blame it on the rain

For the past several days it has rained or threatened to rain. I like rain for a little while, but when you live in the city where you have to walk in it all the time, there's only so much wet-bag, soaked-shoes, damp-jean-legs you can handle. Street traffic becomes live or let die. Everyone's trying to get past everyone else with their cumbersome umbrellas. Cars careen close to pedestrians despite pools of water. And people dash about as if unaware that everything becomes slippery when wet. I saw a woman stampede down the subway stairs this morning. She slipped on one of the steps and rode down the rest of the way on her behind, her umbrella threatening to put someone's eye out.

And speaking of umbrellas--they're everywhere! Not only for sale by the subway or in Chinatown (where these guys come from--the guys at the subway--is anyone's guess--it starts to spurt a little and boom! they're there), but in the gutter, a few feet from garbage cans, a few in garbage cans, or seemingly flung down with disgust when they bust up. It's somewhat disgusting but so artistic at the same time.

I'll admit there was a day when I came out of the subway at Union Square without an umbrella. For some reason there was no one selling umbrellas at this particular entrance (it was a Sunday, though I doubt that was why), so I grabbed a newspaper and braved the storm. Fairly soon I was drenched. Furious, I shouted an epithet and flung it down with disgust, despite the fact that I've always detested people who litter.

We all have our weak moments.

the bridges of westchester county

When I march, rather breathlessly, up from the trainstation to Sarah Lawrence, I have two possible routes: the official way or the back way. These names have been made up by me of course. And really, I think the back way should be stated as the official way, because it leads to the most "official" entrance to the campus (i.e. there's an actual sign on a campus dearth of signage--I guess they figure if you aren't able to understand the campus you aren't smart enough to be there), but the Official Way is the first one I learned, the Back Way I learned only a few weeks into my first semester.

And so, I'm sure you're asking, what's the difference between them? The Official Way is more, well, official and to the point. Very sensible and easy to follow, with possible stops on the way for refreshment: a bagel shop, deli, pastry shop, bar and a Chinese restaurant. One downside is the fact that it quite matter-of-factly marches up the hill to Sarah Lawrence, no switchbacks to speak of. The Back Way has none of the aforesaid "luxuries." It meanders through cute little neighborhoods (some rather wealthy--the houses aren't necessarily mansions, but they have that solid look that shows the owners are wealthy enough and have been for some time--it doesn't need to show off like new rich). It too has a rather tiring escalation, but it winds just enough to give one a chance to catch the breath and soldier on.

I usually choose the Back Way unless I have to go to the duplicating office in North. My choice has some practical reasons because the Back Way is closer to the library, and all the buildings I use are on that end of the campus, but there is one other reason for my choice: the bridge of the Back Way.

There are bridges on both routes. The Official Way is more generic and over-passish. Both bridges are over-passes, but while to Official Way does nothing to hide this fact, the Back Way is more muted in its approach. Trees artfully arch over the nearby river and reach out to the three-lane traffic. A less chemicaled air rides the atmosphere. Water fowl dance around the treetops. When the leaves change the sight is spectacular. I always feel like belting out a hymn when I cross this bridge. It inspired one of the sonnets that got published in The Void this past spring.

hands

Growing up in a tiny farming town like Hillsboro, there was a plethora of farm folk around me. I got my ideas of what grown-ups were like through these unsuspecting subjects. One of these ideas was that all men have calloused hands. My dad has tough hands, as did many of the men I came into contact with when I was a kid. I figured it was some kind of thing that happened when boys grew up. Suddenly their hands turn from the white, frothy skin we all had, to a tanned rawhide was my summation. I don't remember when this notion left me, but I believe it may have been in full force until high school.

I didn't think that it was because of the line of work they were in. That the sun-drenched skin and farmer's tans and calloused hands were simply signs of what they did in life. It didn't quite occur to me that there were men with hands like my own.

