The move is nearly completed! Two Russian guys came this afternoon and took the stuff we packed and lugged downstairs to Harlem, then they unloaded them. Of course, this was for a price, but we feel it was worth it. And, I've been told it was very cheap, comparatively. It was nice having others do some of the work. We're still at Menno House tonight and tomorrow night, but then we're flying off to our little nest in Harlem. It's painted a nice, sunny yellow and looks less and less like a dorm room as our worldly posessions march in.

These are the before pictures. We'll hopefully have after pictures.

Are humans just programmed to gather things? When Tom and I moved to the city three years ago, we did it all by train. By train. We carried two large suitcases, two small suitcases and two backpacks. And now we have a roomful of boxes to take to Harlem.

Tonight I went to the ER to have my jammed up hand x-rayed. The school nurse at SLC was so concerned by my bruises, she wanted me to come and see an orthopedic doctor tomorrow. I opted instead to go to the ER here. Amazingly, it only took two hours. A lot of sitting around with homeless men occurred. One smacked on a sandwich and slept, while the other slouched in a corner, mumbling. There was also a guy on dialysis, who had escaped the hospital then came back and was upset because the nurse was doing the tests and vitals again, since he had to be readmitted. Apparently, after he had returned, he snuck up to his old room when he was supposed to be down in the waiting room to get his stuff and waited on the bed for security.

Everyone was very nice there. It's Catholic, so I have to thank St. Vincent for this.

But, the x-ray came out fine. No broken bones or splinters. Just a lot of swelling and bruising. What's great is with Aetna, this sort of thing is mostly paid for, unlike other nameless insurance companies. Otherwise, I just would have dealt with it and hope that nothing really bad happened.

And that's what so many of us do in these United States.

I fell today and jammed my fingers on my right hand. Ouch. Serious ouch. So you should be proud of my feeble typing. Tom and I were good consumers today. We bought a little kitchen cart thing on wheels, some CD books for Tom to put his rather large collection in, a new cell phone for Tom (he bumped into something at work and busted it), this little carpet swiffer thing, a bookcase that folds up into a thin board. We felt horrible about it, but felt that we at least felt proud of our non-purchase of a very nice, comfortable Sealy Posturepedic mattress, box and frame, which we found lounging not fifty feet from our front door, waiting for the garbage man. We had just been about to call and order one for delivery! So, the mattress gods were looking out for us.

Faith is a weird thing. You can't feel it in any way other than spiritual. Yet people have fought, killed and died for it for who knows how long. It is not something you can put in easy terms, though many who have faith try to do so. They take their god and put this god into little boxes and yet claim the greatness and powerfulness of said god. I suppose I do it too. It seems a human reaction, to believe what makes us feel safe and empowered, whether one is Left, Right or in between. A giant god that goes beyond understanding in simple terms as touch, taste, smell and feel is frightening. There must be rules and regulations to this god:


I. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
II. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.
III. Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain.
IV. Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
V. Honour thy father and thy mother.
VI. Thou shalt not kill.
VII. Thou shalt not commit adultery.
VIII. Thou shalt not steal.
IX. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.
X. Thou shalt not covet any thing that is thy neighbour's.

I'm not saying in listing those that I'm against the TC. I guess I could be saying that the main message of God here is: do not hurt people, and you shall be blessed. Now, how one interprets these commandments is the issue. I will not pretend to know an exact science for interpretation, since I don't believe in the exact science anyway.

Now, the Beatitudes:

Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are the meek,
for they shall possess the earth.

Blessed are they who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice,
for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the clean of heart,
for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they who suffer persecution for justice' sake,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Once again, the message I read here is: people who don't hurt others are blessed.

So, that is my warped sense of faith, including both the Old and the New. I am not against people believing different from me--it would be rather frightening, in some respects. But isn't that what the US of A is all about? Supposedly. My family came here for that reason. So they could live their lives according to their beliefs. What I am against is those in power trying to press their beliefs on others via laws. Killing, lying and cheating hurts people. Does it hurt anyone if a man sleeps with a man, or a woman with a woman, as long as they are smart and use protection, which goes for straight people as well? I am surrounded by gays and lesbians all the time here in the city--even in churches I attend. (And I'm willing to bet that many conservatives are as well, be they closeted or no.) But as far as I can tell, nothing has happened to me in any negative way because of their queer status.

