Well, it's been a while--for actual reasons, rather than fancied ones. As most of you know, I had my middle and ring fingers removed from my left hand, so I'm half typing, half hen-pecking. Once the cast if off (next week), I believe I will be able to get more back into it.
Apparently, during the operation, I sang throughout. (I wasn't "put under." They merely sedated me. Which I was happy about, really. I've never liked getting the gas. It feels too much like dying.) I remember looking at what I imagined to be stars, and discovering if I sang, they would blink at me in turn with each note. I kept getting frustrated and having to start over, and changing tunes mid-line. What was I singing? Hymns. Be thou my vision, What is this place, etc. All good Mennonite hymns for the wandering soul. I also talked politics. Mainly about Bush.
I asked my doctor last week if I'd really sung out loud, and he said yes, it sounded like you'd had a couple of beers. But don't worry, he added with a smile, it's all confidential.
Major operations aside, I do have one thing to crow about: I'm reading to a group of complete strangers next week. I'll read the poetry I had published in VoidMagazine.com a few months ago. (All that is on the web is my bio, but you should check it out anyway.)
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Thursday, July 14, 2005
indiana jones
I watched Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade this afternoon, and it struck me at the end how in the first and the last in the series there are religious articfacts destroyed. At first, I found myself wondering: what does that mean, exactly. What is the Spielberg/Lucas cult trying to say? Are they saying religion is no more than dusty artifacts that are placed in a box and forgotten or are buried under the stone of Petra?
But then Sean Connery spoke.
He said--and I paraphrase--She [the obligatory blonde who died while reaching for the Holy Grail] never believed in the Grail. She saw it as a prize.
Indiana said: So, what did you find from the grail?
Sean Connery said: Illumination.
An interesting comment on religion in today's world. People seeking faith and meaning, instead of depending on objects or dogmas to cling to.
At least, that's what I draw from it.
But then Sean Connery spoke.
He said--and I paraphrase--She [the obligatory blonde who died while reaching for the Holy Grail] never believed in the Grail. She saw it as a prize.
Indiana said: So, what did you find from the grail?
Sean Connery said: Illumination.
An interesting comment on religion in today's world. People seeking faith and meaning, instead of depending on objects or dogmas to cling to.
At least, that's what I draw from it.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
nose picking
Today on the M14a bus downtown, a guy, a normal guy: black shirt, jeans, hipster haircut and goatee, was picking his nose in a rather extravagant manner. I mean, he was seriously going at it, and to top it all off he studied whatever his fingers came up with. Although it wasn't the grossest thing I've seen while in New York (I've seen men pee on streetcorners, men in tighty whiteys wander around parks and harassing women out sunbathing, a guy wandering Lenox Ave with his pants around his legs and no underwear--you get the point), this kind of behavior strikes me as more odd when "normals" do such things. If a guy who was not obviously out of his mind was walking towards me with his pants down, I'd be a lot more nervous.
Today a woman on the street who looked like an Orthodox Jew asked me for money, and I gave her the contents of my little coin purse I keep with me in case I need busfare and have no Metro card, or to buy a Coke--usually it's a Coke. Why? Because I was feeling guilty about not giving a woman on the subway who looked like she needed a hit of something fairly bad. (I pulled the ol' New York stunt of pretending to not see and about to drift off to sleep.) And no, I didn't not give her the money because of that; I don't care what they do with the money once I give it to them. They're not going to quit drinking or using because I wouldn't give them the change out of my pocket. I was feeling guilty because for all my crowing about the US's gobbling up resources and contributing to others' starvation, I would sooner buy mysef a pop than give it to someone on the subway. One's ideals quickly fall apart when things like this pop onto one's own personal radar. I talk the good liberal Jesus follower talk, but I rarely do it. I hate war, but if someone was holding a gun to the head of a loved one, I would do anything in my power to stop him or her, which probably means something violent.
Today a woman on the street who looked like an Orthodox Jew asked me for money, and I gave her the contents of my little coin purse I keep with me in case I need busfare and have no Metro card, or to buy a Coke--usually it's a Coke. Why? Because I was feeling guilty about not giving a woman on the subway who looked like she needed a hit of something fairly bad. (I pulled the ol' New York stunt of pretending to not see and about to drift off to sleep.) And no, I didn't not give her the money because of that; I don't care what they do with the money once I give it to them. They're not going to quit drinking or using because I wouldn't give them the change out of my pocket. I was feeling guilty because for all my crowing about the US's gobbling up resources and contributing to others' starvation, I would sooner buy mysef a pop than give it to someone on the subway. One's ideals quickly fall apart when things like this pop onto one's own personal radar. I talk the good liberal Jesus follower talk, but I rarely do it. I hate war, but if someone was holding a gun to the head of a loved one, I would do anything in my power to stop him or her, which probably means something violent.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
a resurrection, of sorts
I began to wonder yesterday what the world would be like if no one ever died. If Isaiah (or the tens of Isaiahs or no Isaiahs at all--depending on your view) was still wandering around, I suppose our view of things like the Bible and the Koran would completely be different. I mean, we'd have to believe what he said, and maybe he'd lie and tell a different story than what really happened, but then again, what's truth anyways...? Would we have made the kinds of strides as a race of human wanderers if the folks who believed the world was flat and that leeches were good for you? Or would they have changed with the times that flow so precariously onward? Would King Tut be working at the 7-Eleven, dealing with the slush machine? Would Apostle Paul still be the rock of the Catholic church--or running an evangelical TV show with Pat Robertson? The world would be a crowded place.