I seem to need this lesson repeated over and over. For instance, just because I am a lover of the English language doesn't mean others have the same passion. Just because I can see how much a creative writing workshop would help the women I'm working with in Westchester County Prison doesn't mean they would see that too. Every Monday I go into the prison armed with Maya Angelou, paper and pens, sure they will see the light, and leave thinking how silly that thought is. What works for me won't work for others. Or, maybe I haven't presented it correctly.

birth & death

Well, I've hit the big two-seven. My brother, Ben, called me today to bug me about how I was "catching up" to him. It's funny and sad how much a birthday meant back in the day. When I was younger, it meant cake and a party. (My most memorable ones are the one in which I had a "dress up" party; the other was when my mama had a cake professionally made. There are pictures of both. I especially recall Mom trying to take a picture of me blowing out the candles (a posed shot, I remember) while wearing a white dress (Mom made a dress with the left-over fabric for my one and for a long time only Barbie), but I kept leaning too close, making the plate before me rise up.) When I was a teenager a birthday meant I was that much closer to adulthood: driving at 14 (I was a farm kid, so I got a special permit), real driving at 16, voting at 18, drinking at 21. When I turned 21 I was in the Middle East, living in Beit Sahour. My group threw a party for me and some other October birthdays at this weird little bar in Bethlehem. I barely drank (I didn't like the taste of alcohol then), though others got seriously trashed. It's strange to think that a milestone like that (for Americans, at least) was reached in the dusty town that's only claim to fame is the place of Jesus's birth.

And now I'm officially a grown-up. I don't feel like much of an adult, though I'm married, pay rent, buy groceries and have a ton of school debt. Birthdays now are a strange concoction for me. On the one hand, it's nice to get gifts (Tom gave me cool jewelry and a box of dominoes) and having an excuse to eat out somewhere a little nicer than usual (we ate at a funky little Mexican place in the Lower East Side), but it's just a symbolic reminder that death is always at the doorstep and that someday I won't be the young person that can wear weird outfits and not be gossiped about.

Also, when I don't get calls from people on the day of my birth I feel like people don't love me as much as I think they do. But then, of course, I remember all the birthdays I've forgotten.

Earlier this week when I heard about the subway threat, and the fact that it was possibly scheduled for October 9th, it was just an extra list of terror and death in my life. Anwar Sadat was assassinated the day I was diagnosed with Ollier's, my brain surgery was on the September 11th and now this. But, the day has passed so far without horror, at least here in the city, although I can't say the same for South Asia yesterday. A possible 20,000. A difficult number to wrap around.

hair & terrorism

Between the two of us, Tom and I have too much hair. Of course, thank goodness, he's hairier than I in some places, but since I've been growing my hair out the hair count has risen higher and higher. The bathtub drain easily clogs up with a little ball of it and somehow hair appears in the main room constantly. We swept and mopped early yesterday, and half the dirt is hair! What is up with this? I guess when one has carpet it is soaked up. Which is rather disgusting. It seems as if our carpet is simply a modern-day medieval rushes they used to toss on the floors. So maybe our horrible linoleum floor is a blessing in disguise.

The gods of homeland security have told us that there's a possible threat of subway bombings in the next several days here in the city. Apparently they may be in the guise of strollers. Strollers! As if there isn't enough trouble with dealing with strollers in the subway. Now they could be armed. The powers that be, mainly the Bush camp, has said the claims aren't credible, but the city isn't going to ignore it. What's funny in a horrible way is the suggestion that people not take strollers. Now, I don't have children, but the idea of having to cart your baby around for blocks and blocks seems rather crazy. One news channel stated in wonderment that folks were still using the subway. As if people had any choice! Many don't have cars or the money to take cabs. What else are people to do?

As I made my way downtown yesterday, I really looked at the people around me. Not because I suspected anyone, but because of their human-ness. Humans trying to get to work or home or playing (sometimes annoying) music. One woman was singing Is there Life After Love, and another danced to her voice. And I was angry at these terrorists. Not that I wasn't angry before, but it just seems to me the people they want to destroy are the weaker ones that don't have anything to do with what the US does. These people are often poor. The ones who can't pay for a cab on a whim. They are easy targets. They'd never get Bush or the rich. So they go for the defenseless. Frankly, they're cowards. It sounds so un PC to me. So un-Mennonite. But how is a peace and justice model to deal with this? I honestly don't know. Someone wiser than I am, I'm sure.

