them at least once a year. But when we're together, we're somewhat divided (and I don't mean divided in a conflict sort of way) because we live such different lives--in different places and stages in life.

I live on the east coast, in New York. My older brother lives on the west coast, in Ventura, California. My younger brother sits between us in Lawrence, Kansas. Our experiences of life have been so different during the last decade or so. And our relationships to each other have changed--at least for me. Not that one is better than the other. They are simply different.

Some of it, I suppose, comes from our childhood experiences with each other. B was the older one. We did everything together--mostly what he wanted to do, but I rarely felt constricted by it. (When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird I thought, Hey, Scout and Jem sound like us!) I have a picture of B and I holding hands at our grandma's house when we were both very young. B is smiling like he always smiles now, and I have this look of consternation, like I'm thinking, Okay, what's going on here?

But then middle school came for B and our ways parted. D was around by then, and I took on the older sibling's role of both protection and demanding reverence/obedience. (Aside: I remember the night D was born. I woke up, looked for my parents, but their bed was still made up. This scared me, because I thought maybe they'd been Raptured away. Grandma Ens was there, but it didn't comfort me much.)

The main reason why my relationships with my brothers are so different is because of the time and setting that molded them. B was my brother when I was a kid--our biggest challenges involved toys and bullies and when we were going swimming. I was still a kid with D, but our relationship was set at a character-building time for me: the pre-teen/teenage years (god, I'm glad those are over!). Plus, my family had moved to our farm by then, and D and I were somewhat isolated. For a few summers during high school and college, my mum was getting her Ph.D. in PA and our dad was busy with the farm. We were pretty much on our own with each other. We made a lot of spaghetti and hamburger helper back then, and D took me canoeing in his rather leaky boat.

I think of those summers when D and I are just sitting around. When I was home this summer, D and I would walk to Main Street and get pop and sit by the grocery store. We talked a lot, but we were also silent. I don't know if he thinks about those times, but I do.

My question, I guess, is this: when do you realize that those differences in relationship are more negative than positive? I have seen various families tear apart because those changes, those little changes, have affected their very view of each other. When do you know it's just healthy, natural differences--and not divisions of a more sinister nature?

a new semester

A new "school year" is about to begin at my college, and I'm finding myself on the other side of the desk. I am the one who must figure grades and tell people who use cell phones and are late what's what. It will be an interesting 15 weeks, to say the least.

A friend from Sarah Lawrence emailed me yesterday. She's got a plummy internship at Tin House, a very respected lit journal, and she said her supervisor wanted her to glean work from SLC people. So, I'm going to send stuff to Tin House, of all funny hilarious turns of events. She said she doesn't have much pull, but she'd certainly read and try to pass on my work. I don't expect anything to come of it, yet, but it's a nice opportunity. We'll see what happens. It's been a contest-deadline couple of days. I've been sending stuff out into that cold cold world.

an apology

Dear Reader(s):

I apologize profusely for my absence. You are right to be upset as this sister. Life has been very distracting--and, frankly, I've been lazy. When I'm not working on my lesson plans, traveling between Harlem and Flushing, I've been spending my free time in front of the tube, watching the Netflix's Lost series. Tom and I were trying to get both season 1 and 2 finished before season 3, but it hasn't happened. Partly because two of the discs were stolen in transit, so we were over a week without any Lost to entertain us.

It sounds horrible, writing this. It makes us sound so boring. We read and watch TV because everything else costs money, and we're trying to save money. When it was lighter after Tom got off work (8 pm) we'd go to the park and eat sushi, but that's ended. It is too dark by that time now, and though Central Park and Riverside Park are much safer than a decade ago, it's stupid to tempt fate.

My remedial ESL class has ended, so my schedule is more open now. I am teaching two more classes, starting next week, but they meet only twice a week. So my income will shrink, but it also means I really should dust off my thesis--ahem, book (my brother insists I call it that (he says publishers won't take it as seriously--he should know, since he works for Sage))--and revise revise revise and send stuff off to contests. I have had one small piece published online. So, my time hasn't been wasted altogether.

Fall has officially begun, and it makes me happy. Though it is still warm, the warmth doesn't oppress one any longer, and I've broken out some of my warmer clothes. I like fall because it seems to me to provide one with different avenues of dress. No longer the t-shirts and jeans or t-shirts and skirts and flippy flops. And now that I must dress "professional" for my job (anything denim is strictly forbidden at LIBI), it's that much more interesting. I bought my first real suit a few weeks ago, which was incredibly weird. I haven't worn it yet because it needs to be tailored. The legs are so long it looked like I was playing dress up in Mummy's clothes when I tried it on in the store. I bought another pair of dress pants a while ago; they too need to be chopped. It just hasn't happened yet, because my tailor/dry cleaning lady is down at Menno House. I know, I know--I should find one uptown. But I like the lady and she seems to like me, and I don't feel like changing.

Okay, enough about clothing. It's ridiculous how much time I've spent on writing about clothes lately. It is very un-Menno of me. I did buy the suit at an outlet store and got a 300 dollar suit very cheap, so I haven't lost all my Mennonite values.

Speaking of--this past weekend Tom and I went to a church retreat upstatish. (Tell me how weird it is to be one of those city folk that escape to the country for a retreat. When I was living in the country I saw nothing relaxing in it.) And some of my fellow members were talking about not standing up during God Bless America or the national anthem or performing the pledge of allegiance. And though I understand and pretty much feel the sentiments, I have never found them to be that bad. People (children in this case) shouldn't feel forced into the pledge. I do hate God Bless America and it's hideous tone--I much prefer This Land is Your Land--but I've secretly always liked the anthem. Less because I like what the words mean, but more for the music itself. It's always been interesting whenever I've listened to it live, because I always wonder: is she going to hit it, that final high note that soars or goes horribly flat?

And more often than not--she doesn't make it. And it secretly pleases me.