I guess I'm trying to grapple with the idea of death at all. It's so cliched, I know, to think about the mortality of the self, but there it is. Some people live to 103, others much much less. It makes it very difficult to believe in a god at all. Why would this god have made the world such a hideous place at times? A place where millions upon millions have perished from starvation, genocide, disease, murder and everything in between. And for what? What kind of a "lesson" are we, the living, to take from this? People still die from genocide, starvation, disease, murder. It seems to have failed to give us a lesson in humanity towards our brothers and sisters, to give out of our abundance to those who have nothing, to wake up and deal with at the very least preventable diseases by giving people medicine for free, allowing condoms and clean needles all over the place. This is not to ignore all those diseases that are in our very genes and we try and try to save people and sometimes win and sometimes fail. Those things that cripple people from birth and make their personal journeys in life that much harder.
It's been said that death is the great equalizer. But we die in such unequal ways. If there is life after death, truly a resurrection of the body, then maybe it is. But if this is the only moment of our existence, the only point we'll ever know before we drop into nothing, than the experiences of death really do matter.
I guess I'm trying to grapple with the idea of death at all. It's so cliched, I know, to think about the mortality of the self, but there it is. Some people live to 103, others much much less. It makes it very difficult to believe in a god at all. Why would this god have made the world such a hideous place at times? A place where millions upon millions have perished from starvation, genocide, disease, murder and everything in between. And for what? What kind of a "lesson" are we, the living, to take from this? People still die from genocide, starvation, disease, murder. It seems to have failed to give us a lesson in humanity towards our brothers and sisters, to give out of our abundance to those who have nothing, to wake up and deal with at the very least preventable diseases by giving people medicine for free, allowing condoms and clean needles all over the place. This is not to ignore all those diseases that are in our very genes and we try and try to save people and sometimes win and sometimes fail. Those things that cripple people from birth and make their personal journeys in life that much harder.
It's been said that death is the great equalizer. But we die in such unequal ways. If there is life after death, truly a resurrection of the body, then maybe it is. But if this is the only moment of our existence, the only point we'll ever know before we drop into nothing, than the experiences of death really do matter.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
subject subway
As I rode the train downtown today, I looked around at all the people sitting near me, and wondered how anyone in that car could imagine themselves dead from a bomb. Then I wondered how anyone could consciously kill them with a bomb. How someone could look a person in the face and decided to detonate something that will end their story is beyond me. I guess people all over history have done it.
My life remained untouched in a physical way. I did laundry, I went to the grocery where the bagging-groceries lady called me "mommy" (yea! I'm making an in at the Met), and glued the snout of my bookend elephant. I placed the pair on the kitchen table. They looked so cute, standing there side by side. I felt they must've missed each other while waiting for my healing hands.
I read an article in The New Yorker about how kids of a certain age believe that everything has a consciousness, and there comes a time when that stage ends. I have to admit I don't think that stage ever left me. I still believe in a way that my toys from my childhood have consciousnesses (if that's a word), and that they feel betrayed because of my abandonment of them. Some are still at the farmhouse (including my Barbies, my "just like a newborn" doll--this doll even smelled all baby powderish--and others (I think they're still there)) and others are in the Great Unkown (a giant teddy bear named Big Bear, an elephant that played a little song named Ellie and a giant purple turtle (I have a memory of me finding my mother affixing a price tag before a garage sale and making her take it off). I even have some still with me, though at present are crowded into a little box in a trunk in our studio (a snail named Seymour, my lamb named--appropriately--Lambie, a Kermit the Frog and others). I do have a beanie baby monkey that Tom gave me for our first Valentine's day named Myron and a nameless beanie baby bear sitting on my desk. Hell, I believe my books and clothes have thoughts. I feel bad sometimes when I haven't worn a piece of clothing for months or I truck them off to the thrift store. The prospect of the End of the World made me cry at times because I imagined them heading towards the sun on the road to God's destruction. I guess my consciousness theory stopped when it came to being saved and going to heaven.
I couldn't have been more than three when I began to think of The End. I have no memories of my parents ever talking about it, so I have no idea where those thoughts came from.