pain & joy

I had a thesis conference with Carolyn today, and she really ripped apart one of the stories I submitted. But she did it in such a way that I could honestly laugh about it, though I'd secretly thought it was a genius tome. She is so capable of putting the right face to her critiques, which can certainly be a tough thing to do. And I'm flattered in a way that she felt free to be so honest with me. That she didn't feel I had to have my hand held as she told me frankly what she was thinking. It makes me feel like she's deemed me worthy of being able to face some harsh realities about my writing. I know she can put on a very mothering face to some people. I listened in to (very bad I know) a conference before mine, and she basically was giving a counseling session rather than a workshop conference.

So yay and sigh. I've got some work to do, and its always easy to think about working without doing the work.

clothes horse

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

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

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

crush

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

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

complete and utter waste of time

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

my life flows on

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

prison break II

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

bus stop patience

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

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

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

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

prison break

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

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

vote or die

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

stupid people

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

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

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

millenium approached--and left

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

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

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

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

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

dear old golden rule days...

Well, I'm back to school and avoiding those urges to overachieve and overwhelm myself with extra activites. I did NOT go up front and volunteer as a mentor for new grads. I decided NOT to join the campus choir which would require my prescence on campus an extra day. I am thinking about auditing a class, however. Mainly I'd like to do a craft class, to keep me reading books. We'll see.

Although the humidity was around 87% this morning, thanks to Katrina--though that is nothing compared to what folks are going through down south--my walk from the trainstation to SLC was lovely. It's nice to be back. At least for right now, when the specter of work is merely that--a specter. I have gotten some inspirations for some stories though. We'll see what happens.

A note about my earlier post:

What I'm most unhappy with our new place, dear as it is, is the end of anonynimity. I'm white in a black and hispanic world. The old woman and the sock guy would've happened anywhere I lived, and I liked those encounters, but the whole short chubby guy thing is just one more example of how otherness I feel in this neighborhood. I'm not wearing spray-painted clothes like a lot of women do here, I'm not calling attention to myself in any way--as far as I know, but I still get comments, and situations like yesterday. I mean, it was sortof funny yesterday, but what if it were night and no people around. What would I have felt then? More than likely he wouldn't have done anything. I still believe in the general goodness of people, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't be scared. I definately don't get the amount of shit I did when we first moved--at least in the immediate neighborhood--but once I get past a certain street, I become a target again. I know this is no different than the shit black people often get, but it doesn't make it any easier. I miss the anonymous feel I had downtown. Now I feel like I'm on display every moment that I step out of my building until the subway hits 96th St., where most of the white folks get on.

personal encounters

Encounter 1:

Today as I was minding my own business walking down 135th St. to the M1 bus, a youngish fellow tapped the glass of the Bx33 bus enclosure. I stopped, confused, trying to think if I'd met this guy. He was short, black, a little chubby and had a mustache. Before I could compose myself enough to get away he was by my side. I began to walk. He puffed alongside me, firing questions at me like there was no tomorrow. Of course he tried to figure out my name and when I was coming back up here and so on. (Do men ever expect women to answer these questions? Truthfully?)

We could get together maybe.

I don't think my husband would like that, I said.

He asked me where my husband was. At work. Where does he work? All over. Yeah? I do too. Cause I'm a doctor. Really. (I didn't want to disbelieve him because for all I know he was, but I figured it was really a ploy to get me more interested in him. Who knows.)

I think he realized by this point I wasn't too moved by his doctor business, cause he said, Hey, we got to go! The bus is coming! (He meant the Bx33) I'm not taking that bus, I said. He commenced to a walk-run. For some reason I think he may have thought that I would follow. I slowed down and let him move as far from me as possible. He kept glancing back.

Encounter 2:

I finally got on the M1, having sucessfully lost this doctor fellow. I sat next to a tiny old woman in a straw hat who was hunched over her purse, carefully looking at a set of various cards, from volunteer IDs to AT&T numbers. At around 106th St., someone called on her cell phone, and she pawed through her bag, looking for it. She finally found it, but not before it stopped ringing. She called whoever it was back and began a conversation I didn't hear. But as soon as she got off the phone, she began talking to me. At first I was annoyed at being noticed, since I'd been noticed not long before, but soon she drew me in. She was going on a cruise in the Carribean, and she had to pick up her birth certificate and passport from her safety deposit box at a bank downtown.

