Alright. Because during an excellent conversation with Teddy, an old college chum, who told me "I haven't read anything in your blog of late," and others have hinted the same (okay, two, but anyway) here I am, ashamed as ever to be keeping any secrets from folks. So here's what I've been doing/saying/thinking/seeing...

The other day I watched several mothers tote their children (in strollers) down the subway stairs and back up again. Whoever called women the weaker sex didn't see this.

I did that suicide run in front of cars again. I have also done the dash into the subway doors mindless of the doors or the slippery floors beneath.

I felt like a real NYer the other day when someone dissed Tom and I talked to my friend, Kansas, about kicking that fucking bitch's ass. Of course I didn't.

I sent off my last (well maybe last) application to grad school, my FAFSA, etc. this week. I don't know if I have mentioned it here, but I'm applying for an MFA in writing. One of those millions of wannabes in this city I am sure. I don't know what to do with myself now. All this hawking of my writer's wares has made me somewhat weary of words. I'll need to get over that. I have a couple stories just hanging in limbo. And I haven't tried to get them out.

well, it's been awhile...

let's see what's happened: the other day I was riding the subway across from this guy who appeared to be sleeping when I sat down. I didn't pay attention to him until he began to take off his left shoe. It seemed innocent enough, as he scratched his foot like anyone else. Then he took off his sock and began scratching his feet. At this point I pretended to be asleep and watched him through a veil of eyelashes. He began rubbing his fingers between his toes--and--ate the junk he came up with!! I stared at him in that horrible fascination, the ambulance on the side of the road stare.

I hate money. I went through my bills today...these med people are ruthless when it comes to paying them off for life-altering experiences. Then there are school loans--which are actually better and kinder, even if you've just missed a payment, which I did. Then here I am, going for more debt by applying to grad school. I just completed and mailed my columbia application. Even if by the smallest chance I get in (and don't get in anywhere else) i don't know how I'd pay it off. Sigh...

New York Winter and New York Suicides

It's really winter in NY. Walking through Union Sq. station I beheld the hawkers selling those pouffy hats and sweaters sold here this time of year. They have American flags and teddy bears and the sizes are huge. I have no idea where they get them. I've never seen them in any shops.

As I was walking home the other night, I found myself dashing in front of six lanes of gunning motors while the hand was saying STOP! And I don't mean the blinking stop. The stopped stop. And it had said stop for more than a second. When I was on the other side, I couldn't believe what I had just done. I was in no hurry. I was simply heading home. It was dark. I could've fallen. I'm not the running type in general. And I have done this kind of thing before. Something in me says I must cross this street. I cannot just wait. It's a New Yorker disease, I think. An attempt to tempt fate.

A Hispanic Woman Interrupts an Encounter with Toni Morrisson

Tues. night I went to a Toni M. reading at B&N. Words cannot describe the way it affected me--I literally got tears. She read from her new novel, Love (which I bought of course) and was her regal self. She seemed a little tired, but she agreed to sign every Love book brought to her!

So. I wait in line for about 40 min. I even come up with a witty statement: "You're a tough woman; Salman Rushdie didn't do this."

He ddn't.

I finally approched the dias. In front of me is an elderly Senora. She has brought with her a Spanish edition of Beloved and two Loves. Technically Toni's only signing Love, but of course she signs Beloved as well.

Senora and I stand side by side as she signs Senora's. As I move towards the Queen, I take a deep breath for my comment and then--

Toni signs my book, closes it and pushes it towards me. Senora reaches for it. "Ah--uh, that is mine," I stutter.

"Oh, this is yours?" the Queen asks.

"Ah--yes."

The book's path is diverted. Senora says "Gracias" and I say "Thank you."

I leave in shame.

As well as pissed at Senora.

A Unicorn Saves Religion As We Know It

This evening I finally won an argument with Christopher aka the celibate atheist philosopher. To recount the entire exchange would be as insane as the conversation, so I'll tell how it began and how it ended:

It began with Christopher's horror at my having taken communion at a Catholic mass. It was at the SOA, I cried. That's as liberal as you can get! But transubstansiation!!! he cried back. We then got into a discussion of the pros and cons of Vatican II--mind you, it's two white bread Menno kids talking. I'm all for Vatican II. Christopher is for the ignorance of the masses in their chants and the truth of the Word.