Death so surrounds us. Not just at times like today. It amazes me that I can go out the door and face this Death. I ran into Alicia yesterday, and she was going to a memorial service for a man who had hit his head, said it was okay, then never woke up from his sleep. I sometimes forget that people who were such fixtures in my life are no more. A while ago I found myself wondering what a guy I knew in high school was up to--then remembered he had died.
My life remained untouched in a physical way. I did laundry, I went to the grocery where the bagging-groceries lady called me "mommy" (yea! I'm making an in at the Met), and glued the snout of my bookend elephant. I placed the pair on the kitchen table. They looked so cute, standing there side by side. I felt they must've missed each other while waiting for my healing hands.
I read an article in The New Yorker about how kids of a certain age believe that everything has a consciousness, and there comes a time when that stage ends. I have to admit I don't think that stage ever left me. I still believe in a way that my toys from my childhood have consciousnesses (if that's a word), and that they feel betrayed because of my abandonment of them. Some are still at the farmhouse (including my Barbies, my "just like a newborn" doll--this doll even smelled all baby powderish--and others (I think they're still there)) and others are in the Great Unkown (a giant teddy bear named Big Bear, an elephant that played a little song named Ellie and a giant purple turtle (I have a memory of me finding my mother affixing a price tag before a garage sale and making her take it off). I even have some still with me, though at present are crowded into a little box in a trunk in our studio (a snail named Seymour, my lamb named--appropriately--Lambie, a Kermit the Frog and others). I do have a beanie baby monkey that Tom gave me for our first Valentine's day named Myron and a nameless beanie baby bear sitting on my desk. Hell, I believe my books and clothes have thoughts. I feel bad sometimes when I haven't worn a piece of clothing for months or I truck them off to the thrift store. The prospect of the End of the World made me cry at times because I imagined them heading towards the sun on the road to God's destruction. I guess my consciousness theory stopped when it came to being saved and going to heaven.
I couldn't have been more than three when I began to think of The End. I have no memories of my parents ever talking about it, so I have no idea where those thoughts came from.
Death so surrounds us. Not just at times like today. It amazes me that I can go out the door and face this Death. I ran into Alicia yesterday, and she was going to a memorial service for a man who had hit his head, said it was okay, then never woke up from his sleep. I sometimes forget that people who were such fixtures in my life are no more. A while ago I found myself wondering what a guy I knew in high school was up to--then remembered he had died.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
margaritaville
There are so many cute women that work at LESHRC. Right now I'm secretly watching Carla about her business wearing a bright pink shirt and Andrea who just planted something with rocks. Tanesha has a cool underthelip ring and a tongue ring and just dresses wonderfully. Raquel has this look that's always verging on some sneaky joke and Evelyn has this jaunty little scarf and geeky glasses that accentuates her eyebrows. Apparently, according to Tom, they all think I'm cute as well, so what's not to like about them? Oh, and Annie. Annie's this tiny little woman with a tiny little dog named Sparky--both are cute and excitable. She did a show the Xmas of 2003 at the Slipper Room, I believe. Her singing and monologuing were great. As Tom says, she's one of those people who knows EVERYONE in the New York underworld celebrity-wise. Apparently, Bjork is afraid of Annie. Of Annie!
Well, Tom and I did watch the fireworks, in our own way. We sat in The Thirsty Scholar on 2nd Ave., drank a Margarita (me) and Jack Daniels (Tom) after a delightful supper of borscht and pierogis and watched them on TV with Bruce Springstine caterwaling in the background while reading the New York Post. (I used to so be snobbish about anyone who read the Post, but now I'm sans the Times, and the Post is so much cheaper!) It was one of the better bar experiences I've had. We had the whole place to ourselves. Even the slightly bimboish bartender was outside trying to get a glimpse of the fireworks over the buildings. The margarita was a little more than I had counted on, but honestly I can't remember the last time I drank, much less sat in a bar to do it.
Well, Tom and I did watch the fireworks, in our own way. We sat in The Thirsty Scholar on 2nd Ave., drank a Margarita (me) and Jack Daniels (Tom) after a delightful supper of borscht and pierogis and watched them on TV with Bruce Springstine caterwaling in the background while reading the New York Post. (I used to so be snobbish about anyone who read the Post, but now I'm sans the Times, and the Post is so much cheaper!) It was one of the better bar experiences I've had. We had the whole place to ourselves. Even the slightly bimboish bartender was outside trying to get a glimpse of the fireworks over the buildings. The margarita was a little more than I had counted on, but honestly I can't remember the last time I drank, much less sat in a bar to do it.
