Gosh!

I spent my Christmas vacation awash in some of my favorite books from my childhood - the Beverly Cleary books. They were interesting particularly because I just read her autobiography, and a lot of the stories are recastings of her own childhood experiences. Henry Huggins, the first one she ever wrote, is still the best.

I love the wholesomeness of the kids on Klickitat Street. They're always saying things like "Golly!" "Doggone it!" and "Well how do you like that!" and they're always doing projects together, like tinkering with their bicycles, or building a clubhouse. They look forward to growing up with interest, not fear. The boys have paper routes and wear beanies; the girls practice twirling batons or sew costumes for the spring parade. There is no excess in their world - money's always tight, and there's always just a single thing that they want and are saving up for, like a down sleeping bag or a sled. I like that kind of simplicity. I have more possessions than I ever have time to appreciate, which makes me feel obscurely guilty.

It's setting my sights ridiculously high to say I'd like to write books that would be as well-loved as hers. (Although I would.) Realistically, I'd like to write just one book that would be enjoyed and appreciated by a few people. Some of the things I'd like to be in it:

likable, funny characters
a crusader mission to right an injustice
having a crush on someone
exploring familiar surroundings at night/being someplace forbidden
very tactile and vivid descriptions of things - ice crunching underfoot, the taste of cantaloupe, kissing
the awkward and delicious experience of hooking up for the first time
emotional turmoil
the terrific pressure young people are under (from themselves or others)
dialogue that if I were reading it, would make me laugh
how it feels to be depressed for no particular reason
no snappy resolution, but rather a kind of understanding

I made a start on this years ago, but haven't worked on it at all recently. It's totally different from Beverly Cleary's type of writing - but still, maybe her stuff will inspire me to start work on it again.

Incense and Hymns

I went to the Christmas Eve service at the church I used to attend when I was a kid. I got there early and picked a seat in a pew about five rows back, to leave room for other people to sit in front of me so I could copy what they did. I was worried I wouldn't know when to stand, sit, kneel, etc. and especially when to go up for communion. I kept waiting for someone else to sit in a row ahead of me, but the church just filled up behind me, so finally, just before the service, I moved back a few rows so there was one person ahead of me. I felt mildly like an imposter, but I also really enjoyed the service, being in the familiar warm church I remember from my childhood, and listening to hymns that are poetry, if not invested with deeper meaning for me. Look how beautiful these lyrics are, for instance:

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
the everlasting light;
the hopes and fears of all the years
are met in thee tonight.

It's good stuff.

After the service, lots of people who remembered me from when I was younger came up and hugged me. I wish I could find a secular community that was as friendly and had as many opportunities for involvement, but I don't think such a thing exists.

Xmas Xpectations

This year I'm noticing more people than usual in my circle of acquaintance who don't have "typical" Christmas plans (family, tree, presents). Some of them don't celebrate Christmas, some of them don't have family in the area, some are just kind of disconnected from people right now. I bet it's a really difficult time of year if you're in that situation. Everyone else is running around shopping, making plans, with the knowledge that they have a warm safe default refuge to be in on Christmas Day, saying bland soccer-mom things like, "And what are you doing for Christmas?"

It's not anyone's fault that they don't have a family to go to, but the assumption that everyone does must be tough. You say things like "I'm getting together with a few friends on that day," and it's implied but not said, "And that's fine, that's what I want to do, I don't mind that I don't have a family to go to." And you probably don't actually mind, but you do mind the expectation that you should have more, and that it's somehow sad that you don't. If everyone else would stop implying and assuming and questioning, it would probably be fine.

Anyway, I'm lucky I guess that I do have a family to go to. I can't wait until the office closes this afternoon so I can get home to them. As a kid growing up, I always thought Christmas was hands-down the best day of the year, and not just because of the gifts. I always loved the decorations around town, the way people were moved by "holiday spirit" to make little gestures of kindness. And I loved spending the whole day with my family, all of us together in one room with no other commitments but one another all day.

Happy holidays to all folks - with families and without. May you all have love in your lives.

Strange But True

In order to mop up a spill on the kitchen counter, you have to first get the sponge wet. You'd think it would soak stuff up best when it was super dry. But that is not the case.

Another kitchen tip is that you should not mix mac 'n' cheese in a colander. Cause you can't soak it.

This is unrelated, but I like blogging and email because you can disengage from the conversation any time you like. In real life I don't have that power in my conversations. I feel like I spend a lot of time helplessly trapped while a) coworkers give me stuff and spend time talking to me about it even though it's patently obvious to me what to do and I just want them to leave me alone so I can get to work b) random people tell me their life stories and just keep talking even though I haven't said anything except "wrapping it up" comments for the past 20 minutes and it's clear I am trying to get away. It makes me feel powerless and frustrated at the time, kind of angry later. It's my time too and why should they keep me there, for the purposes of their own social satisfaction? Some day I will defy etiquette, and just turn my back and walk away from someone who is talking relentlessly to me. So there.

New Age Bliss on the Way Home

What a great feeling it is to catch your bus - after a hard run of two or three blocks, dodging overburdened Christmas shoppers, icy air burning your lungs - then the moment of triumph: settling back in a seat, enveloped in warmth, to catch your breath as the bus steams past lighted shop windows in the gathering dusk.

Good first sentence for a short story? It sort of came to me yesterday on the bus and I got out my notebook to write it down. An old man across the aisle looked like he would have liked to know what I was writing. I wish it had been something more profound. But no, just what I was feeling at the moment.

A good motto for happiness, I think, is to live in the moment. Also, don't compare yourself to others, and remember to appreciate what you have. They're easier said than done, especially the second. But when I manage to do them, I am, however briefly, perfectly glad to be who and where I am. I once heard a yoga teacher say, "It is a privilege to live in these bodies." It's a little New Age for my taste, but I liked it anyway.

Words, Words, Words

Today I was thinking about literacy. I've always liked reading and probably spent the majority of my childhood engrossed in books, to the detriment of my social development. I used to hold a book up and read as I walked to the bus in the morning, navigating by peripheral vision. I read in between classes, at lunchtime, and after school instead of doing my homework. When my mom told me to go outside and get some fresh air, I went outside and read. This hasn't been without its consequences. I'm good at spelling and I know a lot of stories, but I'm also introverted and myopic as a myotis.

I think another consequence of excessive reading is that it changes the way you learn. I've found I can't remember people's names unless I write them down and see the name as text (or at least envision it as text in my head). Sometimes when my Spanish amigo is trying to teach me a new word, I can't even repeat it after him, until I've seen it written down. Then suddenly it's clear how to pronounce it. He's not big on writing, himself - when he writes words for me he does so slowly, and sometimes he spells words wrong. I think he's a little mystified about why I can't learn a word by hearing it.

At art galleries, I catch myself looking at titles and captions before I even glance at the painting in front of me - as if I can't appreciate it unless I know the context. This is a little disquieting, seeing as how the world is pictures, not text.

Ironically, this gives me insight into what it might be like to be illiterate. Illiteracy is having people show you text all the time and assume you understand, when that's just not how you learn. As soon as they show you a picture, or a gesture, it's obvious. I guess I'm fortunate that in a society where literate skills are highly valued, I'm oriented the way I am. I wonder if we had only an oral tradition, whether I'd have developed more abilities in that area, or if I'd be considered hopelessly backward.

Keeps on Slipping, Slipping, Slipping

It's a good thing that time is unidirectional. No matter how much you might be dreading something, it comes steadily closer, and then it's happening, and then it's over, and behind you, and you can relax. If time could flow backwards, you could never really sigh with relief that something was over.

I Wonder What the Eskimos Call It

There is a certain kind of snow that you notice on the streets before you can see it falling. Cars driving through intersections stir up a powdery white dust. It rises up in little spiralling dervishes, swirls around, and settles again. It's almost as though the snow is being created at street level. After a few minutes, you start to see bigger flakes tumbling down through the air, and you realize, "yes, it really is snowing!"

Irreverence

Today I was walking around the top gallery in the Hart building, which has a huge atrium with a giant black sculpture in it, and I noticed that there are some tiny paper airplanes resting on the flat surface on top of the sculpture. I walked around to see it from different sides and there are some on several of the level surfaces. They must have been flown there by people leaning out over balconies on various floors.