Maybe some of this harkens back to my high school days. When you got asked to sing the anthem at a home game, that meant you were it. It meant that people admired your voice and didn't mind letting it out to the public. At least that was in my head. Maybe that wasn't it at all. And I was one of those it girls. And I made that note--or at least that's how I remember it! So I look back at that moment with fondness.

I don't think these anthem/pledge wars should be taken so blessed seriously on both ends. There are more important things to worry about in this world. I'll stop now, and do some work.

Love, me

employment!

Yes, I've joined the masses yet again after a two year hiatus. It happened suddenly. Last Thursday, a woman called from--get this--the Long Island Business Institute. She had looked at my resume (I had found the job on Cragslist.com) and wanted me to come in for an interview for a job that was starting Monday. I came in on Friday, she'd hired me an hour later, and I sat in an orientation that afternoon. I was given a workbook that has to be covered in five weeks. So for three hours a day, Monday thru Thursday I teach 10 people ESL. It's only part time and for five weeks, but hopefully I'll get another teaching gig after that. This school doesn't go by a typical academic schedule. They start a new semester every 15 weeks. A new semester starts the week after this class will be finished.

It was a little daunting at first. The longest lesson I'd planned at the time was 45 minutes. But we have so much material to cover the problem is making sure I get everything covered in 3 hours. Now the main trial--besides the teaching itself--is making the lesson plans. I spent hours on them every evening this week. I'm getting in the groove, sort of. My plan for this weekend is to finish all plans for this coming week. It'll be harder, because I have on 3 days this week to cover two units that usually would take at least 3-6 normal lessons--depending on if they're 45 or 90 minute lessons, which are more normal.

The final trouble is it's out in Flushing, Queens. On the last stop on the 7. So it takes around an hour and 15 minutes to get there. The neighborhood is decent. It's the Queen's Chinatown, so I feel at home. It's a good job, and since it's a college, it pays more than a regular ESL job. It is double what the two other places I interviewed paid.

My grammar's going to improve, though you can't tell with this blog. (That last sentence especially) I'm learning the names of the rules, like subject pronouns, possessive adjectives, etc. One of my classmates at my TESOL course told me (being a French teacher) I just have to stay one chapter ahead of my students.

I'm not the only one in my family that's starting their teaching career. Check out my brother's blog. Only he's teaching math. Scary.

thoughtful shopping

I can always tell when I'm thinking about something hard and maybe deep, because that's when I go wandering--and eventually find myself in a clothing store. I went into my favorite thrift shop and saw this wonderful wonderful bamboo coffee table that would look great in a real apartment but would never fit in ours. I waded into the Gap, and waded out again. Honestly, I can't imagine paying 50 for a khaki skirt, no matter how cute it is! I looked at Express but didn't go in. I went to Old Navy and bought a pair of p.j.'s. (My old pair has finally bit the dust after two years, and the newer pair needs a buddy.) Then I wandered around some more, rode the bus awhile, debated about whether or not to go to my second-favorite thrift store and decided yes once I saw the creepy guy who commented on my chest wasn't there. I'm so glad I did. I came upon, almost immediately, this jacket that looks like one of those worn by men in the 1700s. It comes nearly to my knees, has this raised velvent thing going on, and has sleeves that have a little silky ruffle at the wrist. I was worried because there was no price tag on it, but when I brought it up to the counter, the very nice and polite Jamaician man said twelve dollars without hesitation. I was willing to pay twenty! I'm a regular there, so I'm imagining he gives me special prices.

There is a point to all this.

I went to Sunnyside in Queens today for a job interview as a teacher's aid in ESL. It is at a community service organization that has a senior center, afterschool programs and adult ESL classes. The job is only six hours a week at twenty dollars an hour, so it's not much. It sounds like I'll mostly be a go-fer or stand-in when the teacher is ill. I feel the interview went okay. I rambled a bit, which is my wont when I'm nervous. I felt okay about it. In some ways I hope I don't get it, because the hours are so few. I could work it out if I got another part-time teaching gig earlier in the day or later Monday thru Wednesday. I am just worried that it'll conflict with a better opportunity or a full-time job. I would feel so bad about quitting.

So, that's what I've been thinking about this afternoon. I won't know for a week or so, so I'm not going to wait. I'll just be pounding the pavement in cyberspace and hope for the best.

hippie dress

I did go outside yesterday, and spent money. I have a wedding to attend next weekend, and I was feeling I ought to wear something new. I've shopped off and on for this--and found this Jackie O. kind of dress (navy w/ polkadots), but I just didn't feel right in it. It seemed like something I'd only wear once and never again--unless I go to some similar wedding. Then I found a hippie dress and a little crochet cardigan and I bought that. Now, the whole point for the spree was to get something a little more dressy, since this wedding will be dressy. And I go and buy something not so. I don't know if I'll wear it or not. I decided I would wear something I already have if I decide not to wear it.

Anyway.

The wedding's in PA, near Lancaster, so I'll be staying with the illustrious R and H. Which will be very excellent. I've been to Lancaster before, but only for one night with an older couple who I'd never met in my life. Tom and I were there for another friend's wedding, and they put us up for the night. We weren't married yet, but I guess S hadn't told them either way, so they put us in the same room. The entire time they tried to pry it out of us, but we were very evasive with our replies. This was a nearly Old Order Mennonite couple, so you see why they were so concerned.

God must've been watching, because we got terribly lost on the way home, and had to drive through DC to get back to Harrisonburg.

back to life

Here I am dear faithful readers, if any still remain. My class ended yesterday (I realized when looking at my last blog I made it sound like a five-week course, but it was four), and I slept off and on till around 11 am. I say off and on because it has been damn hot these past few days. I've felt I haven't really slept in our unairconditioned bake box, just lost consciousness for a few hours.