It ended when he accused me of believing in multiple Gods--of Gods that don't exist anyway. I countered that in Islam there are 99 names for God, and the camel knows the 100th. There are several faces to God. And I agree, and add that all our ideas about God have made these different Gods. This point mystified him. He began to draw a diagram, which is his way for stalling for time, he tells me. He said that unicorns don't exist, yet we have names in many languages for them. Couldn't it be the same for God? He says that though Allah and God and Gott and The One Who Has No Name and Jesus are names for the same deity, it doesn't make it exist. You couldn't give God the name of unicorn. Neither exist.

And I say, but unicorns do exist. Not in the way Disney has made them. In medieval times, a unicorn was thought a kind of goat-creature. Whoever killed this unicorn would be blessed and made clean by the blood. So, the unicorn becomes a figure of Christ.

At that, Christopher says he has to think about that one. He's going to have a beer and rethink his whole philosophy-career.

I don't know if logically I made any sense, but I confused him and myself enough to feel that I won.

The Coat Drama in One Act



Scene: A crowded upperclass thrift store. People are unsuccessfully attempting to haggle, despite signs to the contrary. A shortish woman-child in a denim coat, J Lo sweat pants and red hair is wandering the aisle SL. She sees a rack of coats SR, and heads in that direction. A few women have beaten her to it, and are trying them on in front of the only mirror in sight.

WOMAN 1 (trying an orange coat)
It's rather orange.

WOMAN 2
Yes. You just have to be the sorbe of the orange. Feel the orange. Then you can pull it off.

WOMAN 3 (butting in front of WOMAN 1 and 2 who go to the checkout CS.)
Do you think it makes my butt to big?

WOMAN 4
Yes. But is that a bad thing? (hollers) Henry, what do you think?

(an obviously gay man standing SL comes to the mirror)

HENRY
The bigger the better. You have an hourglass figure, honey. Show it off!

WOMAN 4
I think he sees us as we really are. He sees the beauty in us. We always see the bad parts.

HENRY
And I have the same issues when it comes to myself.

WOMAN 4
It's all about your point of view. Get the coat. Thanks Henry!

(The women head to the checkout. HENRY exits SR. WOMAN-CHILD steps in front of the mirror. She has selected a coat. It is nearly floor-length, black, fits perfectly. She looks at the price tag. She takes the coat off and puts it back on the hanger. Is about to put it back on the rack, but hesitates. Puts it on again. Looks at the tag. Sighs. Puts it back on the rack in resolution. Repeats wear-hang-up series once more. Looks around. Sees a woman approaching. The woman is looking at WOMAN-CHILD. Looks at the coat. WOMAN-CHILD takes the coat off the rack. HENRY enters SR, carrying a load of clothes. WOMAN-CHILD watches him hanging up the clothes. He fusses to himself.)

HENRY
Can't anybody put anything away right?

WOMAN-CHILD
Excuse me. Can I put this on hold, even for a day?

HENRY
Sorry, hon. It's a Saturday. Our busiest day.

(HENRY resumes his work. WOMAN-CHILD wanders the store aimlessly. Finally she walks with resolution to the checkout. WOMAN 4 is in front of her. Finally WOMAN-CHILD reaches the register. LAD rings up her purchase.)

LAD
$65.18

(WOMAN-CHILD produces her checkbook.)

LAD
We don't take checks.

(WOMAN-CHILD looks up at him.)

WOMAN-CHILD
Are you serious.

LAD
Yeah.

WOMAN-CHILD
Well. I don't have any cash. Forget it then.

(Exits SL without looking back.)

END


Postscript: I actually did run home and get the cash. I thought not getting the coat had a more dramatic effect. It didn't exactly happen as above--once again, drama drama drama. The conversations did all occur though not in the way depicted.

Well, it's finally here. I've done the last radiation treatment, I got out of the dryer and am heading out as soon as I'm done writing this. It was a little sad--not that I'll miss this place, because there are still people going through it. But anyway...

