rugs

We got a rug in the mail today. Of course I was so convieniently in the shower so I begged the guy behind the door to wait a moment so I could get decent. (We rarely get knocks on the door so I always know it must be important. My mum and I laugh because in my hometown mail people just leave packages on the doormat, while here you have to be around and able to sign for it. (Though I'd be willing to bet no one would molest it--on my floor, at least. A neighbor has had a copy of the Daily News by his door for 3 days now, and no one has taken it.) She said when we were in Ann Arbor over xmas, the mailman tucked the package behind the screen door since he knew my folks were gone!) He obliged, however, and soon it was in my hands.

I'm a little unsure of the rug. Apparently it's more of an indoor/outdoor rug and isn't soft. We wanted something with a little nubbins--no shag, but nubbins. And that was the idea I'd gotten from the website. I haven't laid it out as of yet. It's standing guard at the door right now. So, we'll see.

Ordering things other than books hasn't always worked out for me. I bought some boots for Anna and Ben's wedding, and they turned out to be the wrong size--they'd sized them according to European standards wrongly and they no longer had the size I needed--so I had to mail them back. I then went to the store where I'd seen them first and bought them. I had bought them online because they were cheaper, but I ended up spending almost the same amount with the return postage! The same thing happened with a top I'd seen for said wedding. It was nothing like the photo. Then I randomly found a close approximation at this little store near my pharmacy. So, I mailed the offending item back, again. And spent more money than on the other top.

I'm thinking I won't try to order clothes online for awhile--at least until you can try them on virtually or something. Like when you can order things that appear at one of those little boxes on Star Trek. Only you could only have them for an hour or so. They would disappear after the timeframe was up. That would be great.

the art of the hunt

Today Tom and I were tramping around Manhattan with a soon-to-be-Manhattanited friend from college (let's call her Lady L for now--I don't know if she wants to star in my blogs just yet), looking for an apartment. We found one we all liked, liked the rent (it's funny how the concept of 'reasonable' has changed since we moved here--at Stone House, Sarah and I each paid 150 for a (small, but bigger than our studio) one bedroom and we groaned about it constantly), and went back to the broker so she could fill out the paperwork, etc.

I am very excited about someone from my past moving up here. It makes me feel more stable, somehow. That this is where I want to be for awhile. Which makes me more determined to find a good job that will keep us for a long while.

I need to tear myself away now. I have two workshop stories to read and critique. I keep reminding myself: You are back in schooooooooooooooooooool...

dayquil dreams

I'm dealing with this on-again-off-again sore throat and earache thing. I've been taking DayQuil--rather, the generic version of it--and though it's not supposed to make you drowsy, it definately has made me rather looney.

I just finished A Feast for Crows, by George R.R. Martin. It is book four of a series of fantasy novels. Though I've always been a bit snobbish about such kinds of books, I love these. They're fantasy but not at the same time. Through his detailed characterization you actually eventually root for bad bad guys--and I'm serious about the badness. I checked our bookring, and noticed Tom hasn't reviewed it or any of the others, so I'll have to do it sometime. I've gone off my beaten path as far as novels go. I've read Anansi Boys and American Gods, The Time Traveler's Wife--I think those are the most recent.

But, I've now returned to my first love: books about sadness, dead children, etc. This often goes to my movie tastes as well, though I admit it's been nice dealing with mythical gods and the like for awhile. I started Gilead last night, and I love it. It's a slow, wandering sort of book, about a pastor in Iowa writing to his son. Some reviews I've read have been rather nasty about it because of this, and they've bemoaned the fact that it won the Pulitzer, but I think it is totally deserving. Brian was the first to reccomend it to me. Several others have said the same since then. Mostly because a lot of themes in my own work have centered around rural life and religion--things I always avoided while growing up and in college. I guess because I was always surrounded by those things. In this city they seem exotic to friends and colleagues at school. Who knew? Not to say I'm her equal, but I believe that it was Sarah Orne Jewett who told Willa Cather that you had to seperate yourself from something before you can truly write about it.