I must've slept a little though. Last night I had a nightmare about the TESOL class--my first one ever. I dreamt that instead of a lesson planning course it was a cake baking class. The time had come for the critiques of our cakes, and I was yet to bake one! I tried to make a cake using just flour and water, but it wouldn't work. Then five cake mixes appeared by the stove! So I was rushing around, and my classmates were trying to stall our teachers and I was cutting strawberries for the top...it was crazy.

I'd never had one of these during the class. I guess my dream-mind decided it was safe to come out and play.

The apartment is a disaster area, and I've had thoughts of cleaning but nothing more. I've had thoughts of going outside as well. It isn't supposed to be as hot today. You can't really tell in here.

My responsible mind has said: It's time to stop stalling and look for work. And oh, hey, there's that book I slaved over for two years. You'd better dust that off as well.

But the irresponsible mind says: Forget work! Forget writing! Go out and play! Or stay in and let your mind rot on TV!

I'm thinking the latter will win, at least for today.

About the photos:

The first on the left shows Tom (the Canadian-Ted-lookalike trainer), me and Cindy. The second shows Yira, Jim and Rose. This is at a bar we haunted throughout the course. With ridiculously priced beer, might I add. The third shows Andy (the Ukrainian trainer), Jim and Sadie in the back, Yira, me, Cindy and Rose in the front.

one week down, four more to go

I've just completed week one of the intensive TESOL course. It feels like a month! I've gotten, at max, 6 hours of sleep a night, the apartment's a mess, my laundry looks like a mountain, and I've only had a snatching of free time. I've barely seen Tom, with our conflicting schedules. The most I've talked to him is during supper, and then I head to the computer or my class reading or making lesson plans...

But I like the course, all in all. The trainers are very nice. One of them's originally from the Ukraine, and he is as cute as a button. He's always enthusiastic and good humored. The other day I saw him in Bryant Park during lunch (the building where the classes are is on 42nd St., near the main New York Public Library), just wandering around in this kind of quiet awe. He said he was looking at the trees. The other trainer is a Canadian, who is the absolute picture of what I think Ted might look like in 15 years--only a little heavier. For those who know Ted, you get the picture. They (the Ukrainian and Canadian) both know their stuff and seem to enjoy themselves immensely.

My classmates are cool. Yira (she's from the Dominican Republic) and I have really hit it off. I thought she was a lot younger than she is--she has a son who's fifteen!

Well, the weekend's here. I plan on sleeping in, doing laundry and trying to clean the apartment somewhat. We'll see what happens.

complaining new yorkers, past and present

I will not do it justice. So I merely refer you to the Times and will let you read about the complaints that have been shared with various New York mayors since the 1700s. The letter at left is my favorite.

the jeans gods have smiled again

I found another pair of thrift store jeans, this time they're "just" Gap, but they fit the best of all my new pairs! And this store had all women's jeans half off, so I got them for 6 bucks!! (Shall I make another sentence that has multiple exclamation points? Yes!!!!!) I really think luck comes in groups. I had a thrift store stint like this last fall.

I think I'm really into school mode. I want to do everything but the task at hand. I'm blogging more, cleaning more, shopping more, reading more. And now there's a farmer's market that's come up at last to Harlem. (I guess the farmer's market gods have decided that minorities like fresh organic food just like white people. Imagine! Of course, I have a sneaking suspicion it's only because there's more gentrification going on up here, rather than original thinking. The amount of white folks I've seen in the neighborhood just this week confirms it.) I want to go, but I've told myself I can't until I get a section of my homework done.

responsibility or some such nonsense

The clock is ticking on my free time this week. On Monday I begin an intensive course on teaching English for Speakers of Other Languages, (TESOL) at Rennert Bilingual for a month. For most of July and the first week of August I'll be heading out the door at the god-awful hour of 8 a.m. for a 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. class five days a week. During those hours I'm going to try to stuff as much methodology and experience into my head as possible and hopefully clean up my grammar as well. When I emerge from this course, I will hopefully have earned a certificate in TESOL and will be on my way to getting some form of employment. We'll see what happens. I already have an assignment due on the first day of class: a fourteen page questionnaire. It doesn't look too difficult, it just is something I need to sit down and do. And my mind has been on vacation too long to make much sense of it.

This weekend Tom had a four-day break from work, so we did only hedonistic things. I shopped, Tom read this giant book he bought at Housing Works, we slept in, ate out, spent way too much money and last night tried to see the fireworks with Lady L but because of a very slow subway ride we got out at Rockefeller Center and merely watched the fireworks' after-light reflecting on the buildings around us.

It was a lovely weekend, to steal a word from Thomas's blog. We ate and drank in Lady L's air conditioned apartment, had spaghetti outside, drank tea and had a McFlurry with S and A, and ate sushi in Central Park by a pond surrounded by gnats. Lovely indeed.

But, responsibility calls me to the task...

"lucky" me

For the first time in my life I have something I never thought I'd own:

A pair of Lucky Brand Jeans.

Now, one would have to stroll through my high school years to fully appreciate this. You see, in high school, owning a pair of Luckys was the IT in IT-ness. This was in the 90s-women-still-wearing-body-suits era (thank Jesus-Allah-Bhudda that's over with--though I did see some body suit tube tops earlier), so if you were female, it would be obvious whether what you wore were Luckys or not. The boys all had their pants down to their knees so you could clearly see what they wore. There was also the ubiquitous Lucky boxers, Lucky T-shirts, sweatshirts--anything that could handle a logo on it had the brand name tatooed on it. And, on the inside of the fly, there's this little patch that says, "Lucky You."

I did not own a pair of Lucky jeans in high school. I remember fondling the denim more than once at the Brass Buckle, an uber-hip, at least to me, clothing store at Towne (yes, there was some need to spell town with an e) East Mall in Wichita. But they weren't cheap--at least for me--and my mother would only buy one pair of jeans at a time, and she wasn't going to fork out 60+ bucks for a single pair. Which meant, of course, that I was forced to use my own spending money (earned by my blood-sweat-tears at babysitting or McDonald's or, later on, Alco) to purchase more, since God forbid anyone repeat the wearing of jeans more than twice a week. (Honestly, I don't know how this was communicated to me. I just knew.) So, when it came to buying jeans, I went for the cheap stuff. I remember ordering J. Crew jeans a lot--back then, you could buy J. Crew jeans for 20 odd dollars. Now the cheapest, newest pairs are 70! But there was no logo to sport (back then, J. Crew made fun of brands that had the logos--now it has fallen), and J. Crew wasn't cool then.