Sigh.

Well, Kansas has done it again. It's officialy banned gay marriage in that state, marrying itself with the Right and coming closer closer to fusing religion and government. Never mind the extra, now possible, consequences towards the end of employers having health benefits to domestic partners, gay or straight. I read about a judge in a GMB state (I believe in the Chicago Times) threw out a domestic abuse case because the (straight) couple wasn't married. Count one towards continued violence towards people in general.

Count two towards thousands of people denied health insurance, simply because of who they are. Poor, minorities, the elderly, the disabled and now lesbians and gay men.

Never mind the idea of banning marriage towards a certain population is just damn ridiculous. Frankly, I am embarrassed as a religious person. The words of Christ are so ignored: love your enemy (but allow Christians to be a part of the military machine), etc., but good heavens let's pay attention to a few lines in the Old Testament and Paul's testaments and show these gays who's boss around here. Of course, I don't see a whole lot of christians paying attention to all the commands about mixing cloth and allowing stoning of children and the fact that Bible characters thought of their multiple wives as chattel. And the lines about slavery. That that's okay according to these people. These were reasons not too long ago that allowed for segregation, the right for women to vote, etc. in this country. Heck, the lines concerning women in ministry are brought up time and time again. And there still is segregation in this world today, often done by so-called Christians. Just in more muted (therefore more insidious) terms.

I'm sure some of my logic doesn't make sense. Maybe none of it. But things like a man turning back to a river of ice to save his oppressor from drowning--and then being killed for that "mistake" doesn't make sense either.

All I know is, there are people I love and respect who have better, more committed relationships than some straight couples I know, will bear the brunt of this kind of idiocy. That straights who kill, molest, abuse, steal, lie and cheat are allowed to marry because they are a certain "class" of people.

Since I wrote last, life has come up with insane things for me and Tom and The Apartment.

The Apartment was not ready for us on the 23rd, because of a chipped bathtub. Which, in theory, is a good thing, that the apartment people are that concerned with our well-being as to a bathtub. The downside to this was the fact that we had planned to go to VA to get our stuff left behind three years ago this most recent weekend and drop it off at The Apartment, and apparently it is illegal for apartment owners to give out the keys until all is ready. Tom and I talked to Lowell, our Menno House manager, and he OK'd us to keep the stuff here until whenever we moved everything out.

All seemed well, until:

Tom and I had planned to rent a minivan here and drive it to VA, pick up said stuff, and return to the city to drop it off at MH. I read in fine print that if the person renting the vehicle (me, with my credit card), was not the one driving, the alternate driver had to have a valid credit or debit card, but you had to pay a fee. Tom, who was going to drive, has neither. But he has an ATM card, which I figured was the same thing. But, it started to bother me Thursday eve, so I thought, heck, I should call and find out to rest assured. It turns out, ATM and debit cards ARE different. I went around and around with this guy. I can't even imagine how many minutes I wracked up on my cell phone. I was like, he's my husband--we both pay the bills--I'll vouch for him--we can run a balance check to show how much money we have--I have epilepsy and an injured eye and can't drive--you're discriminating against me because of a handicap (this is probably the first time in my life I've used that as a way to get something)...

The guy on the phone didn't agree with the ol' epilepsy defence. He said it wasn't breaking the law for me to drive. I said, mister, do you want me, someone who could pass out, to be driving the FDR?

After this, the guy on the phone put me on hold for awhile and came back with: if you have a note from your doctor, we'll let you put your husband on as the driver without paying the fee. But he still had to have a credit or debit card.

So the epilepsy defense was moot, but I kept at him. It's after 5 pm, I said, I'm not going to get a doctor's note before 7 am. I said I'd bring my meds and a pill book stating the reasons for the med and show it to the guy at the rental place. That wouldn't work, was his answer. You could forge a sticker and really be carrying illegal drugs. As if it wouldn't be easier to forge a doctor's note! Me, the transit person for a drug ring?

At the end, I said bleep bleep! into the phone and hung up.