Me, of all people! I have to prove I'm an American! She touched her arm and rubbed it. She had to do it a few times before I realized: she means she's black. I mean, I'm an American. P'shaw, (she really said "p'shaw"--it was great and so endearing--I'd never heard anyone say that before in all earnestness) they can look in my bags if they want to.

Eventually we started talking about homeland security and the Trade Center and why they weren't doing these things before.

If I tried to go and get a pilot's license, would they give one to me? No, because I'm black and an Indian. But they gave those men theirs, and look what happened.

(I asked what tribe she's from. Cherokee, she said. I'd recently seen an article about how some tribes don't accept blacks as Indians--but it makes sense to me. Africans intermarried with Indians I'm sure. They did it with whites. Tom's got some Cherokee in him somewhere. Maybe he and this woman are related.)

Encounter 3:

I was waiting at the M86 bus stop to go across Central Park for my PT session when a guy in amazing dreadlocks said to me: I just have to say, I love your socks. You want to trade? (I'm wearing my striped orange, blue, green and white knee highs today.) Mine are just white. I laughed. Sorry. I think I'll keep my own.

A chick with a tiny little mop of a dog walked by. The dog wore a sweater. That thing probably thinks it's too good to shit outside, he said.

And it's too hot for a sweater, I said.

Yeah, he said, the dog's probably thinking, why the hell am I wearing this, bitch?

We laughed. The bus pulled up. He was with a guy in a wheelchair, so they went up on the little elevator. Take care, he said.

Take care, I said.

you have such beautiful eyes...

Five or so years ago when I was living at this convent (named Ece Homo as in "behold, the man"--which is a station in the Via Dolorosa as in "The Way of the Rose" i.e. Christ) in the Old City of Jerusalem, this guy who worked at a carpet shop nearby would accost me almost every day, trying to get me to talk to him. I spurned his attempts as nicely as possible, and it usually worked. One evening (this happened to be on Thanksgiving) I was walking home, alone, and he showed up by my side, asking if I'd like to go to his shop and have some tea. I said, no, I'm meeting some friends and I'm late, and walked on. He did not give up as easily as he had other times. I suppose he felt more bold because of the lateness of the hour and lack of people around, and followed me to the convent door.

You and I have this connection, I believe, he said.

We don't know each other, said I.

But there are ways of knowing each other beyond words, no? Your eyes--your eyes they are so beautiful.

This made me laugh, because I almost always wore sunglasses during the day, and it was now very dark and I wore my regular glasses that evening. You can't see my eyes, I said.

There was a little camera by the door, and I think the guy at the gate saw what was afoot and he buzzed me in and I dashed inside.

He never bothered me again.

I was scared at the time, but soon could laugh about it. To this day sometimes Tom will repeat Your eyes--your eyes they are so beautiful! And we will fall into a fit of giggles.

Today the "beautiful eyes" comment returned. This time from a guy handing out New York Times job market papers for free. I had noticed him earlier in the day, as I sat in a little Starbuck's courtyard on 3rd and St. Mark's, proofreading a training manual for the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, and had made a mental note of getting one before he left, since I am again on the job hunt. He wasn't around when I left, however, so I sighed and went to Kmart to purchase a swiffer (I didn't get that brand, however). When I exited the store through the subway (people who live here know what I mean), there he was, like a knight in a blue smock. I smiled and took one. He recognized me and said, Looking for one of these?

Yeah, I said. I'm searching for a job right now, so I need this.

Well, you wouldn't have to look for one if you had a degree.

I do. I'm in grad school right now.

Oh yeah? What for?

A Master of Fine Arts in writing.

His eyebrows went up.

So, it doesn't make any money, I admitted.

Yeah, unless you write a book.

But I need to eat before that happens. I turned to leave. He caught my hand and held it to his heart.