Monday, July 04, 2005
yellow subway
On my way downtown this afternoon a father, son and mother got on the W train. Father and son (son about 6--father I'd say early 50s) were both wearing yellow--entirely yellow--outfits. Pants, shirts, socks. All yellow. And the funniest thing about this was the dad's outfit was a bright bright yellow, whereas the son was a more muted shade. Oh, and the dad wore a blue fatigue print backpack. What was the mom wearing? A fantastic brown tank top and frilly brown-and-white skirt. She had long, gorgeous legs (which the dad kept touching) and she looked at least ten years younger than he did.
The Hasidm were out in full force today at the train. The other day Tom and I watched a documentary called "Trembling Before G-D," an excellent depiction of the lives of LGBT and religious Jews. An interesting comment made by the first Orthodox, gay rabbi was that even if religious Jews consider homosexuality a sin, the Torah says nothing about one not being able to go to shul because one is a sinner. Otherwise, he said, there would be no one there. An interesting companion--for Christian-based folk--is Jesus telling the Pharasies only one who is without sin can throw the first stone at the accused woman.
Well, happy fourth. I've always felt weird about this holiday. So much when I was a kid all I thought about was fireworks. Heck, now it's all I think about. Now that we live in Harlem we have no roof to watch them on, and I don't want to sit in a huge crowd for hours. Who knows if we'll even watch them this year. So, happy birthday to this country that facilitated religious freedom for some, who killed off an entire nation of people, who enslaved Africans, who treats Asians and Hispanics like they were nothing, who gave people a chance to start again (my ancestors included) but denied it to others, who gives us so much power to say what we wish--stupid or not and who knows what definition one would use to the word, stupid--yet uses that power via the Patriot Act...Well, you get the point.
A week or so ago I said to my mother: "The [institution that will remain nameless] is so horrible--but there are so many nice people there, it would be hard to leave!" I feel that way about the US. I hate it but I love the people in it. Enough. I'm off the soapbox for the day.
The Hasidm were out in full force today at the train. The other day Tom and I watched a documentary called "Trembling Before G-D," an excellent depiction of the lives of LGBT and religious Jews. An interesting comment made by the first Orthodox, gay rabbi was that even if religious Jews consider homosexuality a sin, the Torah says nothing about one not being able to go to shul because one is a sinner. Otherwise, he said, there would be no one there. An interesting companion--for Christian-based folk--is Jesus telling the Pharasies only one who is without sin can throw the first stone at the accused woman.
Well, happy fourth. I've always felt weird about this holiday. So much when I was a kid all I thought about was fireworks. Heck, now it's all I think about. Now that we live in Harlem we have no roof to watch them on, and I don't want to sit in a huge crowd for hours. Who knows if we'll even watch them this year. So, happy birthday to this country that facilitated religious freedom for some, who killed off an entire nation of people, who enslaved Africans, who treats Asians and Hispanics like they were nothing, who gave people a chance to start again (my ancestors included) but denied it to others, who gives us so much power to say what we wish--stupid or not and who knows what definition one would use to the word, stupid--yet uses that power via the Patriot Act...Well, you get the point.
A week or so ago I said to my mother: "The [institution that will remain nameless] is so horrible--but there are so many nice people there, it would be hard to leave!" I feel that way about the US. I hate it but I love the people in it. Enough. I'm off the soapbox for the day.
Friday, July 01, 2005
going to "church"
I realized the other day as I was about to sit down to...that the brand of our commode is "church." I know there is some guy or girl, named Joe or Jane Church out there who own a proud and odd, though necessary, factory that produces commodes, but good heavens.
Today after a lengthy doctor's visit, I bought a coke and a starbuck's cookie and sat on the steps at Union Square park. Some guy dressed up as a king or clown or both was parading around, stating who knows what. A couple of girls settled down beside me and used the word "like" with valley/new york city accents, if that's possible.
As I sit here I'm thinking: if someone out there actually has a living out of making toilets, then others have weird jobs too. Like this bottle of white out sitting here; although I suppose they have a lot of machines to do a lot of the work, someone's job is to screw the caps on, right? Or is there a machine to do that? Do pencil factories have someone put the eraser on the end? Talk about crazy cocktail hour small talk: yes, I am the foreperson of the eraser attaching division at my company. It seems crazy, but those damn erasers are necessary! So these people, if there are such ones, should be proud of their work. Of course, these days it is a distinct possibility that it's done by some little kid in Taiwan for 1/2 cent a day.
Today after a lengthy doctor's visit, I bought a coke and a starbuck's cookie and sat on the steps at Union Square park. Some guy dressed up as a king or clown or both was parading around, stating who knows what. A couple of girls settled down beside me and used the word "like" with valley/new york city accents, if that's possible.