Last night Anna and I were on the hunt for poet Stanley Kunitz's birthplace. Apparently he was born in Worcester in 1905 or thereabouts. It took a little map-consulting and turns down unfamiliar roads, but finally we reached the street we were looking for and drove up and down the street, looking for the sign posted. It was about 7:30 pm though, and darkness had already settled. According to the New Yorker, there was a small sign. Of course the New Yorker failed to get the number. Probably to protect the people living in the house now from people like us. Most of the houses were these wierd buildings that had huge apartments. It was as if three houses were stacke one on top of the other. I have only seen this kind of place in Massachusetts. The Kunitz family was wealthy, so we assumed they lived in a single family dwelling. Finally we found the house I'm convinced is it. It's this slightly overgrown house that looks like it belongs in the early 20th century. Very poetic. Anna is going to find out if she can discover the true house's number.

I think that lawyer man thinks that a sign of intelligence is regurgitating information. He's never really shared anything original that I can recall. So what would one call that? This morning I simply asked him the time of his appointment, and he launched into an explanation about why his time was later than us brain people because they had to "reconfigure the proton beam because we only got part of the proton beam and he had the whole thing...blah blah blah." It was like he thought we were in a pissing contest. Somehow he had to tell me this information to show me something I didn't know never mind I'd been here longer than he had been and he got the full blast blah blah blah.

I guess it's good for the blog that I have these nuts to write about. First cell phone man and now this.

(Kansas, I left the Coke in your fridge! Arghhh!)

I nearly cried this morning when I saw Josh, a ten year old, being pushed in a wheel chair and attatched to an IV. He's having radiation like I am. He got dehydrated yesterday afternoon and had to spend the night in the hospital. He looked so small. I hate that kids have to be in hospitals.

Lawyers suck.

Let me clarify: There is a fellow here who recently came to our house for prostate treatment. He is an lawyer. He is about as dense when it comes to human interaction as can be.

He cornered me the other day as I sat down to eat some cookies and drink a glass of water, and proceeded to ask me all sorts of questions about my treatment, disease, etc.

I just wanted to eat cookies.

I tried to be nicely obvious that I didn't want to talk about it. I yawned and said I was so tired. No notice whatsoever. I finished my cookies and made the mistake of taking two more. He continued to ask questions. I finished these cookies and my water and rolled the glass around without making eye contact. Still no reaction. At one point he asked me some kind of a technical question, and I said without thinking, "You know, I don't need to know all that shit. I know too much about it already."

This did not dissuade (sp) him. He said with reflection, "You know, I wonder what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. Do you think about that."

All I said was: "I'm 24. You're supposed to wonder what you're going to do with the rest of your life at my age. I don't let it worry me."

Silence.

Then he looked at his watch, mumbled something and left. Illhamdil'allah.

I just wanted cookies. That's all. Can one not eat cookies without spilling your guts to some man you don't know?

Apparently not.

I read in the paper--granted, it was the Boston Metro, like the NY Post or the Daily News--that Sharon's cronies said killing Arafat it a possibility to quell the violence in the West Bank and beyond.

Is this the epitome of stupidity? This is just another nudge to Hamas to go even further w/ their violence--thus making the great wall of Israel "justifiable."

Two years ago on this day my brain was cut open and a chunk of tumor fell from my skull.

Two years ago on this day a nerve to my left eye was sliced to remove the tumor--and it has yet to truly heal, if it ever will.

Two years ago on this day Bethany and Tom stood watch over my body as my mind wandered in that neurological quagmire of drugs and anesthesia. They tried to protect me from the insanity that was going on in New York and just outside my window at the Pentagon, but somehow I already knew when they finally told me.

Certain sorrows are felt keenly, by osmosis.

One year ago on this day I spent the morning on the steps of Washington Square United Methodist Church, listening to the names of the victims being read. I tried to separate my pain from the pain of the deaths of so many people.

It made me angry, when I realized I was unable to do it. Even though I'd spent the last twelve months of my life trying to get it back to where it was before the knife found my skin, I realized I couldn't do it.

It made me feel weak.