I guess I've been somewhat depressed lately, and it's only in my DayQuil stupor that made me realize it. In A Feast for Crows there is a character who had his tongue torn out, and it made me think of Steve, a guy I knew from Pax Christi days. Steve was a homeless guy who got throat cancer a few years ago, and had to have his tongue removed and a trachea put in. The church I worked in hired him to be the sexton, and gave him a place to live in payment. Steve wasn't perfect. He sometimes left things undone for weeks at a time, and he and the pastor didn't always get along. I'd always gotten along with him. He'd developed a kind of sign language, and we'd pass along greetings as we went through our day. Steve always complimented my dress and laughed at my jokes. Who wouldn't like that?

Over a year ago, the cancer creeped back and he died. He knew a few months beforehand that this was going to happen. The chemotherapy wasn't working. I merely happened to stop by the Pax office when he told people. He wrote a note that I didn't want to finish reading because then I would have to say something. I don't remember exactly what I said. I remember I didn't say I felt sorry for him. I've always hated that when people have said this to me about my problems. I think I said something about praying for him. He asked me how I was doing, with my radiation and so on, and then I put my hands together as if in prayer and bowed to him. He bowed back. I scurried away.

I only found out he'd died about a month after it had happened. I always have felt guilty about not keeping in touch with him. I'd intended to, but life got in the way. I've always wished I could have said something--I don't know what. Tom has had coworkers die, and I still can't believe it. I think they must be somewhere, incognito. These are people I knew. Who I greeted when I went to the agency. That student of mine, from Valhalla, vanished life less than 24 hours after she left prison.

Enough said.

i'm hungry

It's 2:16 and I am yet to eat lunch. This happens a lot with my (mainly Tom's) schedule. Since he works 12 to 8s every day except Saturdays, I rarely need to get up before 9:30 or so, so breakfast isn't till at least 10, so my real lunch time is 3 or 4. Since my classes are all in the late afternoons there's no reason to get up any sooner. I've always been a nightowl anyway, though not like in college. In college I was lucky if I went to bed before 3, especially when I edited the WeatherVane. Then I often didn't get to sleep at all on Wednesday nights. And I still had classes at 8 or so.

But anyway, back to eating. I didn't eat breakfast today either. Now, don't rush to the conclusion of my being anorexic--I love food too much and I've seen how it damages the body beyond repair. For the most part it's because I just don't think about it. The only reason I did right now is because I noticed the dishes in the sink and looked at the clock and then noticed my tummy was complaining.

Tom says it's because I'm too lazy to cook for myself--he's probably right up to a point--he's the cook in this little family. He also says your IQ retreats to that of a 70-year-old if you don't eat breakfast. (He says 70-somethings aren't stupid, they're just a little slower on the uptake.) He's probably right in that also. But one of my theories is that it keeps me more on my toes. I've noticed I'm often much more productive (at least in writing) when I have a little hunger inside me. I think it makes me remember that I'm alive. When I'm well-fed I lounge more. I'm more interested in TV or a book or just wandering the city. I feel too at peace with the world to think of conflict, climax and dialogue.

Although it's interesting to note that the exact opposite happens when I'm in class or at work--back when I had a job. Then I'm ravenous. I must eat, otherwise I just drum my fingers and imagine what I could be eating.

I figure that every writer needs a weird quirk to get them producing--maybe this is mine.

this is not your father's camera

Remember that jingle: This is not your father's Oldsmobile? This is the new generation of Old! Anyone? Well, I distinctly remember it from my young days of a three (sometimes four) channel television set. (I remember the day when we got a TV that managed to capture Fox 24 and we didn't have to go to Grandma's to watch the Simpsons. (We also had to drive to Grandma's when there were tornados around because our basement was a deathtrap, but that's another blog.) Yes, my grandmother watched the Simpsons. Mostly because--and brace yourself if you haven't already heard this from me or a member of my family since we practically tell everyone we know--Matt Groening is a distant cousin. She felt she was honor bound...but she did laugh at the show.) Now I can surf digital cable of 145 channels, the web, talk on a cellphone and now, dum dah dah daaaaaaaaah...

Tom and I broke down and purchased a digital camera today with some windfall Xmas money--actually, we did this order online, pickup at the store thing. Which protected us from too-friendly salespeople and the weekend crowds. Thanks to my brother, David, we had computer geeks recommending what kind to buy. We still had to brave the crowds to get it, but it made us get out of our cocoon of a studio and wander the bracing cold that has returned after a week of weirdly springlike weather. It was so cold, I had to go and buy a hat--and bought this really hipster hat.