As I sit here I'm thinking: if someone out there actually has a living out of making toilets, then others have weird jobs too. Like this bottle of white out sitting here; although I suppose they have a lot of machines to do a lot of the work, someone's job is to screw the caps on, right? Or is there a machine to do that? Do pencil factories have someone put the eraser on the end? Talk about crazy cocktail hour small talk: yes, I am the foreperson of the eraser attaching division at my company. It seems crazy, but those damn erasers are necessary! So these people, if there are such ones, should be proud of their work. Of course, these days it is a distinct possibility that it's done by some little kid in Taiwan for 1/2 cent a day.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
you're the captain - i am no one
That line's been running through my head all day. Some song by some chick pop musician. Lately I've been listening to 106.7, the office easy listening station, and that song has come up many times. I know I should always listen to NPR and fill my brain with meat, but...there are times when the brain has had enough meat for awhile.
Today I had a goodbye lunch with Bryan, who's being removed by the evil Methodist church to the wilds of Connecticut. He made fun of me the whole time, drank my pop and checked out the asses of 4th Street. (I know you're reading this, Bryan. You know it's all true.) I then wandered the Village and Tower Records and Strawberry (bought a skirt) and KMart (bought socks and krazy glue for a handle of a mug and for the snout of an elephant/bookend). I felt so consumer like.
Tomorrow I'm having a physical for the Surgery. Have to have a blood count, an EEG and everything. Ugh. I think what I hate the most about this kind of shit is the fact that I become more of a specimin than a person. I have a written health history that I give to all my doctors before they even meet me. Even so, I'm explaining again in minute detail everything that has happened since the age of three.
I wrote a snarfy review in our bookring club of a short story that I just realized was written by a Nobel Prize winner in literature. Ack but no ack. Just because you wrote a good novel doesn't make you a good short story writer.
Tom already wrote about the hubcap kite guy, so I won't repeat it. Though I think "The Hubcap Kite" sounds like a good title.
Today I had a goodbye lunch with Bryan, who's being removed by the evil Methodist church to the wilds of Connecticut. He made fun of me the whole time, drank my pop and checked out the asses of 4th Street. (I know you're reading this, Bryan. You know it's all true.) I then wandered the Village and Tower Records and Strawberry (bought a skirt) and KMart (bought socks and krazy glue for a handle of a mug and for the snout of an elephant/bookend). I felt so consumer like.
Tomorrow I'm having a physical for the Surgery. Have to have a blood count, an EEG and everything. Ugh. I think what I hate the most about this kind of shit is the fact that I become more of a specimin than a person. I have a written health history that I give to all my doctors before they even meet me. Even so, I'm explaining again in minute detail everything that has happened since the age of three.
I wrote a snarfy review in our bookring club of a short story that I just realized was written by a Nobel Prize winner in literature. Ack but no ack. Just because you wrote a good novel doesn't make you a good short story writer.
Tom already wrote about the hubcap kite guy, so I won't repeat it. Though I think "The Hubcap Kite" sounds like a good title.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
you don't know what it's like...
Rain rain rain. That's all it seems to do around here. I constantly have to remember my umbrella and wear shoes, not flip flops. And it's the hot, muggy kind. No spritz of refreshment.
I spent the entire day today quite productively, I must say. I did laundry (it wasn't so bad this time), organized all those receipts and papers for financial aid in a nice folder box (this took about 2 hours), and I hung out with a guy from ICD to talk about his screen script for a contest he's entering. So I must say I'm quite proud of myself.
I also read over some comments on one of my stories I wrote this past year. Some of the comments were a little weird and whack; others were good.
Last night Tom and I went to Webster Hall to see Billy Corgan. We basically stood for 6 hours straight for this: in line outside the venue, inside the venue so we could be close to the stage, the two opening acts and finally The Show Everyone Came For. The opening bands were okay--the first one's lead singer had this idea that pumping your head up and down and keeping your eyes shut the entire time means you're "into" the music and that screaming (literal screaming--no words, just screams) makes a song. The second band was geeky and cute and from Kansas City. Doris Henson, I believe their name was. The lead singer had a better stage presence, and the trombone player (yes) was a little weird but it was a good thing to see something different.
Billy's show was great. Had a very intimate sense about it, even though he wore a sort of futuristic, East Germany suit on and lots of techno sound and sight. I didn't know any of the songs from this album, unlike when I saw him during the Pumpkins' MACHINA show, but I liked this show better. The title of this blog has a line from one of his new songs. On the album it has the guy from The Cure singing with him. We got to see him in his street clothes before the show. He wore a pink shirt (!) and a floppy hat. I read an article about him and apparently he's a sort of Christian--the good kind, of course. Heh heh. God save us all...
I spent the entire day today quite productively, I must say. I did laundry (it wasn't so bad this time), organized all those receipts and papers for financial aid in a nice folder box (this took about 2 hours), and I hung out with a guy from ICD to talk about his screen script for a contest he's entering. So I must say I'm quite proud of myself.
I also read over some comments on one of my stories I wrote this past year. Some of the comments were a little weird and whack; others were good.
