I will share my jury-summons experience at a later date--I need to get out of here. But I'll give you a tidbit: for the first time in my life I tried to shadow someone. Who? The Al Pacino-fellow. It didn't last very long, but I felt very Pacino-esque doing it.

Well, my first day of jury duty is over, and one if not several more stretch before me much much farther than I care to think of. I guess I can’t disclose much info, beyond I’m in the interview phase of jury selection, am hoping I’ll not be picked because I don’t know how I’d like to decide someone’s fate, guilty or no. Plus, the judge has predicted the trial itself may last well into next week…so, cross your fingers, folks.

It has been interesting doing the people watching thing with my fellow jurors. There’s one guy who looks like Al Pacino would if he had a beer gut and hippie hair. Another geeky boy reading Cryptomicran or whatever that book by Neal Stephenson is. It’s been great to see the society middle-aged beauty queen next to the hood in giant t-shirt and sneakers.

Ugh. I've had this weird sick thing going on for the past two days. My stomach is nauseouss, my nose stuffed up, my head aches, my throat hurts, but not enough to keep me bed ridden. I took a Claratin because I thought that would clear my nose and take care of the throat. Which it did. But now I'm wandering about in a haze. I have no idea where this came from. Saturday I felt great, but late Saturday night I got a scratchy throat and it all just went downhill from there. I have done a lot of reading these past few days. I re-read In the Skin of a Lion and am halfway through The English Patient. Hopefully soon I will review them on Pileofgreybooks.

Job searching is depressing. This is really the first time in my life where IÂ’ve had to fight others for jobs. And not being as positive that I would win.

Well, since I've been back I've been job hunting. I've applied to two places. We'll see what happens.

Being back to Kansas was nice--and hot. Unlike here (until today where it is finally 70 degrees--before that the 50s). When we took off from LaGuardia, I managed to get a brief glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. It was all sultry and mystical looking. When I was on the return flight, the plane literally swooped over the island. It was night so the borough was lit up like Christmas, and we were so low I could see where we lived before and where we're living now. (Of course, the general area.) It was great. I went home via the bus for the first time, instead of cabbing it. It felt freeing to know I could step out onto the street and get myself home--not having to bum a ride. I felt proud to be a New Yorker. Being back in Kansas reminded me so much of how dependent people in those areas are on cars.

One little funny story about my trip back:

As I was waiting to board the plane at Wichita, this pouty-looking 16-year-old wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt came to the line and started complaining to I guess her mother about how the security folks bugged her and frisked her. She kept whining about it, until her father had enough. "That's what you get for being in the big city, hon," he said.

I nearly busted out laughing. The Big City of Wichita, Kansas. Good grief. I nearly added: "You better stay far from New York, then." I'm glad I didn't, because I had to sit by Miss Pouty-Pants on the plane.

I'm off to Kansas tomorrow for a little jaunt. Apparently it's in the 80's and windy, which is hard to imagine in this still slightly chilly New York. David is graduating from Tabor College, and is the last in line of our little nuclear family. What my mother is going to do without someone to worry about is now the question. I'm having the usual "I'm sure I'm going to die" fears. As I packed my bag, I envisioned it blowing up into little pieces. I know the chances of this happening is less than the chances of me getting driven over by a garbage truck while crossing the street, but I feel like I have some control of that kind of death than trusting people I'll never know with my life. Or that various terrorists will think a plane headed for Minneapolis is too innocuous of a destination. I imagine myself screaming at the potential terrorists: Don't kill me! I don't represent the USA! I'm in favor of a Palestinian state, I was against the war in Iraq, I try not to be a consumer, I see good in Islam! You can't think we all are a part of that!

So.

On a lighter note, the maintenence guy came to fix our leaky pipe--three days after I made the call, however. He was very nice and friendly. And I don't want to get on the bad side of the maintenence office.

Day 2 was yet another fun, activity filled day. I did laundry, cleaned, made an appointment with an orthodontist (I think I'm going to have to have a wisdom tooth that is causing much pain every couple of months pulled--the dentist said I should have all of them pulled, but I'm not made of money. He was shocked when I said it had been years since my last cleaning--I do believe it was childhood. He acted like I'd been neglecting a baby or something. I decided not to bother telling him about my long, drawn out medical history. "I'm sorry, dealing with brain tumors and leg tumors took up most of my time. Besides the fact that one needs good health insurance to do something so frivolous," I could have said), bought a replacement for this adapter thing that connects my laptop to the plug in for what seemed to me a ridiculous amount of money, a pair of jeans (frivolous I know--but my justification tells me I haven't bought a BRAND NEW pair of jeans in years. I think I was a junior in college. Between then and now I've always gone the thrift-store route. I think Sarah Diener Beachy would be proud. They were only from Old Navy, anyway.), a prescription and a bottle of pesto sauce. Now I'm at Tom's work pecking out this blog. So, I've managed to write every day so far.