We've played around with it some, and are yet to download the software so we can put them on the laptop, but we'll get there at some point. Although the advent of a digital camera to our little Penner/Smith duo is important, what's been the focus today is tonight is the season premier of "24," which Tom (and eventually me) is completely addicted. Only an hour and 18 minutes to go, if the damn Bears/Carolina game is over by then--Fox better show the whole show of "24" or there will possibly be blood on the streets...

With the camera, now Tom and I can become one of those people that feels they need to record every single moment of everyone's life.

dedicated to linda, dan and michael

Yesterday I remembered yet again why I love New York: people can call you up on the fly and invite you to a Broadway play. And you can "postpone" a lunch date because of it--well, I could, at least.

Linda, a friend from Manhattan Mennonite Fellowship (otherwise known to some as pigeon haven ;)) called yesterday and asked if I was free to see the musical "Spamalot," as she had an extra ticket. A phone call to postpone the said lunch date and a subway ride later, I was sitting in a beautiful theater, laughing and remembering middle and high school days when Monty Python was all the rage. (For my farewell party before I left for college in the great beyond of Virginia, some friends (two boys) had a group of us who'd never seen "The Life of Brian" (all girls), pay close close attention to a segment they said you wouldn't get unless you were close to the TV--then there's a moment when Brian flings open the window and there is his penis--they thought they were hilarious.)

There were some weaknesses (I love David Hyde Pierce from "Fraiser" days, however, his presence on stage was often a bit sketchy--though his big number in Act II, where he states that no play can make Broadway without at least one Jew was great; King Arthur left something to be desired; there were too many skinny women on stage; the Lady of the Lake was a good singer but not much of an actor), but I loved it because it was just a fun play, and you could tell the actors were having as much fun as the audience. There was this little kid behind us that was singing along on the better known songs (the "Look on the bright side of life" song, for example) and his running commentary was sometimes annoying, sometimes hilarious.

After the play we went to the Olive Garden in Times Square, where I'd never been. It was a pretty fancy pants joint. I think the last time I'd been at one was when Tom and I were returning from our honeymoon at Chincoteague and Assateague Islands. Dan kept saying things to embarrass his 18 year old son, which was nice dinner entertainment.

After dinner, I went to an information meeting about becoming a New York City Teaching Fellow. You have to get a Master's in Ed while you're teaching at a high-need public high school, but it gets paid for by the city and you get a regular salary. The starting salary for BA-holders is 42 thousand (more if you have a Master's or higher), which is a huge amount of money to me, though not to a me who lives in New York. I'm not too fired up to go back to more school, but there is an opportunity to teach ESL (there is always a need for ESL teachers) , and I'd been considering getting a certificate in ESL lately, so this would be a way to do it. We'll see what happens. The competition is pretty tough, and there's only a 1 in 8 chance that I'd be accepted--the admissions process is rigorous--so, I may not even be chosen. So I'm not holding my breath. I'm also applying for an assistant editorship at HarperCollins (another long shot) and some adjunct positions (again, long shot--I'm counting on the impression factor of being an SLC grad might help).

dum dah dah daaah

Here's the first proof--photographic, that is--of my brother and Anna's nuptuals and my success as a matchmaker. (Back Row: brother David, husband Tom, brother Ben, cousin Todd, cousin Mark. Front: Me, sister-in-law Anna, cousin-in-law Lori and cousin-in-law Melissa.) There is a more formal photo including my parents and Aunt Lori and Uncle Doyle, but I think I look fat in it. I'm smiling so beautifully because Tom is tickling me from behind. Maybe you can tell from his impish grin that he's up to no good. I wish someone would tickle me every time I have to have my picture taken. I have to admit, Ben's eyes are a little demonic from the red-eye.

the end of the affair

Relationships are a weird thing. Some just sort of creep up on you. Others are chosen. Others, like family, are chosen for you. I’ve been thinking about relationships, my own, for quite some time now. Mainly the transformation or even disintegration of relationships.