Last night Tom and I went to Webster Hall to see Billy Corgan. We basically stood for 6 hours straight for this: in line outside the venue, inside the venue so we could be close to the stage, the two opening acts and finally The Show Everyone Came For. The opening bands were okay--the first one's lead singer had this idea that pumping your head up and down and keeping your eyes shut the entire time means you're "into" the music and that screaming (literal screaming--no words, just screams) makes a song. The second band was geeky and cute and from Kansas City. Doris Henson, I believe their name was. The lead singer had a better stage presence, and the trombone player (yes) was a little weird but it was a good thing to see something different.
Billy's show was great. Had a very intimate sense about it, even though he wore a sort of futuristic, East Germany suit on and lots of techno sound and sight. I didn't know any of the songs from this album, unlike when I saw him during the Pumpkins' MACHINA show, but I liked this show better. The title of this blog has a line from one of his new songs. On the album it has the guy from The Cure singing with him. We got to see him in his street clothes before the show. He wore a pink shirt (!) and a floppy hat. I read an article about him and apparently he's a sort of Christian--the good kind, of course. Heh heh. God save us all...
Monday, June 27, 2005
crazinessssssssssssssssss
I have no clue what is going on with my blog view. Before, it was normal, then, it did this whole huge space beteen blogs, now, the whole title is far from the body!!! I don't know what is the deal. David looked at it before I left Kansas, and he couldn't find anything wrong with my template. Grrrrrrr.
But, I'm back in New York. It's been hot and wet and steamy all day and will be tomorrow I believe. I'm sitting in the LESHRC office, and in my view are several mini buddhas, a turtle with wobby legs, a huge photo of Marilyn Monroe and an elegant vase of roses. People are speaking Spanish and Henry, a friendly and gentle old timer here, has just left for the day. Ben called me from the beach when he and Anna returned to California, bragging, I guess about where he was. But I'm happy where I'm at. The fact that Tom and I have our own little ledge in Harlem, that I have a month's metro pass and tickets to see Billy Corgan tomorrow are enough for me.
But, I'm back in New York. It's been hot and wet and steamy all day and will be tomorrow I believe. I'm sitting in the LESHRC office, and in my view are several mini buddhas, a turtle with wobby legs, a huge photo of Marilyn Monroe and an elegant vase of roses. People are speaking Spanish and Henry, a friendly and gentle old timer here, has just left for the day. Ben called me from the beach when he and Anna returned to California, bragging, I guess about where he was. But I'm happy where I'm at. The fact that Tom and I have our own little ledge in Harlem, that I have a month's metro pass and tickets to see Billy Corgan tomorrow are enough for me.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
bug bites
Last night after sitting in the combine with my bottom half off the seat, I lay on the stubble with Ben, David and Anna while we waited for Dad to finish the field. Mistake. Although the stars were bright and the moon (again red) rose lushiously, I came away with many mosquito and chigger bites. What are "chigger bites?" I'm not mistaking in my spelling of this word--I hope no one takes it as the other word. I don't even know if that's the technical term for it, but they are these little bugs that bite and you don't really notice the red splotches till later. When I took a shower this morning I did finally. They seem to have liked my armpits and knees and the inside of my thighs. They don't itch as much as mosquito bites; at least right now. Many a moon has passed since I had this malady.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
sunset, moonrise red
I was a hanger-on at the Great Penner Harvest yesterday evening, and I rode with Ben and Anna (Anna and I were squished into one seat) to the grain elevator. On the way we witnessed this huge pulsing red sun hovering above the horizon. Lyman Adams, the general manager, didn't give us three pops like we were hoping (Emprise Bank usually provides people with pop when they come through), so we came back sad. Well, not really. It's unusual this power of getting something for free. Later that evening I was sitting in the truck talking to Tom on Ben's phone, when this glorious moon, dark dark red, popped up and drove upwards. Both Tom and David tell me it's all an optical illusion--the size and color. That it's in our heads. If someone took a picture of the red large moon it would be the normal size, the normal cover.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
ah....Kansas
I need to go bake a pie, so this'll be short. Rode the combine all yesterday afternoon, shooting the breeze with my brothers, where we agreed that we had a weird childhood with this farming stuff--at least to our metro friends. Once in my craft class a classmate said that a country person in a certain story wouldn't be sophisticated enough to commit suicide in some way now forgotten. The next week had a story about turkey farm, and people were all bemoaning the fact of how horribly they died--the turkeys--and how could anyone eat turkey after that. I mentioned I grew up on a hog farm, and how it didn't affect my appetite, and one man literally gasped. Crazy New York-centered people.