I half-pretended not to care. And, for the most part, I didn't. I was against the system. Grunge was somewhat popular in USD 410, so I went that way, wearing oversized flannels and plastic barrets. But there was always that little part of me that whispered that my popularity would increase just a bit higher if I owned a set of those jeans.

Now that I'm grown up, supposedly, I can laugh at those feelings. But I know those things mattered to me at the time. And who doesn't remember something that meant so much back in the day?

And now that I'm all grown up I have a little little more money to spend, and I'll admit, I have a small fetish for jeans because of all that history. But, I usually stick to thrift stores because of this. My jeans were all falling apart on me at the same time a week or so ago, so I had a mission of finding jeans to fill the gap. I even bought a brand-spanking-new pair at Old Navy! So, the other day, I happened upon one of my favorite thrift stores, and decided to go in and see what I could see. And there, in the very back, was a pair of practically new Lucky jeans. Now, I haven't seen a whole lot of Lucky jeans on the east coast. In fact, the only person I ever saw wearing them was this chick from Texas. Maybe it's more a midwestern thing. Who knows? I'll admit, they're a little bit big, but I have high hopes for this wayfaring stranger. With a little hot water and a session in the dryer, maybe it will be perfect.

full-circle, of sorts

Tom and I walked in the Gay Pride march yesterday. It was great. The Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center had a DJ on a flatbed truck; well-endowed folk swiveled gracefully; firefighters and drag queens danced down the street. Tom and I made it briefly on local news. When we came to 23rd Street and Broadway, Tom commented on the fact that we had done a full-circle, of sorts. Watching the Gay Pride march at 23rd Street was our first official activity in New York. We had arrived the day before with four large suitcases, two backpacks and two smaller suitcases. It was muggy and hot, we had to go twice to Penn Station to retrieve all our luggage, and we were completely exhausted and bewildered. The next day, some of our fellow housemates were going to this parade I'd only heard of once or twice. Now I was in the march.

I found this picture on the BBC.

wheat harvest 2006

my dirty love

We went to Montreal for a mini-vacation last week. It was nice to see a different city with a totally different vibe from New York. The tourist attractions weren't great. There's a church near the top of what folks in Montreal call the Plateau, with at least a hundred steps to it. We were expecting something holy--we were confronted with this cold mausoleum. The guide book said the basilica was "refreshing" after all the iconography of other places, but the way I look at it, the icons are what make these churches beautiful and intimate. We did find a small chapel below the basilica that was filled with votives and piles of canes and crutches--apparently there's an idea that if one climbs up the steps on the knees, this person will be healed, and the canes and crutches are proof. We also found a church near the harbor that was dedicated to sailors. Little ships hung from the ceiling, and the walls were filled with sea-faring pictures. There was something about these little places that caught my heart. People were praying in them, calling to God silently or vocally. The tinge of votive candles and incense completed the scene.

I really enjoyed Montreal. I loved the way the apartments had little terraces on them, and how people hung out there to read or smoke or talk. But I feel like Montreal is a place to live rather than visit. You won't really know that city till you've wandered it for a bit.

At any rate, my second love (the first is, of course, obvious) will always be New York. New York is like that ex-girlfriend (New York must be female--there's no way she's male) you can't shake. She's dirty, smells bad, is freezing and sweltering for months at a time, takes all your money and crowds you into a dwelling a quarter of the size of a normal place for more than half your paycheck. Yet she has pieces of beauty that always bring you back. Gorgeous architecture next to homely towers, singers in the subway, readers in pompous bookstores, theater in every hole in the wall, clothes and furniture on the street for the taking, people watching galore...what more can I say?

grrr, tigers!

This weekend Teddy was here, and I went museum wandering with him--we actually went through two museums in one afternoon! Which is one too many for me, usually. I get so drained by all the visual stimuli. We went to the MoMA and the Folk Art museum. The Folk Art wasn't as bad as I was expecting. I was envisioning a bunch of dust gathering knick knacks, but there were a few pieces of glorious artistry in the everyday--like the tiger pictured here. I wasn't sure if cameras were allowed, so I snuck this one in very fast. I felt like a detective in a weird glass and mortar jungle...

spring cleaning

For the first time in our relationship, Tom and I had a spring cleaning day for a place we can call our very own--at least, our own as long as we pay the rent. Now, Tom doesn't like the term, spring cleaning, and he has various reasons for it, but that's what we were doing no matter what it's called. We are only half--if not less than--done with the job, because we're doing all those dirty little deeds you always push under the rug: really cleaning the grout, organizing the fridge and the pantry, filing away all those bills, rearranging our bookshelves, etc. We are going to throw out our street-found lamp that has stood gathering dust tomorrow, and have put up some attractive Chinese lanterns (bought at a store called Surprise! Surprise!) instead. We also bought a new shower curtain that has the words shampoo, wash and soap on it, as you see here in the photo. It goes quite nicely with our fake wooden Michelangelo prints (found on a street near Menno House--they were some kind of Louvre souvenir) on the bathroom walls, which are a nice communist red. I'm quite pleased with it.

you're hopeless, just hopeless, Charlie Brown

The picture on the blog is not hopeless--it comes from a site by a friend of Tom's, called Hobosoup. He plugged it on his blog as well, so really I'm being a copy cat, but what can I say?

