For good or for ill, I have finished our 2004 taxes. Now, we wait. We wait for the mythical money that will promptly disappear into not-so-mythical medical bills, rent, cell phone, credit cards and food. At least we're so poor we don't have to pay anything. I think.

After all my wonderment at friends buying houses and other such grownup nonsense, Tom and I may join their ranks. We are considering going in with some friends here in NYC to buy a place in Brooklyn. The house we're looking at right now is in Bushwick. It's a brown three story affair, currently being renovated. Three large apartments, three bedrooms each. 1,000 square feet for each apartment. Which in the city is a crazy bunch of space. I won't say for how much. But it's an amazing price for New York. So, what we're thinking is that Mel and Dan would have one apartment, Tom and I the second, and we'd rent out the third.

There are some troubles with it. It's near a train station that has elevated tracks, for one. So noise would be an issue One side of the house seems a little bad structurally. And the roof sags a bit. I saw it for the first time today; Dan's seen it a couple times. He felt pretty good about it. And he built a strawbale house in WV. Which some of you may snicker at. We had come to look inside it, but the construction crew nailed the doors shut, so the real estate guy couldn't let us in. Tom and I are going to try and see it, the inside, this weekend.

A few major pluses are the fact that Bushwick is fairly close to Manhattan, paying for a place instead of throwing money in rent would be good, and, if we decided to move we could simply rent the place out, and we'd always be able to come back.

The neighborhoods nothing like the one we live in now. Much more working class. KFCs and Dunkin Donuts around, stuff like that. No Starbucks to be seen. But there were lots of kids running around, and that was a good sign. A safe neighborhood.

So. We'll see what happens.

I did my first interview for my oral history project with a guy named Donald. It was really good. Although the interview was only and hour and a half, we talked before and after about the subject. Strange to say, but somehow the experience made me feel like a real New Yorker. He lives in the East Village, and as I walked over there and came in to his tiny apartment (I mean tiny--for anyone who remembers Sarah and my apartment in Harrisonburg, think about half the size and you get the idea.), pet his cat and sat down, and we talked a while about New York things, I don't know. I felt more at home in this nutso place than ever.

Good grief. I sound so like every other Midwest transplant more than likely.

What was so encouraging about this afternoon was our conversation surrounding church life. He's a very spiritual person, but because he is who he is not to mention the fact that he's queer (he prefers that to gay--feels gay is so much more mainstream, clean cut and "acceptable") he's been disgusted with Christianity and rarely goes to church. He is sort of involved in Buddhism. But we talked a bunch about different churches in the city that have a more progressive outlook, everyone to the crazy Mennos and Quakers to the Baptists (gasp) and Presbyterians--and how they seem keyed in to Christ's message. Though they still have further to go. I'm sure some would think our conversation blasphemy, but it made good darn sense to me.

Right now I am waiting for my extra extra slow printer to print a 29 page document. I need a new printer. Maybe if the printer gods hear me...

Today Lowell and I picked up Carol from Pax Christi, where I once worked as a volunteer and now she is there, and we went to this place for lunch called the Peanut Butter Co., which basically sells different kinds of peanut butter sandwiches: pb and j, pb and nuttella, etc. It's nice and hipster and a bit expensive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is fucking fucking cold out there.

At last, here I am.

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

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

Well, it's xmas morning, two a.m. Why am I up so early? Because Tom and I have just gotten the packing done for our pilgramage to Kansas. It was a good xmas eve, so the holiday's been very nice. Today we went to the credit union to do some depositing. Then we went to the pharmacy--again. Then we went to Payless to get socks. Then we went home. Tom went to work. I greeted some guests, who'd lost their luggage, and saved a bunch of my writing on discs. I've decided to leave my laptop at home--but I have fears of something horrible happening and me losing all my work. I'm thinking about investing in a zip drive. I went to the Washington Sq. United Methodist Church's Lessons and Carols service. It was very very nice. Good music--heavy on the jazz at times, but all the musicians are jazz artists, I believe--a lot of congregational singing, and it was done in an hour!