I’m thinking it’s the gradual, little things that make transformation or disintegration of relationships rather than big ones, like moving to a different state or country. It’s more the change of focus for one or both people—this seems to happen even if they stay in the same town. It is especially prevalent in a place like New York. People I worked, studied or lived with daily suddenly disappear when the job is done, the class ends, the easy lock of the door closes. Though I usually fault myself for the relationship’s demise, some sort of shock me. I tag along on what I realize, too late, is one too many activities. I email too much. I think about them more than they think of me. I’m not trying to sound whiney here. Because there are some that have remained strong, even though we don’t necessarily see or hear from each other day-to-day. There’s a certain feeling in those relationships I haven’t gotten with others—and they are often the ones I didn’t plan on. The ones I believed would dry up the moment we parted. In contrast, the ones I most counted on have, by degrees, faded, until we smile and (I think) are genuinely are glad to see each other, but there is an emptiness to the gestures. One or both of us are relieved when something comes up to distract us. Sometimes we float away from each other—sometimes they have floated away from me.

The question is, I guess, how often does one run after the relationship? How often does one cross the room (so to speak) and hope for more than a gesture?

haikus in honor of the end-strike

This morning on the WNYC show hosted by Brian Lehrer they had a holiday greeting jam. I was too shy (imagine me shy!) and hyped up on too much coffee to call it in, and then I was, but I couldn't get through, so I'm sharing it with my public:

NEW YORK MORNINGS

I sip twice-sugared coffee
and turn a deaf ear
to the siren’s screams.


White shirt presses close—
no face attatched,
then, “Stand clear of the closing doors.”


This breath smelling
of sour sleep
creeps in as a lover.


The silence in a subway
through morning’s rush
rivals an abandoned desert.


We burst through turnstiles
briefly freed,
before the corralling begins.


I smile at the sunlight,
realizing the street’s joke
and jump into the lanes.

Peace and Joy on this Commuting Holiday!

strike or be struck

It's Day Two of the transit strike here in the city. Although I haven't had to go anywhere since yesterday, most of New York, including Tom, has had to deal with a complete dearth of public transportation. There is not a single subway or public bus running in any of the five boroughs. You realize how much you depend on something when it disappears from sight. Yesterday, Tom had to walk 19 blocks to 125th St., take the Metro North (which is not under the MTA) to Grand Central and then walked from 42nd St. to below Housten--a little less than four miles. When he came home he took a taxi. The taxi charged both him and a coworker who lives in the same complex as we do 20 dollars each to go nine miles. He didn't go to work today. We couldn't afford it. I'll have to deal with these same schenanigans tomorrow because I have to pick up medicine downtown and finish xmas shopping.

There's this little socialist part of me who cheers the Transit Workers Union on. Go for it, the little piece of me shouts, Stick it to the Man! But as I'm watching the news and seeing how it affects this (suddenly a lot bigger) city--businesses that only make a profit at this time of year, restaurants having to layoff waiters, people who live anywhere and are too poor to take taxis or have cars--I get pissed off. Mostly because these folks have a better deal with their jobs than many people. I knew a guy who made over 50,000 a year driving a bus. The transit workers have pension plans that require only a 2% take from their paycheck, a retirement age of 55 and health care.

What did the Metropolitan Transportation Authority want? A higher retirement age of 62 for all new workers, a 6% take for pensions and I believe a 2% worker contribution to health care. I felt that, at the very least, the retirement age was a little ridiculous. Because some of those jobs are a lot more physically demanding than others. They did drop that piece of the new three-year contract at the last minute before the strike, however.

It's not that I don't want these people to be paid well and have good benefits. They obviously do an important job for this city, even if they are jerks about it sometimes. It's just that they seem not to care that this does more than inconvenience people--it's hurting folks' livelihood.

What's so funny about this is the fact that there's a law in New York that forbids strikes by EMT workers, fire fighters, police, medical staff and public transportation operators. This law has a fine of 1 million dollars a day from the union plus two days' pay for every day from each individual. Basically, they're losing any kind of financial incentive through this strike. They say on the news that the hope is the city will "forgive" them when it's over and cancel the fines. I've heard Bloomberg talk about his feelings towards the union. I doubt he will do that.

laffy taffy

Today on the subway there was a group of girls, ages around 16 or 17, who were giggling up a storm and in general being loud. At first I was annoyed. But then they began rapping, saying something about "laffy taffy." One of the girls began shaking her generous booty, while the others egged her on. At one point she was swinging on the handrails. I couldn't help but laugh. There was one other white chick in the car, and she looked positively frightened, which made me laugh even harder. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Gap ad into a level of Dante's Inferno.