Annie (the woman in the photo) is one of the coolest people I know. She's this kick-ass, I've Been Everywhere, Been There, Done That chainsmoker I've known (through Tom) since I've lived in New York. She's kind of an underground celebrity--apparently Bjork is afraid of little Annie. (She's so tiny! I feel like a lumbering ogre around her--you should see her with Tom!) I've been to a couple of her shows, and they were fun. She has this gravelly voice that can soothe and excite at the same time.

I've been feeling like a Charlie Brown lately. Nothing I do comes out right. I wander around in front of my computer, sure that I should do something but I can't think straight enough to know what that something is. I've gotten some writing gigs--one paid, the other not-yet-paid--but I can't even do that right. I think one editor hates me, the other doesn't communicate even though I'm constantly emailing and calling. No one wants to hire me for a job that has health insurance. My MFA is a total joke in the real world. You have to publish before anyone, even an agent, will glance at you. I'm afraid I'll just be a professional student because that seems to be the only thing I'm slightly good at. The list goes on and on.

But, never fear, life goes on and I'll figure something out at some point. Something's got to happen eventually. So, maybe I'm not hopeless after all. We'll see.

huzzah! sort of...

I turned in my thesis last Tuesday. It was a rather anti-climactic moment. My thesis advisor is on sabbatical and rarely comes on campus, so I just left it in her mailbox at the graduate center. It looked a little sad to be shuttled off in such a manner, but what could I do? I felt like leaning in and whispering: It's okay, Carolyn will take you home soon. And she'll be firm but right and loving.

I think it's also a little sad because I know it's still a work-in-progress that needs to be sent out to the cold cold world of agents and editors who'll toss it out without a second thought. But I need to just put it aside for awhile.

I wanted to add something to my earlier post about music. It started out as a note to a friend but my egotism got the best of me:

I was surrounded by music all the time growing up. I honestly don't remember a time I wasn't singing or was surrounded by music of some kind. Especially in church. Everybody in the Mennonite Brethren Conference could hold a note, it seemed. It wasn't until college that I realized there were churches (and some were Mennonite!!) that couldn't sing well. That couldn't hold a four-part harmony. (I'll admit, there was a period in my life that I believed praise music was more heart-felt than hymn singing (believe it or not, I was a Christiany-handy-clappy-Christian for awhile--if you are or ever have been a Christian you'll know what I mean), but I found myself drawn back into the fold, so to speak, though there are some praise songs I still like.) I sang at church, I sang in school, was in the elite choir in high school, etc. I took piano lessons and played in the school band.

In college I had a slight, shall we say, falling out, with music. Though I was in the "common" choir, it wasn't enough for me. I wanted to be in Chambers, but they didn't let first years in and the director leaned towards actual music majors as far as selection went. I could have auditioned for it my sophomore year, but at the end of my first year the director of Swing Sisters approached me after I'd sung a few solos in concerts and told me I ought to audition for his group in the fall. The way he played it to me, it was merely a formality--that I was in. So I didn't even try out for Chambers. Swing Sisters would be a change from what I usually did, and I wanted to try something new. And guess what, I didn't get in. (The director put a stupid rose in my mailbox, and a note telling me how sorry he was, how talented I was, yadah yadah yadah...)

To compound that situation, I received a C+ in a voice class that semester. I can't even remember why. That fall I edited the campus paper; I don't really remember a whole lot about that semester beyond staying up till six in the morning. I think it was because I don't sight read very well. Even with all that piano, flute and voice in my past I depend more on my ears than my eyes. I don't quite understand it myself. I think I get the general idea of what to sing, but it's only once I've heard the harmonies once or twice--sometimes more, but usually two times is enough--I can more or less "read" the music. Genius? Laziness? I must admit the latter is more likely.

So, for awhile I stayed away from singing other than the hymn sings at chapel or church. When I was on cross-cultural we would sing in the little nooks and crannies of holy places. My favorite memory is when we went into these underground caves and sang old 606:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above, praise Him above,
Praise Him above, ye heav'nly hosts...

The fellow showing us the caves was so drawn by the music that he demanded we sing again when we went above, but no one wanted to do it. Maybe we felt the holiness only there in a cave--maybe it was laziness, but who knows?

I slowly glided back into music after awhile. I did get into Chambers the second semester of my senior year. I heard through the grapevine that the director was quietly auditioning new people, and I got an audtion. I guess he'd heard enough about me to take me, because I sang for about a minute and the rest of the time had me try to repair this tiny fountain! As I left, he said, Well, rehearsals start next week. I'll see you there. And that was that!

blah blah blah

I've been feeling especially dried up about writing lately. And cynical to boot. I went to a reading on Friday that was made up of MFA students from around the city, expecting great things and came back with only a few bright moments. One of which was a classmate's performance--which, though I may be biased, but I thought went very well. However, the paltry scheisse I was forced to listen to beforehand was mind numbing. In particular, there was one reader (the first one (who goes to Columbia, of all places!)) whose prose was a wandering, self-absorbed nightmare. There were, I'll admit, a few sprinklings of insight, but they were dwarfed by the waves adverbs piled upon adjectives that were totally superfluous. (Not unlike this blog.) This story kept going on and on and on and I wondered if I would ever live to see act number two. And this is someone who beat me out of a place at Columbia!!!! If that's the kind of crap Columbia likes, well, I don't know what to think. Then I had to sit through another reading of poetry that was badly read by this traipsing little tight-jeaned, forward-motioning-breasts girl. As soon as I saw her I thought, uh oh, another perky one! She tried to do the poem nyorican style. I'm sorry, she was white as a sheet, and unless you're black or Spanish or just damn got it going on, it doesn't work.

The reading was scheduled for 7--it started after 7:30--the whole thing went till 9:40. Of course the person I had come to hear was the last of six readers, so I couldn't sneak out after she was done.

One bright spot was Palm Sunday. I sang with some folks at MMF and genuinely felt chills as the service and the singing progressed. I've said it before and I will say it again: the only time I'm pretty darn sure there is a god out there is when I'm singing and the harmony is blending and you barely need to look at the music because it's there inside already, pumping through the blood and muck of the body, ready to pulse out because the deity is out there tapping her toes.

spring, anyone?