This isn't a great picture, but you can sort of get an idea of how much space there is and how big the sculpture is. I just had to laugh, wondering who the culprits were, and whether they get a kick out of it every time they walk past and see their airplanes sitting up there. The sculpture (and the building, and the suits) all take themselves so seriously - and then there are those airplanes. I love it.

Wabbits

Yesterday's post gave me the kick in the pants I needed to do something about the rabbits. I called the cathedral grounds office again and talked to the woman who has charge of them. I think most of my fear about making the call related to the sense that I was crossing social boundaries by trying to participate in the care of animals that don't belong to me. But if an animal is not being treated well, I think it's the responsibility of anyone who notices to do something about it, regardless of ownership. So I tried to pretend I was about 45 years old and a staunch community member who had a perfect right to say what I was saying.

The woman I talked to said that the rabbits were under the care of a veterinarian and they were just following his guidelines. I explained that the rabbit rescue societies I contacted said the rabbits should not be kept outdoors, and that if they were, they should be given hay for warmth and should be housed on Carefresh pet bedding, not cedar chips. The woman sounded like she was listening to me, and said she would ask the vet about it and would look into using Carefresh.

There are bigger fish to fry than these two rabbits, I know, and the amount of time I have spent worrying about them is probably ridiculous. But if I was a rabbit living in a wire pen outside, I'd want someone to take an interest in my welfare, so I kind of felt obliged to do something. It also seems like a tragedy of the commons situation. Because they're on public property, everyone probably assumes that someone else will look out for them. But ever since I heard about Kitty Genovese I've felt that I couldn't assume someone else would fix whatever was going on.

I still wish I could do more. But I think that aside from visiting to check on them periodically and give them hay on cold nights if they don't have any, I have done what I can.

Bricks

I feel anxious lately. It seems like I have a lot of worries that just don't ever leave me - and often hit me in idle moments like a sack of bricks in the gut. They feel like tasks I've been avoiding. Some of the things on the list:

- The rabbits that live in a hutch behind the cathedral. They're domestic short-hairs and shouldn't be kept outside - they have a wooden hutch but it's only thin plywood, and they don't have any hay or other nesting material to burrow into, just cedar chips which are toxic to rabbits. Plus, they're being kept on wire which is hard on their feet, and will eventually cripple them. I feel like I need to do something for their welfare, because if I don't, who will? But I'm afraid to make confrontational phone calls. The one time I did so far, the cathedral ground-staff guy just told me that they were "fine" and not to worry, and then he hung up. I'm not sure if I should call the humane society next, or what. Every night that dips below freezing, I feel guilty about them being out there in the cold, because I'm not doing anything to help them.

- My friend who teaches me Spanish during his evening rounds at the office. The other night I asked him if he was married, and he said sadly that he was not. I asked if he would like to be, and he said, "Yes, yes, very much. I always wanted. But maybe will not happen." He's so nice, and his whole family is in El Salvador, and he hardly knows anyone here. The other cleaning staff don't even seem to talk to him much. The thought of him going home and spending Christmas alone is very sad. I feel like I can't even talk with him about things I'm looking forward to, like Christmas and getting married, because it will make him feel bad.

- My father. I worry about him being lonely and sad, too. He's got my mom, but he's essentially alone otherwise. I know he feels depressed. I feel like I should be there for him more, and working more to build bridges between him and the rest of the world, but I'm not doing it.

- Having a baby. Sometimes I imagine I'm pregnant, in the home stretch coming down to labor, and I feel a wash of panic sweeping over me. I'm so afraid of labor. It's something I have to do, because I want kids, but it also feels like something I will not be able to do, no matter how much I read about it, so I dread it.

- My job, sometimes. The balance of praise and punishment is exactly arbitrary enough so that I never know what to expect. On the way to work I fret that I'm going to get bawled out for something random, and I race through the possibilities trying to figure out what it will be. I haven't been bawled out recently, and when I have it's been very mild, but it's still been unjustified as far as I'm concerned, and the praise comes randomly too, so I just never know what to expect. I know this is a sort of high-strung racehorse-temperament complaint - my work environment is pleasant and supportive compared to some, perhaps even most. Yet I still can't stop worrying.

- My boy, sometimes. He can be a tough nut to crack, emotionally. Especially because getting married was my idea, I feel it's my job to make him happy. But I'm never quite sure that he is, or that I'm doing all that I should. My instinct is to just pile on extra affection, but that would be for my own reassurance, not what he would want. I spend a lot of time being alert to his moods and trying to pick up on clues about what he's feeling.

Tomorrow's post will be more upbeat, I promise.

Triple X

Today's post is brought to you by the letter X. I love x. It's the weirdest, most unknowable, squirrelly letter there is. Even people who try to use it to be cool, like David X Cohen or Maxx Barry, can't diminish its coolness.

X can mean trans (xfer), cross (xing or xed out), Christ (Xmas), or any variable in algebra. The x entry is the shortest entry in the dictionary, but it contains all the most interesting words. X is forbidden (X-rated), it's foreign (xeno-), it sees through you but it's not seeable (X-rays). It's like a star that is brightest in peripheral vision, and vanishes when you stare at it straight on. X is a secret agent leaning against a wall in Diagon Alley and when you look straight at him, he gives you a half-smile and a long slow blink and disappears.

Winter in the City

I think one of the best feelings in the world is being safe indoors, looking out of your apartment window on a cold winter's night. Traffic swishing through the snowy streets far below. Snow falling, visible only in the pale yellow glow of the streetlights. The tick of the radiators heating up, keeping you warm, and warm kitchen linoleum under your bare feet. Very late at night is good, and the next day being a holiday is good. Someone you love being in bed waiting for you is good. I wonder how many of these impressions (well, not the last one obviously) are leftovers from my childhood when I used to spend every Christmas at my grandparents' apartment in New York City, when the city was always decorated to the max and the apartment smelled of Christmas-tree and cookies, and it always seemed to be snowing.

Today's Rant...

...is about complacency. I feel like I've run into it a lot recently - people boldly making declarations about all the friends they have (and will always have), how much money they make, how well-liked they are. I feel like all of these are a matter of good luck as much as skill and effort, and not to be taken for granted. I don't think I can expect to always have friends (much as I'd like that). Some really nice people end up isolated and sad. I can't count on always being in good health and able to work, either, or always being middle-class. I could end up having my feet amputated due to my Guinness World Record bunions, and then lots of opportunities would be lost to me. Although then I could play wheelchair rugby.

I'm reading Barbara Ehrenreich's book Nickel and Dimed. She spent two years "undercover" working service jobs in the U.S., and her experiences are an eye-opener. I never thought that a lot of waitresses, hotel maids, and other people might not even have a place to live, but among Ehrenreich's coworkers housing was a continual source of stress and disruption. Because they couldn't afford to pay the security deposit and first month's rent on an apartment up front, many of them were living at hotels on a more-or-less permanent basis, spending the first six or seven hours of work each day just earning what they needed to pay that night's hotel tab. A fifth of homeless people are working full or part time, and they still can't afford housing. I think it would be awful to work hard all day and not have anywhere safe or comfortable or permanent to go home to at the end of the day.

I'm so lucky to have had all the opportunities in my life. I've never been homeless, always had two parents who were involved and caring, always had the financial means to go to school. It's crazy that I whine sometimes and think I'm getting a raw deal, when I'm getting advantages most people in the world can't ever hope for.

The People Fight Back

There's an ad campaign that's been running in the city buses, promoting abstinence-only education. Actually abstinence-only is a generous way to describe it. It's essentially anti-birth control. It features pictures of troubled-looking teenagers with headlines like "Give Me A Chance...Not A Condom" and "Just Because You Did, Doesn't Mean I Will" (referring to unprotected sex). The text under the headlines says stuff like "Mom, Dad. I know you think I'm going to make mistakes. But I need you to believe in me. I want to do the right thing. I just need your encouragement to do it...Don't give me condoms, give me your support."

From day one this campaign irritated me - because it purports to speak for adolescents, but actually it's backed by some pro-life group; because it's clear to me that if you want to reduce the number of unwanted pregnancies you should offer teenagers more access to protection, not less; because it suggests that parents who are responsible enough to make sure their teens have birth control available to them are "not trusting" or "not believing in" their kids. Please. Every time I see one of those ads, with its smarmy assumptions about teens and sex and parenting, I get annoyed.