Later I was in a thrift store on 23rd St., and I overheard this conversation between two college girls:

Isn't this skirt cute-a-licious?

Totally cute-a-licious.

I'd say this top was cute-a-licious but I don't think the shoulder pads are very. Cute-a-licious.

Yeah, I see what you mean.

what would Linus do?

We had our first real snow this morning. I got up early and looked at the flakes wander down. It made the "courtyard" behind our building almost look pretty. But, by 10 a.m. the prettiness vanished beneath snowshovels and plows. Snow in New York is serene beauty for two seconds, maybe less, then turns into a slushy-dog pee-dog poop mess you have to pick your way through.

It's interesting to see how people dress for the snow around the city. Most people in Harlem seem to have sense. They usually wear enough coats and gloves. Down where we used to live, though, we'd see hipster chicks in tiny, and I mean TINY little skirts and little little coats and those horrible boots called "fugs." Tom and I call these wearers couchie-sicles. There's also the "professional hipsters" who think a sleek black unlined coat and a thin scarf and maybe gloves is all one needs against the winter winds around here. I've even seen some of the women wandering the slush with little high heels. I'm all for looking good even in the cold, but good grief.

Apparently there's evil in the world that's trying to take the "Christ" out of Christmas. Groups are boycotting stores that have signs that say Happy Holidays as opposed to Merry Christmas. Holiday Trees are oh so heinous compared with Christmas Trees. (I've been told that the whole existence of a Christmas Tree (not to mention the holiday used to be pagan but was changed over to Christian when things began leaning that way) comes from a pagan source--I need to consult with Lev, my Jewish Pagan friend from SLC.) Some even say that writing "Xmas" is from the devil--never mind that X stands for Christ, I believe in Greek. I seem to remember a philosopher who lived at Menno House sometimes signed his name: Xtopher.

What makes this all so funny is the fact that Christmas has been manhandled long before now, and it has nothing to do with the names of trees and so forth. I won't bore anyone with the whole materialistic, gift-obsessed society that we now call this holiday diatribe. Everyone knows it. It's funny that church-related groups are obsessed with these superficial trinkets of a holiday that is supposed to be about hope in winter, that the truest thing in the world is salvation born in an animal stall instead of a palace. In my high-falutin' mind they're the ones ruining Christmas for everyone. It's just like the whole Passion-Mel Gibson-style. It focuses on what's not so important. We'd rather cringe at the blood and gore and ignore what happened later that made Easter so miraculous.

The other day I watched A Charlie Brown Christmas on TV. (Thank you, Cable Gods!) I nearly wept when Linus got on the stage and quoted part of the birth of Christ from the New Testament. It wasn't so much the good Bible talk he shared as the attitude he shared it with. Seems to me he was just sharing what it meant to him but he didn't seem to care whether anyone else had the same idea. We need to be more accepting of things. If it means that some kid or adult who didn't grow up in a Christian heritage feels out of it when somebody says Merry Christmas, then we don't need to say it. It doesn't change what it means to us.

staple power

I realized yesterday how much our penal system depends on dopes who cling to their little seat of power in the big cog they call justice. We went to Valhalla to distribute the anthologies of the women's work. Although we had been told at the beginning not to bring any paperclips to the prison, since they can be used as weapons, nothing had been said about staples, and one of the teachers had seen things stapled to a bulletin board in the Unit, so the anthologies were bound with staples. Well, The Big Policeman at the front desk said No. Never mind that the anthologies have always been stapled since SLC started the program. Today TBP said No. We kept pushing the point, several guards congregated around the contraband, even the warden was called. He said No. So, we could either leave the anthologies behind or remove the staples by hand. We chose the latter. TBP, feeling good about his power play, granted us two staple removers to remove the staples from 60 anthologies. Once we finished there was only 30 minutes left for classtime. We hurried to the Unit, handed them out and had a reading then had to leave.