Tom and I had a nice evening of eating sushi, drinking pop, sipping hot and sour soup, and dipping veggie spring rolls. And talking to Ted on the phone. Then Tom's folks. Then we watched Love Actually. A good movie. Not a great film, as Tom says, but a great movie. It's been nice having Menno House to ourselves. Like we're really grownups and owning a place of our own.

I'm hungry, but I don't feel like eating, if that makes any sense.

I've been fighting my pharmacy, my insurance and a doctor's office the last two weeks about my medicine. Let's just say my doctor's office kept ignoring my calls about a prescription refill, then the pharmacy spelled my name wrong so when I came to pick it up yesterday when they finally called them, they said they'd never gotten it, and I had to wait for ten minutes for them to figure it out, then sat another ten for them to refill it. Then this morning I called to renew for my Lamictal, since I'll be gone to Kansas when it runs out, and they said my insurance wouldn't cover it until the 26th of this month--it's the freaking 23rd. But finally a nice guy at CVS worked it out for me.

My former boss at Pax said yesterday that she doesn't know any users, but I take more drugs than anyone she knows. It's so true. I can't imagine what people who are HIV+ have to do to get their drugs, if they can get them at all. Which is a whole other can of worms I have moaned about here.

Also, I suddenly received a bill from Mass General for 1,000 dollars. I have no idea why they're putting this on me more than a year after I had the treatment. So I have to deal with that.

I just bought some shoes from No Sweat Apparel. I could wax preachy on this subject, but I won't. (They're vegan-friendly, too.) I had the email sent to my new gmail account, which only sells adspace to the things you write about in your email, and this was listed, I'm not kidding:

"Child Labor for Sale. Affordable. Check out ebay now!"

So, I did. Checked it out. Unfortunately, it was all very politically correct. No "bright eight year old for sale" listings.

Well. My first semester is over. And I'm still standing, although my memory is seriously messed. Twice this week I've forgotten things, like on Monday when Tom had a office party after work. I remember now he'd mentioned it more than a couple times over the week, but Monday was an insane day, so I came home from school at 8ish (oh, I met Eve Ensler at Barnes & Noble--more on that later) and suddenly it was 9 and he wasn't home yet. I called his cell--and it didn't ring or pick up his voice mail right away, there was just silence. I left a message, and went on with other things. But then it was ten, then ten fifteen. I started to freak out. I envisioned buses barreling down on him. I called his cell phone several times, and it was just silent. I was about to put on my coat and look for him, when lo and behold, he called me...

About Eve Ensler--of Vagina Monologues, for those who are literarlily ignorant--I went to a reading at B&N. She talked about her one-woman show, upcoming projects, etc. One of which was interviewing young girls around the world. I asked her if she was interviewing a certain group of girls, and she said, "yes, I am, but I'd like to interview you." So, I gave her my email and phone number, she signed my little copy of The Vagina Monologues with the message, Bless your vagina, and that was that. For all I know it will never happen, and it might be weird if it does, but how's that for Meeting the Artist in Person? Usually I fuddle things up when I get autographs from writers. (See Feb. 2004 blog about my Toni Morrison encounter.) Although when I had Tony Kushner sign Homebody/Kabul, I did get a favorable comment from the gay, liberal New Yorker Jew on the t-shirt I wore. It was the Don't Kill for Us Amnesty International shirt.

He said, "I like that shirt."

"Thanks," I said. I felt quite proud.

I did sit in front of Salman Rushdie at a Michael Ondaatje reading. We made eye contact.

So, it's been a pretty good year as far as writer people are concerned. First, Pulitzer Prize winning author Edward P. Jones critiques my story in workshop. Now this.

Well, it is done. My last project for the semester, for better or for worse, is finished. And what a pointless one it is. What is this pointless topic? A summation of what my class, the oral history class, has learned plus a brief description of our readings. All of them. The bibliography is two pages long. I have to admit, it will be slightly helpful to the people coming in at semester. It's a year-long class. But they'll more than likely look at it for five, if i'm lucky, ten minutes, then it will go into a drawer or the recycle bin. Ah, the life of an academic. It makes me feel bad all the times i've tossed some book some academian has labored for years on. Whether it's any good or not, time was devoted to it.