This is why I am so happy to see that people have started scrawling retorts on the posters in magic marker. On one poster, the headline was altered to read "Give Me A Chance...AND A Condom." On another, under "Don't Give Up On Me," someone wrote sarcastically "Make Me Have A Baby!" On another, someone crossed out all the text and wrote, "Condoms Protect Against HIV and Pregnancy." I felt like cheering each time I saw one.

To be fair, I suppose the group that sponsors these ads believes that if you don't offer teens condoms, they won't have sex. So they are interested in stopping teen sex, not in making teens have unsafe sex. But that's so naive. I can't help but think the sponsors have seriously skewed perceptions about teen life and priorities, and are more interested in what they wish was true, than in what really is. And their misperceptions have the power to hurt people, if anyone takes them seriously.

I'm still scared to do any magic marker work myself - partly I keep forgetting to bring a marker, partly it's because the bus is always jammed and I feel weird about standing up to scrawl on a poster while everyone watches. Technically it is vandalism, and I guess you could get in trouble. Anyway, that just makes me that more grateful to people who take the risk to speak out against stupid propaganda.

The Lost Love Poem

Here's a love poem that was scribbled on a bookmark in a book bought at a second-hand book store. I don't know if it ever reached its intended recipient, but I hope it did.

Here and now

We have left each other
too many times
The airports of the world
conspire to separate us
But though each time
I am lifted miles high
and each second pulled
farther away
I remain
I am always with you
I can see you right now
I can hear, feel, smell you.

Soon our paths will be one
They will be one
I love you.

Double Take

I saw something really cool today. I was walking around during my lunch hour, and I passed a designer clothing store with models in the window, the kind of store that's so posh they change the outfits on display almost every single day. Today they had a bride in a kind of shimmery silver-white gown and veil, and two girls wearing cashmere sweaters and skirts, in a faux winter scene with big glittery snowflakes hanging from the ceiling behind them.

The cool thing was that the models were alive. The bride was moving through a series of vaguely artistic-looking poses, draping her arm on the ledge behind her, holding her hands behind her head, pointing a toe and gazing at it reflectively, moving smoothly from one to the next and holding each for about the same amount of time. The two girls were turning their heads to look at things, and resting their hands on each other's shoulders or waists. They really looked like mannequins, too. All three of them had very pale white skin and rosy cheeks, and wavy hair sculpted back in a bun. They looked very beautiful, but like they had never smiled before - not a single line in their porcelain skin. I smiled at them, but their expressions didn't change, like beefeaters. I've never seen live models in a window before, I've never even heard of a store doing that. It certainly was eye-catching.

Double Speak

Sometimes I get so bored during meetings at work, I resort to mindlessly copying down the fragments of corporate double-speak I hear around me. There is a set group of phrases that gets tossed around every meeting. I don't think they can adjourn unless each of the following has been said at least once:

leverage the announcement
it resonates with the public
context that for him/her
we'll need to finesse it
table it for now
follow up with them
we can wordsmith it later
this issue has legs
it's the wrong ask
we'll have to sit on it
let's throw that in the mix
it's been a fruitful discussion

Today's meeting was particularly pointless and some of the people in the group seemed to be getting pretty frustrated. At a certain point, when it was clear nothing would be settled, my boss said in order to wrap things up, "Well, this has been a fruitful discussion," and I almost burst out laughing.

Double Vision

We spent some time over Thanksgiving weekend visiting my boy's family and some hometown friends of his. They have a year-old baby who was really cute - dark eyes, lashes so long they curled up, a face that crinkled into quick unexpected smiles. His mom kept brushing his feathery dark hair out of his eyes. I kept flicking back and forth between my own reality and an alternate universe in which, if we lived there, I could have a life like hers.

Parts of it were really nice, namely the baby. I'd love to be the mother of a baby like that. I worry a lot about pregnancy and labor, about whether everything will go well (if I ever have a baby). It would be great to have it all behind me and have this beautiful child to show for it, something I had created with my husband that we could both take joy in. Sitting on the floor with her as she played with her baby, I looked forward to doing the same with my own child someday, with almost a physical yearning. She was very involved - not the type to just set the kid down in front of the TV. She was there physically taking part in the activity, whatever it was, every single minute, singing to him, teaching him, soothing him when he started to get fractious. It looked like hard work, but also really rewarding. I could see what pleasure she took in being simply competent at motherhood, and I'd like to be that way, too. It's not that living here precludes motherhood. But right now, with my job and our schedules and where we live, there doesn't seem to be room for a baby.

Having a house would be nice too. Right now we live in an apartment in the city. I love how it's in the middle of everything so we don't have to drive anywhere, and when the sun comes flooding in the windows on Saturday mornings I think how lucky we are to have this great place to live. But having a house, a real house with a laundry room and a garden where I can plant vegetables, and a fenced yard, would be so much better. Property values are so high that I'm not sure we will ever be able to afford a house, even a townhouse, in this area. I had been wondering how feasible it would be to raise kids in an apartment. Seeing this other couple our age with their own home makes me think I shouldn't settle for less - that the life I want is within reach, it's just in another town. I pictured buying a nice old house in the neighborhood with elm trees in the yard; going shopping with my inlaws; having them over for Sunday dinner.

There's a lot I'd have to give up though. For starters, there aren't the economic opportunities there that we have here, and I probably wouldn't be able to get a job in my field. I'd have to stop expecting fulfillment from work. I think I could do that, but it would be a transition. Then there's the community. To fit in, I get the sense I'd have to go to church. I could show up for services and go through the motions, but I'd lose something of myself in doing it. Then there's the loss of all the cultural and intellectual opportunities we have here - where there are free films, lectures, art festivals, and so many other things going on all the time. I'd have to take my pleasure in simpler things - my garden, shopping, the local library perhaps. It's a more circumscribed existence. Then there's the tolerance issue. In just a few days, we passed a swastika in the sidewalk, saw a racist sign posted in a store, and got yelled at randomly by a punk in a pickup truck. I didn't see a single person who wasn't Caucasian. I felt like, in a way, I was hiding out - everyone looked at me and thought I was one of them because of my skin color, and everyone was nice to us (with the exception of the punk). But I'm not one of them. I felt like an outsider, a secret crazy atheist liberal, a wolf in sheep's clothing. I wonder if I lived there whether I could really find any friends who I could be open with, or if I'd always have to put on a kind of bland suburban-housewife cheeriness just to be accepted.

I probably don't have enough data to draw conclusions, and actually I don't mean this to have a negative slant. Perhaps it's because I could so readily picture myself making a new life there - drying my hands on my apron, waving at my kids as they ride their bicycles off down the sidewalk - and because so many aspects of my visit were pleasant, tempting me to believe I could live there happily, that I'm focusing on what I believe I'd have to give up. The suburban-housewife thing isn't too far-fetched; I think I have a crusader's ambitions but essentially the soul of a housewife. Crusades don't make me happy. They're just what I feel I have to do. Having friends over for tea and baking cookies makes me happy. I guess I will let things unfold as they will.

Nerd Alert

If you were going to join a space colony and you could only bring one book with you from Earth, what would it be?

This is a question that has intrigued me since I was ten and read The Green Book by Jill Paton Walsh, about a group of colonists from Earth who set up shop on a new planet. Each person in the colony is allowed to bring one book. Because they're not organized and don't compare selections before hopping on the spaceship, they end up taking multiple copies of Robinson Crusoe and some of the kids take comic books which quickly fall apart. One girl takes a little green book and won't show anyone what it is. At the very end, you find out that it's a blank book and she's been writing in it, chronicling the story of their colony, and everyone agrees that this is the most valuable book any of them brought. Nice hook, but you can always make paper and write on it, so I didn't think her choice was that great.

Anyway, at the time I read the book, I picked out The Chestry Oak by Kate Seredy as my choice. It's about a six-year-old boy in Hungary whose life gets torn apart by WWII. He ends up a refugee orphan in America and finds solace when he's adopted by a nice Midwestern family. It's so beautifully told, and parts of it (like when he gets reunited with his horse) still made me cry when I reread it last summer.