When I told one of the women why we had been so late, she laughed. The thing is, she explained, when they give us our mail, they have the letters stapled to the envelopes. We get staples all the time.

washers from hell

So, I had the fantasy of getting the laundry (that was piling up for over a week) done today. Apparently the gods of washing machines decided to play with me. Two of the triple loads were down, leaving only one of them operational--or so I thought. I loaded up this damned machine and went back to our studio for more. When I came back, the machine had stopped mid-cycle, and what I had to deal with was a pile of soaking wet, soapy jeans. Now, most of you are familiar with the weight of jeans when wet--especially wet ones. I had to lug these to the single load machines--one of those was out, but for some reason Delancey Village believes people need single loads more than triple loads, so there are six--and spend four-fifty on three loads, if my math is correct, PLUS the two-fifty from the broken machine. And this isn't counting the drying at one-twenty-five for thiry minutes. Grrrrrrr.

Once again, an operation that should have taken an hour and some change at most, is going to be an all-afternoon affair. (This has happened more than once, understand.) I know that these washers are being used by 17 floors of people, but you see laundromats chugging away just fine, and there has to be as many people using them. And the catch is, it's Friday--which means they won't be fixed until Monday, if we're lucky--but I'll be busy all day Monday and Tuesday, so Wednesday I'll have to face more laundry, including three sets of sheets and a huge pile of towels.

Now, I'm not a very good housewife; I don't really cook that much, Tom does that beautifully, I clean if I must, we have no children, but more and more I see how housewifing is a job in itself, and any man or woman who says it isn't I'd like to bust their balls or teeth, depending, of course, on gender. And, of course, I write this would only happen in my mind, but I would like to do it.

undercover

I have to make this quick. Tom and my brother, David, have left so I can get some work done, and of course, I want to work but the pull of the internet has me in its bosom. The picture you see to the left is Tom and myself last weekend when my other brother, Ben and his soon-to-be wife, Anna, came to visit and we went for a walk on Riverside Park. I always feel kick ass in these sunglasses I'm wearing, and I think I particularly look like someone undercover, roaming the streets looking for trouble, etc.

I'm feeling a little more than a person looking for trouble right now. I think I may have found it. It's a rather boring story but the gist of it is that a certain person who teaches at Valhalla has used me one too many times as her little go-fer. Today she called me and wanted my lesson materials from the last two weeks, because she was busy revising a part of a book that an agent wanted to look at. This is after I taught her group for two weeks in a row, not to mention those little tiny requests this entire semester that are, if looked at separately, not that big a deal but end up becoming a big deal because they keep coming. To top it off, when I told her nicely that I too had a lot of pressure on me with my work and didn't even know where the material was at the moment, she kept insinuating that because of her book contract possibility she was more important and I should scurry around and find it.

So, I found some of the material (not all, because I felt vindictive), sent it to her with a nice little email attached:

I honestly felt manipulated during our conversation tonight. Whether you meant to be so or not I'm not sure--obviously I'd like to be on the "not" side.

At any rate, though I recognize your crazy schedule and your worries about your manuscript, I felt that you belittled my own crazy schedule and deadlines. And though I know that you are having difficulties with your medication and so on, I too have many medical issues (a brain tumor that causes seizures which led to brain surgery and the loss of my left eye, two fingers amputated this summer, an ongoing struggle with a bone-related syndrome which is the cause of the above situations). This may be that "I've got more scratches than you" game, but I just wanted you to know that I empathize with your situation.

I feel that you have somewhat used me these past few weeks: asking me to take care of your class two weeks in a row and then expecting me to give my plans and materials to you because you are too busy--plans that are not difficult to create. In the time it took for our conversation to take place you could have found at least 20 pictures from the internet, and I'm not a computer savvy person either.

You have a possible book deal--I applaud you for that. And hope someday I'll be in the same boat. I have deadlines and responsibilites too that you know nothing about, but I take the extra time out of that schedule to create something small and hope the women take just a tiny bit out of it. If you feel that you can't do this, then I recommend you refrain from doing this during spring semester.

We are all stressed out people with a lot of work ahead of us. I'm not going to deny that. Everyone has things to do and needs help once in a while. But I feel I have been called to do too many things lately. You may be upset with me for writing these things, but I felt that I







wasn't being heard during our conversation earlier. If you want to talk about it during lunch tomorrow with Regina I'm all for it.