For anyone (including you, MRC) who wants to read and argue with a much better arguer than myself, you should go to http://mybrainisopen.blogspot.com/. Yep, it's my little brother. In years, rather than height. I have a link to him to the right. Just wait (to argue, not read) until after Dec. 17th. He's got school like crazy.

Today I disregarded the final project due on Monday and went to B&N where I bought some xmas cards (if anyone reads Tom's blog, you'll find we're joining the adult club). Incidentally, some of the cards there were cheaper than the ones at Duane Reade's. And, the only ones without Santa or American flags at DR were large and needed more postage. I did buy them but on my way home I stopped a postperson and asked. So, I took them back. By the way, if you are unlucky enough to get one, yes, I know the angel looks like she's got a stomachache, but I liked the simple "peace and joy" message and it was for 8 dollars.

Anyway, there I was, drinking coffee and reading a book of short stories that I have to get back to the school library before the semester ends and so I can put it on my summary of what I have done for the semester and look that much smarter, when these two middle aged men sat next to me. I didn't even pay attention till one of them, M1, was talking to his daughter, named Jessica, on his cell. They were talking about M2's marriage troubles.

"There are five stages of marriages, and it is all about fertility and the need to populate the earth," M1 announced. I kept looking at my book, but was hooked. This is the info about marriage that I learned:

Stage 1

You are in love, forever and ever. You can't think without her. All you want to do is you-know-what.

Stage 2

You have children. Suddenly you are no longer #1 in her life. This smarts a little. Sex declines.

Stage 3

For the next 20 years, this goes on. The focus, for both of you, is the children and the money to raise them with. She becomes that person you sleep with, w/out sex, nothing more.

Stage 4

The children are gone. You are expecting sex more. At least once a week, but only if you are lucky. She becomes a friend you happen to live with.

Stage 5

If one of you does not get the divorce papers, this continues until death. You need to make sure you are nice to her, because possibly she'll be wiping your ass before death claims you.

It's so funny. In a place like Hillsboro, and probably Harrisonburg, you could never have a conversation like that in public. Never. But here, it happens all the time. Because you know you won't see these people you're sitting by again. And if they do reappear, quite possibly they weren't even paying attention. I got a call on my cell as I sat in the cafe from my nuerologist's nurse, and I sat there, discussing my estrogen levels and relating some of my OBGYN's observations, in front of all these people.

Whenever people are denied life and are calling out for life, and are struggling for life, God is there. - Rev. Niall O'Brien, SSC

Alternatives to violent solutions exist...moral force is stronger than physical force. - Colman McCarthy

When you bow to the universe, the universe bows back. When you call out the name of God, it echoes inside you. - Can't Remember Who Said This

I don't know if I totally want to go the route of arguing in my blog, but, since a certain Mr. Roth-Cline is afraid to put a comment page on his blog, I am forced to do such a thing. My friend states:

The first and most obvious problem is that prayer has little instrumental value — in other words, it simply doesn't work to achieve the desired ends. I'm not aware of any evidence showing that prayer has a consistent, statistically significant causal effect. Prayer may make people feel better (which does, of course, have an effect on individual well-being), but prayer doesn't seem to change the course of world events. Jessica mentions the "destruction of thousands" that she seems to think might have been prevented by the election of Senator Kerry — but what about the millions of people killed during the Holocaust or other ethnic cleansings from Yugoslavia to Sudan? Ostensibly those situations deserve supernatural involvement just as much (if not moreso) than the US election, yet peace did not come through supernatural intervention: it came when people with more guns than the ethnic cleansers put a forcible stop to the carnage.