Monday, June 20, 2005
oz not ozzy
I am in Kansas. A week ago I was not planning on being here, but with the advent of the Saga of the Hand I've stopped looking for work and Ben found a fairly decent ticket, so here I am for harvest. I haven't been home for this in about 6 years. Everything is lush and green from all of the rain--the mosquitos are horrible. Yesterday I was talking to Tom on the phone and they attacked me on all sides. Right now I'm in the Tabor library doing non-harvest things, looking at a giant mural--it's so ugly. It's one of those carpet murals, showing students studying and playing sports, with a Bible in the middle saying "Hear Ye Him." There are eight men and only two women pictured. Hmmmm...
Today I'm going to pit cherries and bake a cake. I'm doing the what I've said to Ben and Anna (they're here as well) "non-glamorous" harvest work: feeding the workers of the field. So Bible-ish. I'll maybe go out whenever David goes. He's working IT here at Tabor.
On the flight here yesterday I sat among a group of roadies for some band. They were your typical aging hippies: black t-shirts with skeletons, long shaggy hair or beards or both. They kept talking about a venue in Lawrence--which is in Kansas. I should look up the internet and see who they worked with.
Today I'm going to pit cherries and bake a cake. I'm doing the what I've said to Ben and Anna (they're here as well) "non-glamorous" harvest work: feeding the workers of the field. So Bible-ish. I'll maybe go out whenever David goes. He's working IT here at Tabor.
On the flight here yesterday I sat among a group of roadies for some band. They were your typical aging hippies: black t-shirts with skeletons, long shaggy hair or beards or both. They kept talking about a venue in Lawrence--which is in Kansas. I should look up the internet and see who they worked with.
Friday, June 17, 2005
washer woman washer woman
I have decided that I'm beginng to really hate washing clothes. I don't know. At the stone house I had to climb into a scary basement. In Menno House I had to lug it down three flights of stairs. In Harlem all I have to do is carry it to the elevator and walk a few yards. I used to love doing laundry. Especially when it was all done and hung up and pristine. Never mind the t-shirts, socks and underwear would begin piling up that very night. I think maybe getting a granny cart will help. That way I don't have to lug big bags around...
After that was finished I sat down and watched part 2 of the Anne of Green Gables the Continuing Story. I don't know why but it made me feel better. It has nothing to do with any of the books. In this story Anne is combing WWI France, looking for everlasting Gil. She gets involved (of course) with a dashing reporter who is working to end the war, and makes several declarations of love, with the hopes that if Gil is dead they will get together. Of course she finds Gil, and there is a sad little scene where Jack says, "So, you're taking the safe road, Anne." (i.e. sticking with Gilbert) Which is ridiculous in some respects because she has just saved his infant son (the mother conveniently died), has dashed through war torn France and Germany and escaped a French firing squad! But in others he is right. Anne once again returns to faithful Gilbert, though man upon man thrashes about in love. And we don't know Gil at all, really. We know the men she denies more than the man she accepts--even in the books it's true. It is as if Gilbert is more the idea rather than reality. At any rate, Jack dies, rather conveniently, because of his work to uncover German spies. Although one would expect they all would have died (he is shot to death shortly after the "safe road" bit) but he happens to be in the adjoing section of the train they're on, and no one goes after the happy couple who is bound to "walk the road together forever" and know what he knows). But Anne and Gil survive, adopt Jack's baby and give Green Gables to Diana and Fred. As nasty as I sound about this movie, I still like it.
After that was finished I sat down and watched part 2 of the Anne of Green Gables the Continuing Story. I don't know why but it made me feel better. It has nothing to do with any of the books. In this story Anne is combing WWI France, looking for everlasting Gil. She gets involved (of course) with a dashing reporter who is working to end the war, and makes several declarations of love, with the hopes that if Gil is dead they will get together. Of course she finds Gil, and there is a sad little scene where Jack says, "So, you're taking the safe road, Anne." (i.e. sticking with Gilbert) Which is ridiculous in some respects because she has just saved his infant son (the mother conveniently died), has dashed through war torn France and Germany and escaped a French firing squad! But in others he is right. Anne once again returns to faithful Gilbert, though man upon man thrashes about in love. And we don't know Gil at all, really. We know the men she denies more than the man she accepts--even in the books it's true. It is as if Gilbert is more the idea rather than reality. At any rate, Jack dies, rather conveniently, because of his work to uncover German spies. Although one would expect they all would have died (he is shot to death shortly after the "safe road" bit) but he happens to be in the adjoing section of the train they're on, and no one goes after the happy couple who is bound to "walk the road together forever" and know what he knows). But Anne and Gil survive, adopt Jack's baby and give Green Gables to Diana and Fred. As nasty as I sound about this movie, I still like it.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
homegirl
The other day I baked my first ever rhubarb/strawberry pie. I felt quite proud, though I would've been more proud of making my own crust, but crust is hard and I need to take one thing at a time. It requires a lot of slicing and cutting, which I rather dislike, but once that is done you're basically finished. It was a rather strange, domestic thing to do, but I've had more time on my hands, and I think baking is more in my blood than cooking. I'll leave cooking to Thomas. God or Jebus or Buddha must be telling me that this is good because a woman from church was getting rid of cooking stuff and she gave me a gorgeous, heavy marble rolling pin with a little stand to keep it on and some pie pans, which I didn't have. Or it may just be coincidence.