I found some of the pictures on my computer--I have not been able to find the hard copies I made for my class; they have wafted away to the Great Unknown--the rest must be on my SLC account; I have attached the ones from my computer. Hopefully they will help! jdp

I feel it was nice and to the point but still firm. Tom was pissed hearing just my end of the conversation on the phone. He says that he's learned from his work at the LESHRC that it's not the participants you want to kick, it's the people you work with. And I think it's true: I figure that the women at Valhalla won't let me down easy--but anyone who has enough money to go to SLC and spend all her time writing should know how to take care of things.

boys in the westchester hood

I don't know what's the matter with me and making trains, but for the second time in a row I nearly missed the train to school on Tuesday. This time the bus was the culprit--one didn't arrive at the stop until 2:15 or so, and because it was such a late bus there were a lot of people at every stop between 139th and 125th. Usually I don't think this, but I was glad there were no wheelchair bound folks that got on or off. I know, I'm a hideous person. Well, finally it arrived at 125th at 2:23; the train was due to arrive at 2:33, so I literally hightailed it, dodging traffic but not running (the sidewalks are hideous there--one more thing the city does to give a finger to the black and latino/a community). I had to buy a ticket yet. (I had this premonition on Monday when I came home and was out of punches on my 10-ride pass but didn't stop to get one.) Luckily there wasn't a line. I managed to get to the platform at 2:30. Yea for me! But at the Botanical Gardens stop about a million teenage boys got on the train and swarmed the entire car. These all were white prep school boys, going home I suppose to their comfy mansions in Fleetwood, Bronxville, Scarsdale (I've been told that Scarsdale makes Bronxville look like a ghetto.), etc. They mainly congregated right where I was sitting, which was at the back of the car, since no one but little me was sitting there. I usually choose this area if I can because sometimes the conductor doesn't see me behind the pane of glass, and I get a free ride. They were fencing with unbrellas and arguing, of all things, about which day of the week it was best to have a birthday on.

I think that Tuesday's best, one said.

No way. Tuesday sucks! said another. You have to be in school. Saturday's the best.

Sunday's definately the worse. Because school's the next day. There was a general murmur of agreement at this statement.

How old are you now? someone asked the boy sitting next to me.

Fifteen.

Fifteen! This boy was born when I was twelve years old and babysitting, I thought. I felt old at that moment.

I don't think they knew what to do with me. People sometimes have a hard time placing my age. (I have had people think I'm in high school and others think I am close to thirty--this one said it wasn't looks but my behavior. I'm still not sure how to take that one.) I had pulled out a big, fat literature book and pretended to ignore them. So they ignored me.

I wasn't sure how I was going to get off the train unless they got out en masse (I think that is the correct usage.) at Bronxville. There were so many of them. I've had to push my way through teenagers enough in the city to know it may involve cursing. But when I said, Excuse me, it was like the parting of the waters.

They were still young boys, I figured, and not city kids. I've heard city kids (black and white) as young as ten call someone a ho-bitch. And throngs of boys is never a good sign. Someone who'll let a woman get on the bus first will hoot at you when his friends are around.

jesus and me

My desk has officially become a disaster area. It has become covered to the point where little of the desk so lovingly bought at Ikea shows any longer. Unpaid bills, books that are either overdue or unread or borrowed, a pair of elephants, boxes of cards I like too dearly to send to anyone, a lamp that has, more or less, survived my various trundlings across this continent since I was eleven--though the lamp shade was broken in its most recent move and is now sporting a more modern glass--a Buddha meant to be a planter but a holder of jewelry, these are the things it now sports. Not to mention the space around the desk, filled with boxes of stories that need revision, receipts for meds, credit card statements and rent, lesson plans for Valhalla and a mound of recycled paper. I tell myself I need to fix this, organize and the like, but I don't listen. My excuse is that all the supplies I need to organize are downtown and I don't feel like lugging them around. A good but lazy excuse. This may be heresy and/or another excuse, but I feel like Jesus: I don't see through the messiness of people but the organized messiness of my little domain in the corner of our little apartment.