Later, I revised my selection to Possession, by A.S. Byatt, which is a really intricate, elegant exploration of Victorian literature and scholarship. It weaves together so many literary themes, myths, and poems that I figured it would give me lots of food for thought in the long evenings. Plus, it's a love story.

But now I have a new choice. It's the dictionary. I know, you are amazed at my choice. "Wow!" you're thinking. "What a laaame choice!" But really. What you truly want if you're leaving everything you know is a kind of all-encompassing work that captures everything you want to remember about life on Earth. With a dictionary, you can start out looking up piroplasm, and get sidetracked into explorations of persimmons, pugnacious, and photofluorography. Along the way you can laugh at perspicacious and prestidigitation. You could have endless hours of fun staging spelling bees and knowledge-a-thons while the weird alien wolves howl outside your village. The dictionary won't provide any comfort if you want stories, but it captures all the ingredients you need to remind yourself of the stories you already know.

I Want Costly, Painful Surgery

...At least, I want to fix whatever's wrong with my foot. The night-time bunion regulator I bought ("especially designed for people who don't want costly, painful surgery") doesn't seem to be doing the job. The ball of my foot still aches when it's pressed against anything, like the inside of a shoe, and now the side of my foot seems to be hurting too. It's getting harder and harder for me to walk even short distances.

It's silly how much this bothers me. I have this sense that at my age I should be in perfect health, able to do anything I want, and even a minor limitation that isn't my fault frustrates me. I feel like, obscurely, it is my fault, that it's a moral weakness or something. I always feel this way about health issues. I should probably get over it because as I get older more stuff is going to go wrong, and it's dumb to beat myself up about it every time. It's not like the beating up will obviate the need for surgery, anyway. I'll probably still have to have that done. With lots of things in life, if you plan ahead and are smart, you can avoid consequences, but this isn't one of them.

Wonderful Wizardry

Yesterday, after waiting in a line that wrapped around the block, I finally got to see Harry Potter. It was good - better than I expected. The Quidditch World Cup scene was breathtaking, with the ranks of seats going up and up, and the impression of terrific, dizzying space in the arena. So was Harry's flight from the horntail, particularly the part where it's clinging to the roof tiles and, menacingly, searching for him. I also loved just about every scene with the Weasley twins. I never really took to them as characters in the books, but they were great on camera. I've got criticisms too, but I'll leave that to the more die-hard fans who are no doubt at this very moment debating the finer points of the film in chat rooms.

One of the things that struck me about the making of the Harry Potter series was that since it spans ages 11-17, with one book/movie per year, they had to cast actors at a young age and follow them right through adolescence. Imagine having the most awkward years of your life filmed and watched by millions of people. Granted, they have a crew of makeup specialists and special effects artists to help them look cool, but even so. There's only so much you can fake. Like Emma Watson's flawless complexion. How many of us had perfect skin at age 15? How does she do it? I still don't have skin that good, and when I was her age, it was a disaster. How did they know, casting her at age 11, that she would grow up lovely? did they look at her parents? can you examine pre-teen skin and predict how it will respond to puberty? Or is it sheer luck?

Clases Españols

I am trying to learn Spanish, under the patient tutelage of the maintenance guy who does the rounds in our office every night. I always used to say hello to him, and he would wave back. At some point he told me his name and asked mine, and then he said "Como esta?" so I said "Bien, gracias" and he lit up with smiles. I told him that's really all the Spanish I know, but I would like to learn more.

Now when he comes by on his rounds, he spends an earnest few minutes every day conducting a one-sided conversation with me. He comments on the weather, identifies the office supplies on my desk, inquires how my day went, etc. I can usually understand what he's saying, but I can't formulate a reply - I don't know how to conjugate verbs or anything. Actually I don't know any verbs. Yesterday he flipped through a newsletter about dairy cattle management that was on my desk, and pointed out "vaca", "vaca," "caballo," etc. I pointed at a picture and said, "Vaca." Alas, it was a bull. He almost fell over laughing. "No es vaca!" wiping the tears from his eyes.

Note to Self

Dear Erin,

When you get a great idea while you are brushing your teeth for an opening sentence/paragraph for a short story, don't just go to bed planning to write it down in the morning. I know you think you will remember it, but you won't.

- Erin.

A Night-time Adventure

One of my favorite things to do is wander around someplace at night that I'm not supposed to be. Last night on my way down from the bell tower in the cathedral, I found a spiral staircase that someone had left unlocked by accident.

It was pitch dark - I had to feel my way down with my hand in front of me. I could smell the stone all around me, pressing in. Once I rounded the first turn and was completely surrounded by the stairs, I felt a flush of excitement - how far down did the stair go? would it be dark all the way? what if someone closed the door behind me and I was locked in? After a while I saw a grey glow up ahead, and came to a tiny narrow window looking out over some battlements. I kept going down the stairs into darkness.

Up ahead, the stone began murmuring echoes of a voice, a kind of magnified Voice of God. I Know You Are There Erin God might have said. You Are Not Supposed To Be In There. There was a kind of revivalist twang in his voice, a call and response rhythm. Can I get a Halleluiah? - Halleluiah! God sounded Baptist for sure. I got closer and the stairs opened out onto a balcony behind a massive stone pillar. I was up in the ceiling of the cathedral, overlooking (three stories below) a special evening service with a hell-and-brimstone preacher. I was right up next to the stained glass windows that no one ever gets to see, with the saints looking reprovingly at me. I peeked over the edge (cautiously - the security guards patrolling the cathedral are mean). I'm not usually afraid of heights, but the drop to the stone floor below inspired a heart-pounding dizziness, and I shrank back behind the pillar again.

The balcony ran all around the walls, disappearing into countless staircases like the one I'd come down. If the cathedral was under attack by swarms of invaders in swirly red cloaks, they could battle the resident priests a hundred feet above the ground. The air would be full of clinking swords. Meanwhile, I'd race down the back passages that only I knew about, a novice in a white gown, and take the secret tunnel that emerges in quiet twilight somewhere on the grounds, far from the cathedral walls. Halleluiah.

Rallying

I really do wish I was sharper. I want a keen mind that ferrets out illogical statements and carves up arguments so people are afraid to debate with me. Maybe it wouldn't lead to happiness, but it would protect me from scorn (real or imagined). I do OK on intelligence tests, but that only means I can tell which of the five shapes doesn't belong. What I need is real-life carve-em-up smarts.

In other news, this afternoon I marched in a political protest. We were having a meeting in the conference room when we heard the cheering outside - sounded like a sports stadium full of people. We leaned out the windows and saw the whole street was blocked off and thousands of people were marching, waving Ethiopian flags and banners that said, "U.S. Stop Supporting Zenawi" (the prime minister in Ethiopia, who's responsible for widespread human rights violations, and whose rule is being propped up by the U.S.). My coworkers let out full-blooded yells and pumped their fists, and people looked up and waved at us. Later, I went out and marched with them, all the way up to the police barricades where there were officers in riot gear holding German shepherds, and others riding police horses. The horses were freaking out about the flags - they kept jumping and rolling their eyes. I didn't stay till the end, but I was impressed at how many (working-age) people were there, who had obviously arranged for time off from their jobs to march in the rally. I hope a crowd that large won't be ignored.

War and Remembrance

I was lucky enough to have the day off for Veterans' Day. Went to the museum, saw an exhibit on Americans at War and another on polio. Then around sunset I went to see the war memorials. The WWII memorial was especially beautiful - just as dusk fell they turned on the lights around the fountain. The sky arched overhead melting from blue-violet in the east to lemon-yellow in the west, and there was a three-quarters moon. I stood on a rise overlooking the memorial and the people shuffling to and fro, and just felt overwhelmed by the consciousness of sacrifice that filled the air.

I thought a lot about my grandparents throughout the day, since all four of them served in WWII. (In fact, they all met in the service. I owe my existence to WWII.) As terrible as the war was, there was an element of pleasure in their recollections of the war days, the lifelong friends they made, the sense of shared purpose. All those crisp pilots' uniforms and brave, rosy-cheeked girls writing letters to their men at the front. Victory gardens. Slogans like "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without!" Posters encouraging housewives to "Scrimp and save, so he'll have enough" with a picture of a handsome, smiling soldier. When I was a kid, we had one of my grandfather's posters left over from the war hanging in the dining room: "Food is a weapon. Buy wisely, cook carefully, EAT IT ALL."