Ahhhh....my first day of freedom. So far I've done well on the not slumming around thing. Today I put the rest of my clothes in the ever-shrinking closet, went to the Brooklyn Museum of Art with Sarah and Alex (SLC writing friends), ate Vietnamese food (deeeelicious), and now am writing...well, on the blog, anyway. The museum was really cool. Way better than 25-dollar-a-pop MoMA (Museum of Modern Art, for those not in the know). This only costs 8--4 for students. I didn't have to pay this time, because Alex was with his art class, and some of the students didn't show, so I got in for free. I figure SLC owes me anyway, with her expensive tuition and all.

One thing about living in Harlem is the fact that all the white people around me think I'm totally bad-ass because of it. The art prof asked me where I lived and at first I just said Manhattan, but since Manhattanites always want to know where in Manhattan you live, I added, Harlem. Well, she said, awe in her voice, that must be interesting.

Yeah, I said, assuming a cool pose, it's pretty nice.

In reality, the part that we live in is pretty nice. There are projects around, but fairly nice ones, for projects, and the crime statisically is no worse than where we used to live--and that was in hotchy-dotchy Gramercy Park. The only thing that I'm really troubled about is the way the men call at me. I've been called Snowbunny, Goldilocks, several Baby and Beautiful Girls have been thrown my way. The thing is, I don't know how to respond to it. I've just ignored them, and I'm developing a nasty street face for when I walk out the door. It may be working, because when I have the face on I don't get bugged. Now I know why African-American women are so tough. With African-American men (at least the ones who call you Baby and Honey--obviously not every black man does this) you can't show fear, because then they pounce on it. The thing is, too, some of the men (and women) that I've dealt with at the rental office and maintenence call me baby--but it doesn't bother me. I feel that there are times when its out of affection rather than anything sexual. Like guys saying Brother or girls saying Sister. Or Latinos calling each other Momma and Papa.

And you can't say white men are all angels. Sarah, my friend at SLC, says that a lot of white men in Yonkers call out at her--probably because she's Asian.

I have to say that New York is still so segregated. I thought when we still lived in Menno House things were pretty integrated, but now when I'm downtown how white it really is. I wonder if black women in Gramercy feel the way I do in Harlem at times. I'm sure of it. Rachel, who is African-American and another classmate, says she was once wandering around Bronxville and people literally stared at her like she was shit. Apparently a teacher at Sarah Lawrence was asked to leave a store in Bronxville, because black people always shoplift.

So, it doesn't make me any less scared, but it's not like other people haven't had to deal with that kind of shit.

So, I've got only two classes to go and my first year of MFAing is over. Wheeee! Although it will be harder to write without a deadline, so I must be very vigilant. Very very vigilant. I'm also going to have to get serious about looking for a job. Not only will the money be nice, but I need something to either get me out of the little ledge we now call home--or at least give me more structured time. Honestly, I can see myself slumming my way through the summer, tapping on my laptop every once in awhile to prove that I'm working.

Being without internet has been both a blessing and a curse. Now the only thing I have to distract me when I should be writing is solitare. Today I was considering trying out Tom's vile violent computer game, Mafia...

I've been feeling rather, well, stupid lately. In my craft classes, people are always bashing the authors we're reading and praising to the sky William Faulkner and how no one can equal him, blah blah blah... It's not that I don't have things to say, either positively or negatively, but I feel my ways of putting them are not on the same, I don't know, plane or something. I can't express it in the ways some of my classmates chant: "The story thread just didn't work with the imagery and really, how can you bring up Christ symbolism in the dichotomy of today's post-post-colonial-modern age?"

I ate lunch with a different crowd than I usually do on Wed., and all they talked about the whole meal was writing, and William Faulkner, and blah blah blah. I like reading, I love writing, but people who spend all their time just making fictional jabber to impress each other and themselves just bores me to tears. I like to talk about other things, inane things, like gossiping about people, etc. Especially at lunch. I just need a second to connect with the lesser parts of my soul...

I will be glad to see this semester end, I believe.

One of my last memories of Menno House will be this:

A guest, one of hundreds who have passed through the doors of this place since we came in 2002, ventured up to our room (at the top floor of a four-story house--a place where guests are not supposed to be) and offered me a Mennonite pretzel.

Here's how it happened:

Jessica is cleaning the bedroom for the next people. A voice calls from the hallway.

Guest: Hello? Hello?

A rather bleeting sound.

Jessica: Yes? Hello?

Guest: Hello?

Jessica: Yes? Can I help you?

Jessica goes to the door, and opens it, revealing a tallish man in his forties.

Guest: Can I interest you in a Mennonite pretzel?

Guest offers her a bag that says: Martin's Pretzels. Jessica takes one, even though she isn't fond of large pretzels.

Jessica: Thanks.

Guest peers into their room. He sees the cleaning solution in her hand.

Guest: This room is sunny.

Jessica: Yes.

Guest: Guess you are cleaning up.

Jessica: Yep. Getting it ready for the new people.

Guest: Is your husband here?

Jessica: No, he's working.

Guest: Cool.

Guest leaves the doorway. Jessica, feeling bad for her coldness, says:

Jessica: Did you get those at the farmer's market?

Guest: No, the green market.

Same thing, but Jessica says nothing. Guest continues down the hall, stopping at each door, bleeting.

Guest: Hello? Hello? Hello?

He is Canadian. Anya thinks maybe he is from some isolated place with no idea how to interact with people.

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.