It's definitely spring. Yesterday I was walking to the subway and saw the old men playing dominoes on the sidewalk, and kids were running around, screaming like banshees. It was a nice gentle warmth, though it got cold in the evening. But it's finally arrived. It's very dry, though. It's been the driest month of March ever for New York state since they started keeping records. It's supposed to rain tomorrow, but who knows? I hope it isn't a drought coming on. That means it'll be like our first summer in the city. It was ridiculously hot and dry. We went to movies to keep cool.

Our housing complex was bought a few weeks ago, and there's already some obvious changes. People who've been subletting illegally have been kicked out, a bunch of the "maintenance" workers have been fired--and rents are going up. It doesn't affect us, thank goodness. We have a lease until next year and the mayor just signed the Rent Stabilization article for another few years--till 2009, I believe. That means, I think, that they can only raise our rent the amount of inflation percentage. That means, however, that the landlords will be looking for more reasons to kick people out. Most importantly, it means that anyone who rents a space like ours will probably be paying market value for a studio in New York.

Ah, gentrification. More and more white folks are showing up in our neighborhood. I even saw this white hipster chick walk into our building yesterday! With rents going up, that means a different crowd will start living here. I don't know what I think about it all. I do know I don't want the folks living here to think that I'm one of them. At least my Laundry Buddies won't think so...

west side snobbery

Well, the other day I went to Erica Jong's reading at the Broadway and 82nd Barnes & Noble (since I wrote a review of her newest book I figured I may as well see her in the flesh), and I got a fresh view of West Side snobbery. The people attending the reading were just plain selfish, mean, crotchety folk. One old dude berated me for saving a seat for Lady L (who was dashing uptown from work):

You can't do that, he said.

Yes I can, I said.

You can't keep a seat like that, he said.

My friend's coming any minute, I said. People did it to me.

What do you mean? he said.

Other people were saving seats elsewhere. I found these two, I said, turning away from him.

Now, he was rather old, and I might (I can pretend to be altruistic here) have given him the seat and stood in the back (the place was packed--the reading space was ridiculously small--I have no idea why they had such a big-name reader in that space), but the way he acted I knew he never would have done the same for me, even if I was with a walker or something.

Others were being horrible as well. One lady was berating a poor floorwalker about the lack of seats.

There are no more seats here, he said.

Well, you go downstairs and get more!

There aren't any seats left in the building.

Well, there ought to be more somewhere!

And so on. I ended up having to give up the extra seat anyway. Lady L wasn't there by the start of the reading and I had to raise my hand when the MC asked the crowd to. (The woman who sat in front of me kept leaning in my way, completely obliterating my view. She was wearing these low low cut jeans and her bottom kept peeking out further and further like a plumber's. There weren't any panties to block the sight.)

Erica Jong was an interesting person. She had this mothering sort of air that made you feel as if you could hang out in her kitchen with a mug of tea and talking about Plath and shoes at the same time, yet she had this I Know I'm Famous and I Won't Let You Forget It way about her. Which pretty much fit the way of her book seemed to me. She mentioned more than once how intelligent and neatly well-off Upper West Siders were, having been one herself:

I can't afford to live on the Upper West Side, she said. I have to live on the Upper East Side. (This comes from a person who has a house in Connecticut or someplace like that.)

and,

Well, you know no one reads anymore, except for people on the Upper West Side.

The crowd, mostly former hippies who've managed to "live" the bohemian lifestyle in single family townhouses, all laughed in agreement. Now, I realize this statement was tongue-in-cheek, at least on her part. But I wondered about the audience. The way they laughed seemed that they believed it in their heartest of hearts.

I had her sign my book that I'd gotten (for free since I reviewed it--one good thing about being a reviewer) and even told her about my review and gave her a piece of paper with the link and my name on it. I doubt she'll look at it, though she confessed to being a blog and email junkie, but I figured you didn't always get a chance to tell the author about a review you wrote. She was, as I said, a nice sort of person at the core of it all.

7 songs

Apparently there's this thing Wunelle has about telling the blog-world what seven songs you're into at the moment. He mentions he'd like to hear from me. I'm horrible with names and titles, so it might take a few minutes to look them up. Basically, there's this pile of CDs next to our player, and I rotate them around because I'm too lazy to go through the huge books:

1. Neil Young - Old Man
2. Bob Dylan - Not Dark Yet
3. Cat Stevens - Trouble
4. Gillian Welch - The entire album of Soul Journey (it doesn't have the names listed on the CD)
5. Sarah McLaughlin - the album Afterglow (same reason)
6. Indigo Girls - Midnight Train to Georgia (actual song)
7. Ryan Adams and The Cardinals - the album Jacksonville City Nights (the lazy excuse)

People I'd like to hear from as far as albums. Frankly there's a lot more than 7, so I'm going to have more than 7:

1. Linda
2. Dan
3. Diana
4. Brian M.
5. Tom (I want to know what he listens to when I'm not around)
6. Bianca (if she has time for that...)
7. Holly
8. Reuben
9. Jenny
10. Kirsten
11. Jason
12. Teddy
13. Sarah D.
14. Szenga
15. Alex
16. Lady L
17. BJV
18. David
19. Ben
20. Anna
21. Kansas (a real person, not the state)

rejection

Well, I didn't get into the NYC Teaching Fellows. On the one hand, I am upset that anyone would reject me (me of all people!!!), but on the other hand, I'm slightly relieved. I wasn't totally sure I wanted to enslave myself to the New York Public School system. So, I'm back to looking for work--though I unoffically have been since the interview.