Today I sat in the belly of the Proton Therapy Center's waiting room. The machine had broken again, and there was nothing else to do. For awhile I sat on the lawn of MGH, feeling the sun on my sneakers and the damp grass under my seat that was composed of the New York Times' business and sports sections.

I haven't figured out exactly what I was thinking today. Something along the lines of the fact that my eye may be permanently damaged and that this tumor--along with every other tumor in my body--has and will dictate my life always. Something along the lines of I'm still unable to unmesh this sorrow from the thousands of sorrows that have been churning since that day.

The second nurse in two days asked me how my visit with Dr. Lee had been.

"Uh, okay," I said.

"Isn't he wonderful?" said nurse 1 "You're lucky to have gotten him. He's a busy man."

"Isn't he wonderful?" said nurse 2 "When he just touches me I feel healed."

I wonder: am I that horrible or are they talking about someone else?

This weekend, I got two good thrift store buys: a white shirt for 99 cents, and a pair of basically brand-new Sketchers for 6 bucks.

I keep saying, "you have a brain tumor. you are entitled." What will happen when the tumor dies is anybody's guess.

A note on my fuck you story. A sign stating one should only use the phone in the cancer resource center for fifteen minutes has appeared on the table. Interesting.

Doctors suck.

Let me clarify: today I went to see an orthopedic surgeon about my hand. The office was in this huge, glossy mansion of a building. When I figured what floor his office was on, I had to take this mirrored elevator. It totally creeped me out. Once in the office, I was presented with a sheaf of documents to fill out--the same ones I've filled out hundreds of times for the hundreds of doctors I have seen in my short life. I sat in the waiting room and began writing.

A tall man with strange glasses came and asked me to sit in a different room.

I complied.

He asked me if I was finished with the papers. I looked at him. I had been in the office for a total of five minutes.

"No," I said.

He asked me a couple of questions. Then he left, saying "It's important that you fill them out."

I returned to my assignment. A few minutes later he returned. "Are you done?"

"No," I said.

He left without a word. I scribbled furiously. Another fellow entered. He wore a white coat. His nametag said he was Dr. Samir Something. He asked me questions. Looked at the xrays. Looked at my hand.

"These are massive," he said.

"Yes," I said. I handed him the sheets of paper. He glanced over them and signed them. Then he left.

Finally, the illustious Dr. Lee, the man I'd come to see, swept into the room. His flunkys followed. He sat and looked over my hand. Made his learned pronouncements. I asked about prosthesis. He said it would be a cosmetic rather than a functional improvement. He used the word cosmetic at least five times. How uncosmetic my present hand was. As if I needed to be told that.

I told him my concerns about my typing. What would I do without my fingers?

He gave me a blank look. "Don't you only type with your three normal ones?"

"No," I said. "I've had this my entire life. I've adapted."

He seemed to disbelive me. From my brief observations of his actions, Dr. Lee is incapable of saying he doesn't know something. And if he doesn't, he somehow thinks you are lying. He truly thinks everything he says should be taken by his patients as if God or Allah or whomever has stated it.

I mentioned my brain tumor.

"You were just diagnosed?"

"No, I've had surgery and am doing radiation over at MGH. I'm dealing with that, so I don't know what to think about this right now."

"Oh. Well, there's no hurry."

He didn't ask anything further.

He left.

Dr. Samir remained. He returned my xrays. Asked if I had any questions.

"No," I said.

All this took about five minutes. I'd spent more time filling out those sheets of information out.

Well, I now have a new reason to be snobbish: I have been to The Mount.

Not only have I been to The Mount, I have worn classy New York black and a funky yellow necklace and picnicked on the lawn of The Mount.

For those who aren't literary enough to follow this logic, The Mount is Edith Wharton's estate in western Mass. She designed the house and grounds, done to her idea of a proper European dwelling.

This trip to The Mount has been in the works for two years.

I don't know when or where it was first discussed, but Bethany, Kansas and I have often talked about it, ever since Kansas and her husband, Nathaniel, moved to Boston. Bethany and KS have done most of the work in bringing it all about. I just rode on the tails of their dilligence.