I won't and cannot claim to be as good at the form of argument that MRC is, but I'll share an excellent story written in the script of the West Wing's first season--the show is about the death penalty; Pres. Bartlett has to decide whether to put a stay to a federal execution. Bartlett has been raging about the wisdom God has not given him in this case to his priest. Earlier in the show a rabbi and a Quaker had spoken out against capital punishment in the Oval Office. The priest states:

You know, you remind me of the man that lived by the river. He heard a radio report that the river was going to rush up and flood the town. And that all the residents should evacuate their homes. But the man said, “I’m religious. I pray. God loves me. God will save me.” The waters rose up. A guy in a row boat came along and he shouted, “Hey, hey you! You in there. The town is flooding. Let me take you to safety.” But the man shouted back, “I’m religious. I pray. God loves me. God will save me.” A helicopter was hovering overhead. And a guy with a megaphone shouted, “Hey you, you down there. The town is flooding. Let me drop this ladder and I’ll take you to safety.” But the man shouted back that he was religious, that he prayed, that God loved him and that God will take him to safety. Well... the man drowned. And standing at the gates of St. Peter, he demanded an audience with God. “Lord,” he said, “I’m a religious man, I pray. I thought you loved me. Why did this happen?” God said, “I sent you a radio report, a helicopter, and a guy in a rowboat. What the hell are you doing here?”

He sent you a priest, a rabbi, and a Quaker, Mr. President. Not to mention his son, Jesus Christ. What do you want from him?

The travesties of this world are not isolated incidents that came out of nowhere. Because people with free will refused to see what was going on around them. The Holocaust, for example. Had the Treaty of Versailles signed at the end of WWI not been so devastating to the German economy, had the US and Britain recognized the terror in Germany around in the late '20s and early '30s when Dachau, the first concentration camp was created, which imprisoned homosexuals and gypsies, not to mention the burning of books and the exodus of a certain Einstein fellow and the huge amounts of Jews been let into the US instead of back to Europe and certain death, had the racism against the Asian population not created the horror that was Hiroshima and Ngasaki (both cities with no military sites), perhaps history may have changed.

God works through people. God is not a puppeteer. She puts the tree in our sight and lets us choose for ourselves. People are given choices every day to do good or bad in the world. Unfortunately, many in power choose the latter. They refuse medical care for those who need it. They choose to send four planes into giant buildings. They build a wall, demolish houses and steal water from a people in need of it. They send suicide bombers into restaurants and buses. They enslave children to make sneakers for a pittance a day. The list goes on.

Right now, it's 188 Kerry and 197 Bush. And I have to analyze two stories for tomorrow...

I'm listening to Bruce Springsteen sing "Highway Patrolman." Seems to fit my mood right now.

Me and Frankie laughin' and drinkin' nothin' feels better than blood on blood takin' turns dancin' with Maria, while the band played Night of the Johnstown Flood ...

Well, it's been awhile, but as it is voting day-eve, I figured I'd take some time off living in my brain to address a situation: is it proper to pray for Bush's defeat? Really, I wonder. I am tempted to do it. I don't officially pray with any regularity. I feel that with all the suffering in the world that my needs are rather paltry in comparison. Singing in church is probably the closest I come to in praying most of the time. But I am considering that this situation, which may be the saving or destruction of thousands, needs the hand of God involved.

But should a pacifist pray for a warrior like Kerry to win? Or would I be doing the same as the Reglious Right in being a one-issue person? Some said in the Mennonite Weekly Review that Mennonites shouldn't vote because of this issue and others. But I think of the health care issue, the oil issue, the Iraq fiasco issue, and I say: there is never going to be a president who is a pacifist, so I should lean towards someone who kind of says some peaceful things and I should focus on other issues. I don't know. Does this make any sense to anyone?

I'm voting for Kerry tomorrow. I just don't know if I can pray for his victory.

Oh...and a certain friend who shall remain nameless asked me awhile ago whether I could see any positive sides to the Republican party. I am sure there are--no one is all good or all bad. But I can't seem to think of any right now.

I know it's been a long long long time, but I'll only say this before going to bed: any undecided voter who is leaning towards Bush post-first debate has some kind of serious brain problem. I mean it. I dislike the man but I felt bad for him the entire debate. He looked in pain. He struggled for words like "group of folks." When he wanted the extra thirty seconds to rebut something, he'd interrupt Jim Lehrer but then he'd stand there and try to think of something to say. And then he'd finish long before his time was up. He kept hunching up until his head was low to the microphone...

Now, to anyone who is a die-hard Bush supporter: I don't understand you either but good for you in your steadfastness in your trajectory, since Bush seems to think that is the way to go in all things.