On the positive side, I'm about to be published on an online journal: LostWriters. I have a book review that will come out March 20th.

the ubiquitous grindstone

Well, the interview is over and done with. According to my interviewer, I could find out whether I've been accepted in two weeks or two months. So, I'm back in the rat race, because there's no telling what will happen. The group I interviewed with was pretty good--save for one sweet girl who tripped and nearly fell and didn't finish her lesson plan on time. If she gets in she'll be eaten alive by kids. She's just so nice and has horrible self-worth issues.

I held my own, I believe. My lesson plan went fairly well, was less than five minutes and people were eager to get involved in answering my questions. In the discussion time I had some trouble getting a word in edgewise--the two women I worked with were very very talkative, and they were both at least fifteen years my senior, so the whole "children should be seen and not heard" mantra kicked in. Which is somewhat bewildering to me, because I don't think that came from my parents at all. Then there was a writing assignment. You only had twenty minutes and it took me ten to write an outline. And sometimes it's hard for me to write because my hand starts shaking after awhile from my bout with the Tumor. I could've mentioned it at the one-on-one interview session, but I've always hated to use that excuse. I did mention some of the gaps between college and work were because of "medical issues." He seemed fine with that, though he did make sure I hadn't been working the last two years because of school. I think with the writing thing they're not worrying so much about the content but the tone of the draft, because he asked me about that first.

So, anyway, what's done is done. Ben came for a quick visit that evening and we bought gin and tonic and got nicely drunk at home. (He came to the City to talk to a prospective Author who lived on West 90th, and when he mentioned his sister lived in Harlem the Author was shocked. Is one of them black? he asked. Mind you, Ben is about as white as white can be. Blond hair, blue eyes.) The next day we went to a kick-ass brunch and went home and took a nap.

I'm back to applying for editing positions and now I'm writing my curriculum vitae for adjunct positions at community colleges. I need to sign up for the LAST (Liberal Arts and Sciences Test), which is required for people to pass to teach in New York. I wish I could wait and see if I got in before I foray into the standardized test world, but that may not happen. I hate those things!!!

Oh, the Antonya Nelson master workshop went well. She had a lot of good things to say. I feel pretty good about that. At the dinner we talked about Kansas. I was so nervous I couldn't remember what highway led to Hillsboro! I kept wanting to say 42, but that's the one through Harrisonburg.

My one concern that's surfaced is regarding my writing. If I do get in to this fellows program, I'm going to be pretty immersed in it. I have the feeling that it will be tough to find time to write. I don't want that to happen. I've made so much progress these last two years, I would hate to see that slip away.

something's in the whaatter

I was in the Sarah Lawrence bookstore just now, and as I was searching for a book, I overheard this conversation, more or less:

Whiney Girl: I would go to New York more, but I always feel like I have to be constantly on my guard.

Buxom Saleswoman: Yeah, every day you hear about rape and murder. It's a horrible place! I'm telling you, there must be somethin' in the whaaater [insert New Yorker/Westchester accent].

Whiney Girl: I do like flouride, though. It takes care of your teeth.

this will be brief

I'm going for an interview for the Teaching Fellows program. I am a little freaked out by it. Mostly because of the sample lesson we have to teach. I wouldn't be so worried about it but the time limit's five minutes and they are apparently quite tough about it.

My only comforts are the other candidates are probably as freaked as I am and it will all be over by this time tomorrow...I think I'll need a few stiff drinks after. Luckily, the interview site is within walking distance of several bars! It is supposed to snow tomorrow--yuck.

a sudden goodbye

The Dean of Studies at Sarah Lawrence died yesterday. She had been struggling with cancer for several years, apparently. I didn't know her very well, but she was the faculty sponsor of the Right to Write program--had initiated it, I believe.

I didn't even know she was sick. I had a meeting with her last semester, and in retrospect she did look a little guant, but I had always known her as a rather thin person, so I thought nothing of it. Not that I was expecting her or SLC to be parading it around, but I never even heard anything at the water cooler.

The son of my cousin once said, If cancer ever came around here, I'd do this! And he made a swift kicking motion.

Amen to that.

missionaries

I was just visited by some cute old ladies who're spreading the Good Word around this building. They were just so earnest and sweet with their coats and hats and smiles. It's weird being on the other side of an evangelical crew. I once was on that other side. For three or four weeks one summer I lived on a beach in San Diego, went in to Tijuana every day and did basketball and swimming camp and spread the Good Word--can you believe--me and basketball? I've been visited by Jehova's Witnesses before, but I don't think they're a part of that group. She asked if I wouldn't mind her coming around to talk about Jesus again (she gave me a little book), and I blathered on about being a student and having an erratic schedule. I didn't have the heart to dissuade her, but I don't know if I could keep up a nice pose for an entire discussion--I would be afraid she'd be a little upset about my Jesus...but then again, maybe not. I suppose she's seen it all around here. When I told her I was an MFA writing student, she whistled and said, Ohhh, that's quite interesting. She's probably marking me down as heathen. But she was very nice, even so.

one down, 19,999 to go

Yes, it's been a long time, and my readership has probably dropped off by now, but it's all been for a good cause. It's job-huntin'-thesis-finishin'-goin'-to-Staten-Island time. I just found out I've been moved up to the next level of the NYC Teaching Fellows program! Yay for me! Now I have to go to this huge interview process: I have to make a 5 minute (exactly--they'll stop you if you go over) lesson plan, have a big discussion group and then, finally, a one-on-one interview. It's next Saturday. Luckily, the lesson thing is done first, so I can get over it quick.

I still don't know how I really, honestly feel about it. I've been sitting around worrying about it for so long, I haven't figured out what I think. Although it must be a good sign that I was happy and relieved when I got the email. I'm still pounding the pavement for editing jobs at HarperCollins, Random House, Simon and Schuster and Knopf, and I went to a publisher's workshop yesterday at school, so I got a lot of lists of small presses in New York, so I'm going to look in on those.

Thesis stuff is going okay. I'm fairly close-mouthed about it all, so I won't say more than that. One of my pieces has been chosen to be workshopped next week in a master class with Antonya Nelson. She happens to be from Wichita, so I made sure she got a tale about a tornado.

state of the onion

The above title is a saying of my dad's...