personality vs. person

Yesterday I ventured up to SLC on a non-class day to hear Jonathan Lethem read and have an after-the-big-read dinner with nine other SLC grad students. Getting to the reading was an adventure in itself. I almost missed the train, which proceeded to move very slowly and when it arrived in Bronxville it was already 6:20 (arrival time was scheduled for 6:13). Because it was dark with little sidewalks to speak of and late (the reading was at 6:30), I opted for a car service by the station, only to find there was only one car available with several people waiting. Finally one of the drivers took two townies and two SLC people (myself included), and instead of taking the nearest people first (the campus is barely a mile away), we were careening around Richville, getting on the Bronx River Express and winding around here and there. I sat fuming but helpless, hoping this driver wasn't going to charge me for the extra time--he didn't, thank the heavens. Finally I was deposited at the school's newest ugliest building, Heimbolt (there is a Barbara Walters wing to this building) at 6:43. Things always start late at this place, but not that late, so there was no seating on the ground floor, so I was relegated to the balcony.

I was immediately unsure about the situation, thinking I'd happened upon another reading, because the man reading looked nothing like the photo on the back of my copy of The Fortress of Solitude, which I'd actually remembered, unlike the reading featuring Tobias Wolff (I had a nice used copy of the novel Old School). Instead of the awkward, short haired, who-let-this-photo-in-this-book (he's sitting with his legs up so his crotch is center stage) young man, there was this suave, winged haired, dark rimmed glass'd, blazer wearing fellow. But as he read, I recognized his voice in the work and the fact that the narrator was named Lethem (he is, as he's admitted or so I've heard, self-obsessed) settled in to listen. It was hard at first, since all my preconceived ideas had been smashed. The geek I'd intended to love had disappeared into thin air. I was also disconcerted about the way he was reading. He attached verbal voices to the various characters, and waved his arms to describe the story. Now I am uncomfortable with writers that are awkward in their reading (I was once at one where the writer kept interrupting herself and laughing painfully), but I feel that the writing should speak for itself. After all, while reading The Fortress of Solitude I don't have a personal J.L. acting out the story for me. But after awhile I could ignore it and appreciate the narrative itself.

The Q&A session is always embarrassing for me, since people often ask stupid questions, but the questions were mostly good, and I warmed up to him quickly. At the dinner itself I was able to see him as he truly was: the glasses had been removed, I noticed his jeans were slightly high-waters, etc. I could see some of the geekiness seep through.

There was this one chick sitting next to him, her bosoms generously present, who often hijacked the conversation. One time she totally cut off one woman with some girly comment. She batted her eyelashes and looked at him with slitted, sex-bound eyes. I found myself more and more disgusted with her. I had a question myself, but I never found the right time. I don't like too much fawning on visiting writers and trying to be witty so somehow they'll remember me and help me to stardom.

I've had too many failed attempts myself.

But it was a good experience altogether, and more than worth the fifteen bucks I spent to get there.

a star in our midst

Tom was interviewed by a WNYC reporter on his Narcan trainings last week, and the story aired on Sunday. He sounds so grown up and official. I could say what exactly Narcan is, but I don't want to steal his thunder. He has been in print with the Village Voice, will be on the big TV screen with Channel 11 news at the end of the month and now this--all about Narcan. So, now all he has to do is figure out how to make money off of it and we're set.

valhalla blues II

Today at Valhalla I found out that the woman who had gotten out (the one who said she knew what she was doing when she stepped out the door) died of an overdose (the one who told me suspects it was heroin or a combo of some kind) less than 24 hours after she was released. I'm still not truly believing it.

Before I left last week I told her as she shook my hand: Behave yourself.

She laughed.

I know it is not my fault at all--that there was nothing I could do about it--that drugs are a hard thing to shake--but I wish I had said something more protective to her, like If you're gonna use, don't use the amount you did before you came here. Your body can't handle it. I wish I had told her to go to a needle exchange; to go to LESHRC; to see Tom. But we're told (by the Powers That Be at Valhalla) we can't share too much about ourselves. Not that I expect she would ever have hurt me, but users, Tom says, will do about anything to get what they want. They can't help it.

But none of this explains how I'm feeling at the moment. I don't know what I feel. I just feel this empty pit that gnaws and gnaws and I wonder when I'm going to feel something more concrete.