After a Friday evening of eating fantastic Afghani food, drinking wine and beer and Bailey's, we (Kansas, Nathaniel, Bethany, Anna and I) set out on Saturday morning, armed with a picnic lunch, maps and a rental SUV. We had asked for a compact car, but this was all they had when Nathaniel went to the rental place. (It was embarrassingly comfortable and roomy. I still disapprove of them.) When we'd arrived and bought our tickets (16 for adults, 8 for students--my EMU ID still works), we found a spot to have our alfresco lunch.

Granted, it was within view of the stable, not the house, but it was a magnificent stable.

We consumed a repast of chilled sesame noodles, peaches, plums, a tomato-basil-mozzerella cheese dish and a baggette (sp?). Bugs invaded the spot towards the end. None of Wharton's alfresco lunches ever had bugs.

After lunch, we came and visited the house itself. It was a very beautiful and proud house. Much like Wharton herself. A proud, rather disdainful place that snubs you but leaves you feeling like it was a compliment that it even noticed you. We took the official tour. What sticks out in my mind the most is the fact that Henry James not only had a personal suite--his suite was larger than Wharton's or husband Teddy's. If you read Wharton's autobiography, it's not really an autobiobraphy but a biography of James. That and the fact that the house dining room had abstract art in it. The rennovation committee had a diifferent artist do the "recreation" and let them have artistic licence--a little too much. This one artist, named Bunny of all things, decided that the abstract art belonged in a dining room circa 1902. Not even art of that period.

That, and the Bunny woman put a stuffed dog in the room. Wharton loved dogs, and Bunny felt she had to put a stuffed dog--not even a very good one--in the dining room!

After the tour, we had coffee on the terrace. It was in paper cups, but it was coffee on Wharton's terrace nontheless.

On Sunday, we went out to Walden Pond. I sat on the shore and read snippets of Walden to those assembled. It was great.

I am frightened at myself at times.

Today I was in the cancer resource room, calling Tom as is my wont to do. (They let you make free long distance phone calls there.) We had been on the phone for about 8 minutes. Bill, a guy living at the house in worcester, sat across from me, waiting for the phone. He had been on the phone earlier, but let me call between his calls. Then the social worker who has one of those store-bought smiles came up to me and said, "Dear, there are others waiting for the phone."

I was angry.

I had been on the phone for a total of 8 minutes. The people who'd been on the phone before Bill had been on for 20. Bill was in no hurry. His appointment wasn't until 2 and it was 10:35.

"Can you let me have one more minute?" I hissed. "Just one more."

"We have to regulate the time here."

I started to cry. When I got up to leave, Store-Bought said, "Thanks dear."

"Fuck you," I said.

I don't know why I did that. Said that.

I talked to one of the kids who was there and he said everyone was in shock, more because I was usually so quiet. He also said that someone thought Tom was cheating on me and that's why I said that. That comment made me laugh.

I am quiet among these people because if I opened my mouth, I am afraid I will start to scream without end. I am a person with a disease that pits my body against itself--myself. Even my brain is no longer sacred. And I sit in this antisceptic atmosphere daily, far from home and love, while they pump deadly radiation into my system.

I don't know why her candy-coated crooning pissed me off so much. Well, maybe I do. Here I was, trying to fit my life into a abnormal-normal scene, and because she'd been passing by while Bill sat and waited she decided my time was up without bothering to find out how long or who I was talking to. And she felt it was her duty to shove her face in mine.

It was as if it peeled back just enough skin to open an artery rather than a vein. I think there is so much pent-up furiosity and passion in me even I don't know the strength of it. It scares me.

Top Ten Reasons to Love Boston:

10. The guy in the three cornered hat trying to force you into sightseeing.
9. Saying "T" in refrence to the subway.
8. People saying "HAAArvard" when you say you're staying in Boston.
7. Strangers handing you old Boston maps out of the goodness of their hearts.
6. A gorgeous statue of a woman in contemplation on the MGH lawn.
5. People skimming the current of the Charles in those long, thin boats.
4. A nameless greasy spoon on Harvard Sq.
3. Doctors who wear the same woven, squeaky shoes every day, despite their riches.
2. The Chinatown to Chinatown buses that not only take me to and fro but also allow me to thumb my nose to big-time commercial transportation.
1. My beloved Kansas lives here.