It seems like the war, at least on the home front, brought people together; it wasn't colored by protests and disillusionment like Vietnam and Iraq. I wonder why, when it cost so many lives, the population as a whole was behind it. Maybe there seemed to be no alternative. Maybe it was so much a part of everyday life, and so many families had people in the service, that protesting the war would have seemed naive at best, counter-productive and treasonous at worst. 1940's children on their bikes cheering for the soldiers seems "innocent", a show of support that ignores the more complex issues. But maybe to people then, our protests against the Iraq war would seem "innocent" and unrealistic, something only people uninvolved in war could afford to do.

Haves and Have Nots

I have stumbled across a mystery. You know those UPS drop boxes with the little sign that says "Today's pickup [has/has not] occurred"? When the driver comes by to pick up the mail, he switches the sign to "has". But when does it switch back? Does UPS have to send someone around at midnight to switch all the signs to "has not" for the new day? Or is it hooked up to a timer and it flips back automatically at midnight?

I was actually interested enough in knowing the answer that I called UPS. But the customer service person I talked to, Pat, didn't know. Actually I think she didn't get why I was asking at all. At first she was defensive and said it was early for today's pickup to have occurred, and if I had concerns about that... and then I explained that I wasn't calling about a specific box, I was just curious. Silence on the line. I could hear her thinking, "Boy that girl has a lot of time on her hands." I tried asking more roundabout questions like, do the drivers go around later to change the sign back? Pat said no. So does the sign flip back automatically? Pat said no, the drivers flip it when they pick up from the box. But how does it get back to "has not"? Pat said stiffly that she had no more information for me. The trail was cold.

Anyone out there know?

Books Ablaze

I just finished reading Fahrenheit 451, one of those books everyone has to read in school but I somehow missed it. Actually I missed a lot of the classics, so I'm filling in the gaps in my education bit by bit.

It's pretty good - the writing is old-fashioned and a little clunky, with characters often behaving unrealistically for the sake of high drama, but there are some great themes about government oversight of individual lives, and the choice between living in a simplistic, black-and-white world and a more challenging spectrum of grays. Some of the descriptions are also pretty good. Here's one I like:

"The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain...They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and there was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air."

And another one - the eyes of a woman who has overdosed on sleeping pills:

"Two pale moonstones buried in a creek of clear water over which the life of the world ran, not touching them."

And another one:

"The blowing of a single autumn leaf.
"He turned and the Mechanical Hound was there.
"It was half across the lawn, coming from the shadows, moving with such drifting ease that it was like a single solid cloud of black-grey smoke blown at him in silence."

And the last one, as he's walking in the forest at night:

"A deer. He smelled the heavy musk like perfume mingled with blood and the gummed exhalation of the animal's breath, all cardamom and moss and ragweed odor in this huge night...
"There must have been a billion leaves on the land; he waded in them, a dry river smelling of hot cloves and warm dust. And the other smells! There was a smell like a cut potato from all the land, raw and cold and white from having the moon on it most of the night. There was a smell like pickles from a bottle and a smell like parsley on the table at home. There was a faint yellow odor like mustard from a jar. There was a smell like carnations from the yard next door. He put down his hand and felt a weed rise up like a child brushing him. His fingers smelled of licorice."

I bet it was Queen Anne's Lace, they really do smell like licorice.

My Idea

I had an insight yesterday, on my way home on the bus (I do all my best thinking on the bus). I was wishing I was smarter. Sometimes there are mental challenges just hard enough that I can see I'm not smart enough to understand them - it's like revving an engine, and it's overheating and starting to make that burnt electrical wire smell, and I start to feel frustrated and disappointed in myself because I just can't get it. Anyway, I thought, "Boy, if only I was smarter - I'd be happier..." and then it occurred to me that maybe that's not true. In fact, maybe it's the opposite. A lot of smart people are also really depressed, plagued by a host of neuroses, and dissatisfied with themselves. On Maslow's Hierarchy, they've achieved all the basics like food and shelter, but they're struggling with things like self-actualization and legacy to the world and sense of purpose, and those are notoriously tricky. It's a lot easier to be happy when your thoughts run no deeper than your desire for a bowl of soup. And then you get a bowl of soup.

Then I asked myself, "Would you rather be smarter, or happier?" and the answer to that is a shoe-in. Or maybe I should say no-brainer.

So, my insight was not the old "ignorance is bliss" discovery which everyone knows, it was the technique of making myself feel better by setting up a choice between what I think I want (and don't have) and what I really want. I can use this for the rest of my life. "Would you rather be rich, or happy?" I'll ask myself as I open up my 99 cent can of Campbell's tomato soup. "Would you rather live in a nice house, or be happy?" "Would you rather have lots of friends, or be happy?" It works great.

The Only Thing We Have to Fear...

I think the worst emotion to feel is fear. I'd rather be angry, excited, guilty, bored, lonely, anything other than that sick, fizzy, wretched feeling. I was thinking about fear on the bus this morning. (Because I didn't want to go to work, because my boss yelled at me on Friday and I felt flashes of fear, periodically, all through the weekend, thinking about having to face her today. Which is stupid, because it's such a little thing - but I'm not good with confrontations.)

Some other things that make me feel afraid, some of which I am certainly going to have to do in my life:
- Going to a job interview.
- Having a baby.
- Buying a house.
- Moving away from my parents.
- Getting sick or disabled in a permanent way. Like, finding out I have diabetes and I have to deal with that for the rest of my life. Or losing my sight. Or getting paralyzed because I wimp out and have an epidural. Which actually still happens to some women.
- Experiencing a terrorist attack.
- Losing my partner. I'd rather die first. I just don't think I could handle the loss.
- Getting attacked physically - mugged or raped.

And the mild ones:
- Driving alone at night when I don't know where I'm going.
- Getting in trouble for something I did - socially, work-related, whatever. I can't stand being torn down in public.

I'm reading Catch Me If You Can by Frank Abagnale, and I'm so in awe of his chutzpah. I'd love to have that kind of confidence. He basically lived with fear every day of his life, knowing he could be caught at any time, and that if he was caught, the consequences were going to be really bad. I could never do that, even if I was smart enough to carry off the cons the way he did (and he was brilliant).

I wonder if maybe I'm unusually fearful just because nothing that bad has ever happened to me. Little things like my boss yelling at me totally crush me, just because I'm not used to that. Maybe I should've been more of a delinquent when I was a kid, so I could toughen up. Maybe I should welcome the little things, even go out of my way to find them, so I can get the experience I need before the bigger ones come along.

Waterworks

I feel like I've been really teary lately about certain subjects, to the point that just looking at an image or thinking about something brings the tears into my eyes. I don't start bawling or anything, but I feel like if I was alone and wanted a good cry, I could easily have one. Things that have prompted this recently (besides the starving New Orleans dog):

- The scene in About Schmidt where he passes the cows on their way to the slaughterhouse, and you see their big white-lashed eyes looking out of the slats in the trailer. I thought that was the saddest part in overall, a very sad movie.
- Runner-up: The final scene where he starts crying when he sees the picture his sponsored child has sent him. It was the way he was trying to smile and cry at the same time that got me. Weirdly, gestures of despair and compassion are equally likely to stir up the tears for me. That's why this scene is so poignant because it's the perfect combination.
- The idea of losing my parents.
- Illegal trafficking in wildlife - parrots especially, but other animals too.
- Not having been there when my cockatiel died. She was so sick and weak at that point, but I still thought she would pull through. I wish I'd been there with her to comfort her - instead I was running late that morning and just hurriedly kissed her goodbye before going off to work, and then I never got to see her again.
- In Winged Migration, the scene with the Canada geese in the pen trying to take off, and the way the wild flock circled overhead calling to them, before giving up and flying away.
- Last night at a zoo lecture on invertebrate diversity. Someone asked a question about conservation and the speaker said very passionately, "We are going to lose 90% of the species on earth by the year 2025. It is inevitable, it's going to be a consequence of our increasing population and conversion of land into agricultural uses. Every single being on earth has the exact same right to live as you or I. Every one deserves to exist."