Hey, what's your name?

I thought fast. Bethy, I said. I thought--what kind of weirdo name is Bethy?

I'm Malcolm. I'm pleased to meet you.

And I you, I said, trying to pull my hand free. I thought about somehow mentioning my rather tall husband, but this dude was bigger than Tom and I decided I wasn't going to depend on men to get out of this situation.

You have such beautiful eyes, Malcolm said.

Thank you, I laughed. I decided not to question how he knew this since I was wearing my Elton John sunglasses, both at Starbuck's and right then. It was a total game, I knew. Complete bull all the way around. He was fairly good looking, so I'm sure he'd done this before and probably won.

I finally pulled my hand from his and began to walk away. You got to run, girl? His voice sounded disappointed in a jovial way.

Yeah, I got to run, I said over my shoulder, pushing my way through traffic.

By the way, a piece of artwork I wanted to paste but the copyright gods are against me is on a site by the artist. The title? You Have Beautiful Eyes, of course, by a scampering artist who sneaked his own work into the Met.

silence in the city

Monday, after my physical therapy (during which I do fun things like dip my hand into liquid wax, plunge my hand in a box of fake snow and play with "the sand machine"--this is 20 times easier than any other PT sessions I've had in life), I took my lunch in Central Park and admired the quiet grandeur that is usually remiss in the Park. No one was around, it being a workday and all. Well, people were around, but so few and far between it seemed almost creepy. As I walked across the Park to the Upper East Side, I could smell this kind of ancient musk you usually only encounter in ancient forest, and literally felt the silence around me, wrapping me up in a nice cool blanket.

Weird, I thought. Weird this silence in a city filled with constant noise.

Just as I felt myself panicking from all this muffled life, I heard the faint rumble of traffic. Then a siren burst through the fibers and all you could do was hang on as the city triumphantly and violently reappeared.

This may be a stretch, but all the evacuations going on in Gaza right now feels much the same to me. When I was in Israel, Gaza and the West Bank in 1999, some parts of the country were teeming, rumbling with violence and hatred and life and death. Other places seemed serene and out of the way, as if it were not troubled with what went on mere kilometers away. When I was (briefly) in Gaza, a strange kind of insane calm hovered. The hotel we stayed at was like any other hotel in the Middle East, complete with a beach side view of the Sea, but just north of us was Yasser Arafat's compound, which we were admonished not to photograph, decimated mosques, Gaza University with young men determined to believe that all Americans only care about TV and fast food and boys who followed some of the women calling out "bitches! whores!". I never saw any of the settlements, but I did see the cattle corrals that Palestinians had to go through to get to Israel to work or see relatives each day.

I'm not sure where exactly I'm going with this. As I listen to the news and watch the footage of the Jewish Israelis being evacuated (which is a little strange term--it seems to suggest there will be a return), I feel bad for them but I do not at the same time. When Palestinians have been forced from their homes there is no comfy buffer period to prepare, their homes are bulldozed suddenly, giving them only moments to retrieve their children and some belongings. And if one uses the argument that the destruction of the homes punishes the families of terrorists, the IDF has used it as an excuse to create "buffer zones" for settlements, etc. Acres of ancient olive groves are destroyed, and no money is offered as recompense. There is no where for these families to go, unlike the settlers. The Israeli government is offering housing and money to them. Not that it takes the pain away, but it is more that has been offered to others.

No matter what, the pain the settlers are feeling is very real. I truly can't even imagine what it is like. But it is no different than the pain the Palestinians felt when Israel came to Gaza, to the West Bank, to Israel proper. This pain is a direct result of the colonization-mentality the settlers have: enter an area, subdue it, live separate from the population and use all the resources for yourself.

The same mentality that the USA has had on a larger scale. Heck, at least the Jews once lived there, though I believe most of Gaza has no real tie of the sons and daughters of Abraham. Which makes me ask myself: if the Native Americans would insist that we as a people leave land that once belonged to them, what would I feel? This drives the question more at home with me. I would have to agree they had a point. The trees of Central Park would disappear from me for all time. Perhaps the rush of traffic would be permanently silenced. But would I do it?