After a couple of hours of scurrying around, which included trying to get a hold of Dr. Liebsch, trying to see if Tom still had money in his Park View (the credit union he banked with in VA--I had an account there too, but refused a debit card, because I didn't want easy access to my money) account, which he had a debit card with, I had to accept defeat. In the end, Tom and I got tickets on the 3:45 am bus on Friday (this was at 8 pm on Thursday), rented a one way UHaul truck in Waynesboro, VA, stayed up drinking coffee and boarded the bus without sleep. The trip was 9 hours long.

The weather right now totally fits right now: cold rain and sleet, wind, darkened city sky. I have spent the greater part of this afternoon either staring at this computer or staring at the ceiling. My nap dreams have been about children caught under falling beds, some of them on purpose. I have been surrounded by death on all sides, lately. Either in the news or the city or personally. Why is it that some people so want death to come that they bring it upon themselves and others, while others are struggling against the same thing desired by the former? It's a question that isn't really a question. It's more a fact.

One thing trivial but good I did was go to see Ira Glass, of NPR's This American Life. He and two others were presenting a workshop on making radio stories. It was very good. Though there was this woman who kept messing with her hair over and over, fidgeting every, seriously, every two minutes sitting in front of me. It was distracting.

I also saw Moby at B&N yesterday. He was signing copies of his latest CD. He looked snobby and self-pleased.

Tomorrow I'll hand over a large sum of money to live in a small--good, but small--apartment. While friends have bought houses with yards, Tom and I will merely be renters of a little island in the island of Harlem in the island of Manhattan. We were on the lookout today for various furniture items, and Tom was happily wandering the restaurant supply stores for kitchenware. We ate Vietnamese food at this cool little place down in Chinatown, which reminded me of why I love New York so much. We have scouted out the store where we want to buy a futon and maybe a desk if we can find space. We went to this place yesterday called Containers Central or something like that, and it was amazing, this place that only sold shelves and boxes and stuff Manhattanites need to live in their little huts.

Well. It's official. Tom and I have rented an apartment up in Harlem. We signed the papers today. I vary in emotion from happy to have a little place of our own, to sad that we're leaving Menno House. I just woke up from a nap a few moments ago, and I heard one of my housemates, Brian, trying to decide what clothes to wear at the theatre with Kate, another housemate who's in fashion school. And I realized this would all go on without me. It's sappy, I know.

I have been craigslist futon shopping, so you know who can come and visit. I already got a reply from one of my ads. The futon looks pretty decent in the photo. It's in Chelsea, though, so I'm not quite sure how we'll get it to Menno House without a vehicle.

(They're renovating the apartment now. We won't be able to get in for a couple weeks.)

I figure we could use it for a bed till we actually get a bed of our own.

I still am yet to do homework. (See previous post.)

I just was on Brian's blog, and it inspired me to note this. Go to Brian's blog first, then read mine:

Right now I'm sitting two doors down from Brian, looking at my bookshelf--and Tom's. And I see a hodge-podge of fantasy, Neal Stephenson, Gore Vidal, Norton anthologies, memoirs, "feminist" literature (whatever that means) on marriage, Egypt and Iran, cookbooks, New York guidebooks, novels from possibly every era, from Wuthering Heights to my recently signed Lost in the City. (Anyone who knows us will guess what books are mine and what books are Tom's.) To avoid the cliche, the thing I feel most tells about me through my books is the creases in the spine, the dog-eared pages, the coffee stain on the title page. They say I have been loved, hated, tossed into bags at the last minute, left behind in restaurants--and later been lovingly recovered--found on the street or in backalley bookstores or brightly lit B&Ns and bundled into a load and carried to a school far away. Sometimes I am pulled to the front, sometimes I am heartlessly pushed to the back. It tells nothing and yet everything about my experiences.

Before I get too smary lovey dovey, I'll stop there.

I just returned from my first reflexology massage.

It was amazing. My feet are glistening with lotions and oils, my toes are pink like a baby's, and I felt little zaps of energy in my arms and head. Even without the zaps, it was a great foot massage.

If you get a chance, take it!

Now I'll try to do some homework...I've done nothing all day.

I'll admit it, snob that I am. I will admit that I am deep into one of those fantasy novels: The Mists of Avalon. Very very very good. If you want brain candy that's good for you, read this book.

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.