I scheduled my surgery today: July 15. Apparently I'll be out-patient, so I'll still make the Scott-Miller union--which actually was a stipulation when Dr. Paulansky and I discussed dates. I said I could do anytime as long as it was before July 23 or before August 20 (the Versluis-Fairfield union). I wish it were sooner. I just want to get over with it. I asked him several questions and follow up questions, and he said as I got up to go: "Now you know everything so you can go ahead and do it and I'll go play golf that day."
I scheduled my surgery today: July 15. Apparently I'll be out-patient, so I'll still make the Scott-Miller union--which actually was a stipulation when Dr. Paulansky and I discussed dates. I said I could do anytime as long as it was before July 23 or before August 20 (the Versluis-Fairfield union). I wish it were sooner. I just want to get over with it. I asked him several questions and follow up questions, and he said as I got up to go: "Now you know everything so you can go ahead and do it and I'll go play golf that day."
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
a confession of sorts
Well, Tom and my parents know, so I may as well tell you I may be going under the knife again, this time to remove my be-tumored fingers on my left hand. For any of you old-time readers, the saga of the fingers has gone on for quite some time, with the evil doctor back in Boston. So I've been avoiding doctors of all kinds since then--I haven't even paid gentle Dr. Liebsch a visit since I left Boston. I take that back--I do see Dr. Vazquez on occasion and Dr. Gonzolez and Dr. Shimoni--all three are great at what they do. Anyway, I made an appointment with one and went to see him Monday. His clinic is a stone's throw from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and is incredibly posh--in spite of that he was very nice and awkwardly funny and took much much more time with me than the other fellow. His recomendation is the same: off with the fingers. They may one day become malignant, apparently. And they have become much more difficult to deal with in looks as well as function.
So.
I don't want to do it at all, but I knew someday this would happen. This time in my life is rather free right now: no job, school doesn't begin until September and my sugar daddy pulling in the dough...
I'll keep you posted.
So.
I don't want to do it at all, but I knew someday this would happen. This time in my life is rather free right now: no job, school doesn't begin until September and my sugar daddy pulling in the dough...
I'll keep you posted.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
a juror's tale
So, I did the whole jury thing. Sat in a room with about 200 other souls in a too-airconditioned room, was finally called to go into a courtroom (this was probably, as far as I can remember, the first time I've physically been in a courtroom) with about 80 people and even more airconditioning. Sat there listening to lawyers ask potentials questions until 5 pm. Came back the next day to sit and listen to the same questions. Was sent home early but commanded to return the next day at 9:45 am sharp. Came at 9:30. Was not led into the courtroom until 10:15. Sat until the judge appeared and told us they had selected their jurors (I had not yet been questioned, so thank god I didn't get chosen) and we could go home. This occurred less than an hour after my arrival to Centre St. (near City Hall) and that was after a 45 minute commute to the courthouse! The only positive side of this, they ("They" being the general term) gave us a paper saying we didn't have to serve a jury summons for 6 years, which is 2 years longer than usual. So, I guess I'll be happy with that.
Besides my shadowing of Al Pacino Man (I did sit by him at one point) something weird happened. The weirdness was the fact that I ran into a guy who works at the needle exchange, who was serving jury duty as well. Out of the hundreds of people in the five courthouses in a city of 8 million thereabouts, two people who are connected (one working, the other married) to a little nonprofit in Chinatown meet. That has happened so many times here. I once sat by Andy Baker, who used to go to MMF, on a subway ride to Columbus Circle and didn't notice him until ten minutes into the ride. Another time I ran into a girl who I used to work with at RMM at a Barnes and Noble where I was using the bathroom. That same day I saw another MMF church member on the same street as the Barnes and Noble--on 34th Street.
Besides my shadowing of Al Pacino Man (I did sit by him at one point) something weird happened. The weirdness was the fact that I ran into a guy who works at the needle exchange, who was serving jury duty as well. Out of the hundreds of people in the five courthouses in a city of 8 million thereabouts, two people who are connected (one working, the other married) to a little nonprofit in Chinatown meet. That has happened so many times here. I once sat by Andy Baker, who used to go to MMF, on a subway ride to Columbus Circle and didn't notice him until ten minutes into the ride. Another time I ran into a girl who I used to work with at RMM at a Barnes and Noble where I was using the bathroom. That same day I saw another MMF church member on the same street as the Barnes and Noble--on 34th Street.
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