Augh, so now that one has made me cry, writing about it. The presentation included slides of the beautiful insects, frogs, and other organisms the speaker had photographed all around the world, including a blue gecko from Madagascar. In the photo, the gecko was hissing at him with its mouth open in protest because he had been poking it to get it lined up for the picture. The idea of that beautiful little creature making such a brave gesture of defiance against an animal hundreds of times its size represents for me the helplessness of all the other species on earth that are in the path of our willful consumption. The extinction of other species is a crime for which future generations will not, and should not ever, forgive us.

Songs for the Departed

Went to an All Souls' Day Service for the Faithful Departed last night. I didn't mean to go to a service, it was advertised as an opportunity to hear the choir perform Faure's Requiem, and I'm always up for a good requiem. But then when we got there, suddenly ushers were handing us programs and ushing us into a pew, and there was a gold cross progressing up the aisle and it was a regular church service (gotcha!). Nicer than usual, though, because of the cathedral ambiance - we were sitting up in the chorister section where you don't usually get to be, and there was lots to look at - carved wood, high stone arches overhead, swinging censer, etc. I didn't find the service that useful, tuned in periodically and heard the usual stuff about Jesus dying "to save the whole world," Purgatory, true believers, etc. So I spent the time instead thinking about the departed I've known, remembering them and what they brought to my life. I thought about my grandparents' accomplishments throughout life and wished I had been mature enough to tell them, when they were still alive, that I was proud of them and that I loved them. I wished I had spent more time talking with them. I also thought about the many pets I've had who have brought me so much joy, and how even the memory of their affection continues to make me happy.

I think the most valuable things a religion can do are to teach people how to be happy in their lives, teach them to live sustainably so future generations have the same opportunities that they did, and give them ways to cope with the fear of death. I don't think Christianity does a very good job of any of those. If I were starting my own religion, I'd skip the creation and afterlife myths, the worship requirements, and definitely the exclusionary stuff. The focus would be entirely on having respect and compassion for the earth and for other living beings. Kind of Buddhist, but more proactive - I think one aspect of Buddhism is to accept suffering, and I'd be more interested in finding ways to prevent or stop it.

Speaking of Victorian Parlor Games

Here's a good one we made up last night. My dad was flipping through channels on TV when I said, "Want to play a game?" He said, "I like toothy Donald Sutherland," in reference to a TV show. My mom laughed and said, "How do you play that?" I said, "You have to make up another sentence with the same first initials for each letter." My dad turned the TV off (yay!) and we spent the next half hour composing brilliant sentences and laughing at each others' genius. It was so much fun. We must have come up with dozens - these are the only ones I can remember now.

I like toothy Donald Sutherland.
Ingots lightly tumble down slopes.
It's, like, T-D-S. (tedious)
Iceland lava touches drifted snow.
If ladies trip, don't smile.
Intelligent lonely teens date seldom.
It's love! The dog sits.
Impatience likely takes down soothsayers.
I laughed, then danced samba.
Indolently lolling tea drinkers slurp.

Unicorns, Knights, and Damsels

Recently I watched The Last Unicorn, a great animated film I remember from my childhood. Every time we went to the video store, I would beg my parents to pick that one. It was still good - especially the scene where she runs through the seasons, and the dramatic ending with the red bull and the unicorns boiling up out of the sea foam. Very dated though, and a lot of the middle story seemed flat. It's hard to imagine how it could have captivated me so much as a kid that I would want to watch it back-to-back.

Anyway I looked up the actress who did the unicorn's voice, which is really high and shrill. It was Mia Farrow. I was walking down the street (doing my November Resolution lunchtime walk!) when I got an image of 40-something Mia whinnying into the mike at the studio, "Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh! I am a unicorn!" and it struck me as so funny that I started laughing out loud. I had tears in my eyes by the time I controlled myself. People must have thought I was a nut.

On an unrelated note, Rufus Wainwright is awesome. I'm so glad I got introduced to his music. I would like to live my whole life with the kind of racing joy I feel when I hear "Beautiful Child."

All Hallows' Eve

I won Most Beautiful Costume at my office Halloween party! I was a genie with sparkly jewelry, scarves, etc.

A lot of people have mentioned to me lately that Halloween is their favorite holiday. It seems to have pretty near-universal appeal - kids get to have candy and stay out late, adults get an excuse to wear sexy/silly outfits. I love the autumn flavor, plus it's got all the cool pagan connotations that annoy conservative religious groups. But there's a dark side to Halloween that I just don't like. I know, that's the point. It's edgy. But some people take it too far. I am always nervous, worrying about what awful pranks I'm going to hear about the next day, and always a little relieved when it's over.

November Resolution

I spend way too much time sitting, and way too much time reading or doing other close-up work. So here's my resolution: I'm going to try going for a walk every day at lunchtime. Maybe it'll break up the day and help me focus better in the afternoon. The only hard part is going to be getting in and out of the building without getting trapped in conversation with the security guard. I will approach it like a spy mission. Maybe I can rappel down the outside of the building - or stage a diversion. Or sneak past him undercover in my mustache and wig.

Fish Out of Water

I went to one of those parties last week. The kind that you're supposed to enjoy, but I never really have. Loud music as soon as you get in the door, tons of people standing around with drinks in their hands, semi-dim lighting. I always feel outclassed and uncool the moment I walk in.

The goal of the evening is to mingle and have good conversations with people. Sometimes you can get into conversation over the snack table, saying, "Ooh, these are really good," (even though they're usually not - you have to pretend enthusiasm) and if you manage to catch anyone's eye you can say, "So how do you know [host]?" You have to lean over and shout in people's ears. Usually I'm hoarse after a few exchanges and everyone says "What?" to everything I say (which is torture if you have to repeat things that were failed attempts to be funny or else just non-sequitors that are going to make even less sense the second time around). After a while my smile feels frozen to my face. I'm in perpetual terror that someone is going to say that line I first heard at a junior high dance, and many times since, "So, are you having a good time?" (Variation: "How come you're not dancing?") It's impossible to answer because if you say eagerly, "Yes!" it's obvious that you're lying, because you were just standing there and how could you have been having a good time standing there by yourself? But if you shrug or say no, the person will think you're some kind of outcast, or say, "Why not?" Because cool people enjoy those parties.

There's nothing to do except drift from room to room, trying to look purposeful like you're trying to find someone in particular, or go back and forth between the snacks and the porch simply because motion is better than scared-rabbit stillness. If you're "circulating," people are less likely to accuse you of not having a good time. Sometimes you can hang out on the periphery of a conversation and try to chime in with a comment, but if they all ignore the comment then that's the signal to move on.

The kind of party I like is much smaller, like 6 people instead of 150, and it takes place in a single warm room with places for everyone to sit. There's a single conversation that roams over lots of different topics, and some kind of joint activity like a board game or a bunch of puppies in the middle of the floor, so you can fill in those moments when you have nothing to say with activity. The activity is vital, it gives purpose, and it gives you something to talk with other people about. The Victorians had the right idea with their parlor games. I wonder why it is that those kinds of parties are out of style now.