Last night Tom and I hosted a Bush-drinka-thon. Some friends from our Menno House days came armed with margarita fixings and a blender. I broke out our wedding linen and dishes which Tom filled with junk food. We then each chose a word we believed would be said the most during the speech, and promised to drink each time the word was said. (Of course, outside drinking was allowed.) I chose terrorist and Tom chose each time Bush fumbled for a word. Lowell kept track of the numbers. I think he left with it, otherwise I'd grace you with the numbers.

The speech was rather boring, I must say. It was all safe diatribe; no beautiful oratory skills even from the speech writer. The whole tax-exempt Health Savings Accounts seems a little fishy to me. I feel it will work out great for rich folks but people like myself will be forced to foot the bill for those silly anti-seizure meds and birth control, not to mention any surgeries that could occur. Brian Lehrer of WNYC had a segment about it on his show. There are links to the sites about both sides of the issue.

The only exciting moment about the whole thing was when Bush talked about how congress (i.e. Democrats) didn't go along with his Social Security plan. For those of who weren't watching it, the entire Democratic section leaped to their feet and cheered mockingly at him. He was pissed. God forbid someone not look at him in adoration at every fumbled word that comes out of his mouth!

Okay, enough rhetoric for one blog.

(Wasn't it interesting that Laura Bush was seated between a black man and a Muslim woman? Oh, how multi-cultural of them! Of course, the Muslim woman was dressed fashionably and had her veil pushed as far back as possible. Had she been in full hijab (face veil, gloves, chador--the works) Laura wouldn't have dared sit with her. I'm all for the baring of any woman's head, but the fact is, many don't or are not allowed. It's always easier to digest a religion when it's not totally obvious.)

(And the whole Cindy Sheehan thing was interesting. Her only mistake was not waiting to show her shirt after the speech had begun. That would have been more interesting.)

b.o.w.m., or bitter old white man

Last night Tom and I went to see the movie--the first in many many months--Munich, directed by Speilberg and partly written by Tony Kushner. (When Tom told me Tony Kushner, who is one of the celebrities I've met and actually had a one-sentence conversation with (I was wearing my Amnesty International anti-death penalty t-shirt when I went to a reading and he said, I like your shirt. I said, Thanks.), wrote the screenplay, at first I thought he'd said Ashton Kuchner wrote it--I was floored, to say the least.)

Although I can't say I'll see it again any time soon, it's not because it was horrible. It was so emotionally gut-wrenching I can't imagine going through it again for a while. So it was my kind of movie. I felt it showed both sides of the violence between Palestine and Israel, and neither come out pretty. (I must say, the woman who played Golda Meir did a beautiful job of being a gentle yenta and a cold mastermind.) Munich was a bit on the long side; I think some things could've been cut or at least condensed, but it is Speilberg--and he can basically do whatever he wants anymore.

Afterwards we went to a diner to get something to eat to appease our contraband Milk Duds--we always buy candy at a Duane Reed or CVS--and were seated next to this cute old couple: white hair, matching canes. They reminded me of the couple in a diamond ad I used to see a lot: a young, hip couple comes upon an older couple in a park and pass them by, but the hip woman looks back and takes her man's hand and the breathless voice-over says: A diamond is forever.

Well, our food came and we were talking about the movie and I wasn't paying much attention to what they were saying. At first I thought they were married, but he said he was a Democrat who voted Republican, and she seemed shocked, so I guess they were casual acquaintances. He spoke of abortion (pretty much against, which I thought was typical for an old white man who'll never have to deal with such a situation), Bush (fairly warmly, but critical), etc. But then I heard the word Negro again and again.

They want whatever they can get, those Negroes, he said. All they want is a free ride, those Negroes. He just kept saying it over and over until I could no longer think but listen to his hurtful words. Then he started in on homosexuality: There's fags and lesbians running our city, he announced for the world to hear. This might as well be San Francisco!

Tom and I looked at each other and kept our heads down and ate. We tried to keep up some semblance on a conversation, but as soon as we were done we made an exit. The whole time I weighed the pros and cons of saying something, but decided against it. Tom did too. It wouldn't have changed his mind. We did say as we got up, loud enough for him to hear (though he probably was too deaf): Let's go somewhere where there's some opinions from this century. I think the woman heard. She seemed a little embarrassed.

Tom says he lived in Richmond among some real racist folk, but he never heard the word Negro among them.

tim robbins sighting at a speakeasy

I can add to my ever-growing list of celebrities the Shawshank Redemption-star Tim Robbins. It was in probably one of the coolest bars I've been in yet--it rivals the KGB bar on 4th St. (Where KGB is all about hole-in-the-wall grime and Communism, this one is all about opulance and Capitalism.) This bar is completely on the DL. If you don't know what you're looking for, you'd miss it. Luckily Tom and I were behind some (rather annoying) people and they were talking about The Toy Company, the name of said bar, so we followed them down some creepy stairs to an alley to another set of stairs and suddenly you're in this posh little Prohibition-themed bar with gilt ceilings, chandeliers, comfy chairs and ottomans and the walls are padded with gorgeous fabric.

As we were trekking to this little booze haven, it wafted up that Robbins and wife, Susan Sarandon, were in this bar. Some chick behind me literally pushed me aside to run down the stairs to see for herself. As if they would disappear suddenly.

I didn't see Sarandon, in the proper gloom of a speakeasy, but I was about eight feet or maybe a little more from Robbins. He's a tall galoot of a man, gray hair that needed a trim, and a pair of glasses perched on his largish nose. He looked like some absent-minded professor you'd have in college, teaching a literary criticism class entitled: Gender Switching from Shakespeare to Modern Drama.

I say this with all fondness. I'm very fond of galoots, as you well know as well as English teachers.

BTW, I haven't seen my big galoot crush since school started again. There's a reading next week; maybe he'll be there.