A Drama in One Act

Setting: It is rush hour on a weekday morning, on a bus heading downtown. A new bus driver is driving the route while an experienced bus driver sits just behind him at the front of the bus.
Enter stage right: Three angry ladies.
Angry Lady #1: It's about time! We've been waiting, you know.
#2: Do you know why this bus is so late?
Experienced Bus Driver (shrugging, smiling): Ma'am, it's just traffic.
#3: Well I don't understand why the buses can't run on time. Why do we even have a schedule?
#2: Yeah, why?
Bus Driver: Are you serious?
#1: Yes, we're serious. All cities have traffic, New York has traffic, and their buses run on time. Are you-all leaving on time?
Bus Driver (stiffens): Of course we are. We've already ran this route three times this morning, and there's traffic around Lee Circle, you'll see there's a big knot of traffic soon as we get past the intersection with Barder.
#2: Well I think you should do better. I think you need to speak to whoever's in charge and get this straightened out. This is just not acceptable. It is unacceptable.
Bus Driver: I'm sorry you feel that way ma'am.
(Five minutes pass. Some passengers get on, others get off. A man stands up from midway down the bus and walks forward to stand just behind where the women are sitting.)
Man: Excuse me. I hope you three ladies have had a few minutes now to think over what you said and to realize how very rude you were to this man. For you three privileged ladies, living in this city, to get on the bus and jump down his throat, was entirely inappropriate. So I think you should apologize.
#2: We're not going to apologize.
#3: We have a right to complain.
Man: It was rude. And that's not how we do things in this city.
#1: We can have you thrown off the bus, for harassing us!
Man: That's not how you treat people. We are nice to people.
(Goes back to his seat.)
#1: Driver! Driver! This man is harassing us! I want him thrown off.
Bus Driver (laughs): He's not harassing you. He's sitting down.
#2: He's harassing us!
Man: Frig* that! You don't need to be getting up in people's faces like that with that shaz* and you owe him an apology. And if anyone agrees with me, perhaps they could give a signal.
Girl: Um, I didn't see the fight, but that sounds reasonable to me.
Another Man: He's right. You don't need to take it out on him.
#2: I'm not taking it out on him, I'm -
Another Man: It was taken out on him.
(Five minutes pass. A few passengers get on or off. Man leaves by the back door, Bus Driver watches him keenly until he's out of sight. Angry Lady #1 leaves without looking at the driver. A few stops later, Angry Lady #3 gets up to leave.)
#3 (meekly): Thank you.
Bus Driver: You have a good day ma'am.
(Five minutes pass. Angry Lady #2 gets up to leave.)
#2: I'm not trying to make trouble, but I think you do need to speak to someone in charge and get this straightened out. You need to run by the schedule.
Bus Driver: All right ma'am, and you have a good day.
(More people leave. One passenger remains as the bus pulls up to the last stop on the route.)
Bus Driver: How you doing miss?
Erin: I'm good, thanks. I thought you handled that very well.
Bus Driver: Why thank you. Don't you ride the Q14 bus sometimes?
Erin: I do. You remember me?
Driver: Sure do. My name's Brian.
Erin: I'm Erin.
(They shake hands.)
Bus Driver: You know, we do the best we can, to stick to the schedule. We already ran this route three times, so anything that happens in the first route, as far as traffic, it just accumulates by this point.
Erin: I know.
Bus Driver: Plus in rush hour there's always stuff you can't plan for. But we don't like to run late. If we're 15 minutes late, that's coming out of our break time, our time that we had for lunch. So that's why I'm like, are you serious?
Erin: Some people are just in a bad mood in the morning.
Driver: Don't I know it. But you take care now, and I'll see you again real soon.
Erin: Thanks! You have a good day.
(to New Driver)
I thought you did really well.
New Driver: Well bless you. God bless.
(Erin exits stage right. Curtain.)

* Not actually what he said.

So that was my drama for the day. I thought it was pretty funny that the woman actually expected the driver to side with her and throw the guy off the bus, after what she had said to him. Also that she thought by yelling at him she would get him to speak to his supervisor. Even I know that's not how you get people to do things for you.

My theory: The first bus gets slowed down because there's people waiting at every stop. Even if there's no one waiting, on a full bus there's a higher chance someone will want to get off at that stop. The bus that comes after it can go faster, because there are a lot of empty stops it doesn't have to stop at, and it's carrying fewer people. So the first bus gets slowed down, the second gets sped up, and it's natural that they bunch together. The "slinky" effect where there are no buses for a while, then two or three bunched together, is unavoidable. I don't know how they overcome that, even in New York.

I really liked it that the guy stood up and said something. It might not come across in the printed dialogue, but the atmosphere in the bus was extremely tense for a few minutes, they were actually yelling at each other. I felt very uncomfortable and just looked out the window and pretended it wasn't happening until things calmed down. And that's how it often is when you stand up and call attention to something that's wrong. It's very hard to do and very uncomfortable. But it's so necessary. I wanted to applaud that guy for speaking up when no one else did.

Thumbs Up

It's my boy's birthday today! I'm glad I get to share it with him. I gave him a treasure hunt that, judging from perplexed emails throughout the day, has succeeded in at least somewhat stumping him. Now I need to race home because not all the clues are actually in place yet. :)

Last night on my way home from work I bought him some roses. I had stopped by the flower seller earlier in the afternoon and asked him how late he'd be there (he was selling flowers out of a van). He said till 7 and I said, "Wow, that's late. You work hard." He smiled at that. When I went back later, he sold me some roses for a suspiciously low price, then came running after me and gave me a half dozen more. As I was thanking him I mentioned that the flowers were for someone's birthday. He said, pointing at the half-dozen, "No, these are for you." People are so nice sometimes. I went home feeling all warm and glowy about it.

29 Years and 363 Days Old

Yesterday was a lovely day. Components included:

Good friends.
Fresh air.
Cliffs rising sheer from a churning river.
Leaves just starting to be tinged with color.
One green heron, flapping upstream.
A bowl of excellent tomato-basil soup.
Yokes, buckets, and other rustic implements hanging from the rafters.
Glow-in-the-dark bowling pins.
Exceptional bowling ability (not mine), as evidenced by a score of 206.
Homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Love, love, love.

I wish every weekend could be as nice.

Fresh Beets Are Tasty

Yesterday there was a fiasco in the kitchen involving beets, tupperware, and guinea pigs. In short, the simple task I had set for myself was to prepare a dinner consisting of heated-up pasta/sauce leftovers, veggie burgers, and steamed vegetables. However, the excited squeaking of the guinea pigs in response to hearing the vegetable drawer opened, which rose to an even shriller pitch when they heard tupperware being opened (I keep veggie scraps for them in a tupperware container) caused me to become so distracted that the knife I was using to slice up the beets skidded, and beet juice went flying everywhere. By the time I got the beets into the pot, I had sprayed the wall, countertop, and stovetop with beet juice. Also myself - fortunately I had planned ahead and was wearing my beet-colored top. It looked like I had slaughtered a chicken in the kitchen. Tragically, I then proceeded to burn the beets by adding too little water, turning the gas up to high, and going to talk on the phone. I had to cut the burned edges off each piece of beet. They were still good!

At a Loss for Words

The conversation with the homeless guy the other night reminded me that I'm really not good at conversations. I didn't know what to say most of the time, so mostly I said, "Mmm," or "Oh," and let him carry the conversation, which he did fairly skillfully. This is also what I do on purpose when trapped into chats with bus drivers, the security guard, etc., hoping that they will find me so boring to talk to that they'll let me go. Sometimes it works.

Conversations are like a tennis match - your job as a participant is to return each comment with enough of a reply to get it over the net at a minimum, maybe with some topspin to keep things interesting. If you just say, "Mmm," that's the equivalent of missing the ball or hitting it into the net, and the other person has to serve again.

Sometimes when I'm watching a well-scripted conversation on TV I think, "There's nothing to say to that, this conversation is going to die," but then the character comes up with something witty and extremely clever and unanswerable, to which the other character then thinks of a reply, and so on. Each time I'm impressed by the "save." It's like watching a tennis match between real pros. I wish I had a script-writer for my life.

Strangers on a Train

I had an interesting conversation with a guy on the train the other night. He started chatting to me, asking if I was a student, where I was headed, etc. He was homeless and had a cart with him with all his things on it. Most of the homeless guys I've talked to have been unbalanced mentally and a little unsettling to be around. This guy was very with it though, very articulate and intelligent. He told me about the computer class he's taking at the library, and the car accident that shattered his hip (after which he lost his job and could no longer keep up with his rent payments). He told me he got robbed at three separate homeless shelters, so now he prefers to sleep on the street - even through the winter. He had some donuts with him that he was going to give to the two guys who sleep on benches near him - he said they are both mentally ill and can't take care of themselves, so he tries to look out for them and make sure they have some food each night. I felt, as I always do around someone less fortunate than I am, embarrassed by the differences in our circumstances. He didn't ask for money or even sympathy, just talked to me to pass the time on the train, and at his stop wished me goodnight and said "God bless you." I felt afterwards that I should have given him something. $20 is probably worth a lot more to someone who sleeps on a bench than it's worth to me.

Reminds me of Tracy Chapman's song "Why" - you know the one. "Why do the babies starve?/There's enough food to feed the world..." It's a distribution problem, of course. But it's more than that. At the heart of it I think is a human tendency, no matter how rich or successful we are (and thus able to give), to think in the back of our minds that other people need to earn things. Even essentials like food and clothing. Even when circumstances made it impossible for someone to "earn" the same way we did. Even when, given a slight twist of fate, we could be the ones asking. It's humbling to think about.

Birthday Cake

It's funny how loving people can sometimes make you so sad.

Yesterday was my brother's birthday, so I went over after work and spent the evening with my folks. We had a nice dinner together and my brother opened his presents. He seemed in good spirits.

It wasn't as big a deal as my birthday was a few months ago, though. For my birthday, my dad planned a big party and invited all my friends over, but he didn't do anything special for my brother. Partly because my parents just got home after being out of town for three weeks. Partly because my dad knows a lot of my friends and has hung out with them and had their contact info, but he doesn't know my brother's friends. Partly I think my dad just doesn't connect as well with my brother as he does with me. I feel weird and guilty about this. I hate favoritism.

My mom picked up the slack a little bit, cooked him a special dinner and had the dining room decorated, and like I said he seemed cheerful. The disparity still made me wince. I would have been happy with a small family party like the one last night, I didn't need a fancy one. I love my brother dearly, and I don't ever want him to feel like he is less important than I am. My dad loves him dearly too. I wanted to tell him these things, but they're not easily put in words. I hope he just knows.

The Rescue Effort

http://www.hsus2.org/slideshow-katrina/
made me cry. It's a slideshow of pictures from the animal rescue effort in New Orleans. When I saw the picture of the starving dog on the leash, the tears just spontaneously welled up and spilled over.

Sometimes I think I should work for the Humane Society because animal welfare is a cause I'm truly passionate about. But I'm not sure I have the emotional strength to handle, on a daily basis, cases of animal abuse and neglect. I would go nuts wanting to hunt down and kill whoever was responsible every time an abuse case came in, and wanting to nurture and heal animals who sometimes have suffered so much they can't be healed. It kills me to know about that kind of pain. I think I have to work at something I'm less passionate about, just to keep my head. Is that a cop-out?

Return of the Rents

Yay! My parents are back from their trip to China. I worried about them while they were gone because it was such a long time, and they were planning to call and email periodically but we didn't hear from them at all. But they're back now and fine, and had a wonderful time.

I always worry when people I love are away on trips. It feels like being hungry - it's an awareness of emptiness. There's something of the ordeal about it too ("just three more days...just two more..."). I feel like if I was with them, I could protect them from whatever fate has in store - the speeding car, the stranger with influenza who is going to cough at the wrong time. Not being there means I'm totally helpless and I just have to trust that they will come home safe.

My mother sounded older on the phone, hoarser than usual. Someday my parents won't be around any more. Thinking about that makes me feel panicky because I can't imagine being OK with that.

Toe Woes

I wonder what's wrong with my feet. I spent one day last month doing a lot of walking on hard floors in hard-soled shoes that pinch, and that night they ached so badly I could hardly put weight on them. They felt physically broken. That was a while ago and they've gotten better, then worse, then better again. It's mostly my right foot. Sometimes it really hurts across the ball of my foot to have it pressing against anything (like the sole of my shoe), even when I'm just sitting down, so I have to take my shoe off. I was in my socks, incidentally, when I met Bill Nye. I thought for a while I might have broken a bone. But surely someone with a broken foot would not be getting out her seat to jump around. Could bruised metatarsals really take three weeks to heal?

I do know that I excessively pronate, particularly my right foot, and I have the beginnings of a bunion. Which I thought was something only old people got. Maybe I could be in Guinness as the Youngest Bunion Ever.

Anyway, so far I have spent $40 on two pairs of insoles and on a bunion regulator that may be a scam, that I'm supposed to wear at night like a retainer (no, on my foot, silly). It's frustrating not to know what's wrong, and not to see any steady improvement. Sometimes I am glad that my body just goes about its business quietly healing without any direction on my part - I forget to check a cut or scrape for a few days, then look at it and wow! it's all healed up. Other times I wish I had a bit more control over the process - I'd like to just switch to WYSIWYG and see what's wrong and fix it myself.

Snapshots

Yesterday I felt really happy and in love all day. We met for lunch and when I saw him waiting outside the restaurant, I started running toward him. He was laughing, reaching out his arms to catch me, and he looked so handsome. It was a wonderful moment. I can't imagine growing out of stuff like running to meet him, or holding hands, or tickle fights. It seems like most grown-ups do, but maybe we won't.

Dancing at my friend's wedding was a good moment too. If I ever make a movie, I want the first scene to be a high school-age couple sitting on a wall with lots of other people watching fireworks burst over a lake. The subtitle will be something like July 1972, in italics that fade away after a few seconds, very nostalgic, like they're remembering the ecstatic beginnings of their relationship. The movie could chronicle what's happened to them since. Or, it doesn't have to. Mainly I just want to shoot that first scene. Anyway, so if I make a second movie, I want the opening scene to be slow-motion dancing to "Jump Around". It should be zoomed in and blurry and so slowed-down at first that it's not clear what it is - and no sound to start with. Gradually the colors compose themselves into the shapes of people, and you realize they're jumping in place, and the music fades in, slowed-down and unrecognizable. All the time, the names of the principal actors are appearing over the scene. As the camera reels (a little drunkenly) over the people, who are lit up from behind, it should pause for a few quick in-focus shots of people's faces, hair flying up, laughing. Mainly the face of one guy who is going to be the central character (or at least central to the girl who is the narrator, who is dancing with him and is besotted with him). His hair flies up and he smiles at the camera, and you realize you are looking through her eyes, and in the same moment the visuals speed up to normal speed, and the music comes in loud and normal speed - "So get out your seats and jump around! Jump around!" Similar theme to the first movie, I guess. Still, lots of film-makers make essentially the same movie over and over. John Irving writes the same book over and over. It's what they want to say, their contribution to the world. So that would be mine - the incredible beauty and sort of tearjerky happiness that exists in a relationship snapshot.

The Science Guy

I just met Bill Nye. What a trip. He's really knowledgeable and nice to talk to.

The Old Positive Spin Trick

It really is all a matter of perspective. My boss, whose schedule is usually pretty hectic, is facing a hellish week involving a three-day conference with a press meeting sandwiched in Tuesday afternoon, a trip straight from that conference to a board meeting the following day, and an overnight flight to a second conference on Friday, with no turn-around time. She basically has to be "on", poised, together, and ready to speak with coherence and eloquence, for five days straight. I think that kind of stress would kill me. She just laughs and says, "What a nutty week."

And I still remember something my friend said to me last winter, when we were discussing the fact that there is no good way to get to the coffeeshop with the Tuesday poetry night; it was a fifteen-minute walk from the nearest subway station through dark, icy streets. "I enjoy the walk, actually," she said. Hearing her say that turned it from a slog where I constantly questioned how worthwhile the evening would be, into something fresh-air-and-exercisey that I began to enjoy also.

Vesto Slipher is a great name. It is a real name, belonging to an astronomer.

A Confession

I don't really like cooking. I'd rather scrub the floor, wash dishes, sweep, reorganize the tupperware cabinet, even clean the guinea pig cage, than cook a meal. On occasion I have come home and cleaned the entire apartment as a procrastination technique, when I was supposed to be making dinner.

I know that lots of other people enjoy cooking, and on the surface there is lots to enjoy about it: the tastes, the textures, the smells, the feeling of crisp clean competence as you slice green pepper on a cutting board. If you're following a recipe, it can be like putting a kit together - mix this, stir that, follow the directions till you reach the magical synergy of ingredients. Then, bonus! You get to eat it!

My theory is that I'm intimidated by the unknown factors in cooking. It's like writing - you never know quite how it will come out, and it takes some creative energy to look at the ingredients in the fridge and figure out a tasty way to combine them. It's a lot easier just to be the editor, washing up afterwards in a predetermined routine.

My alternate theory is that I'm just not sensual enough to appreciate cooking as a pleasure in and of itself. To me, meals are nourishing and necessary, but I'm not really into the subtleties of flavors. All those little greenish-brown spices in the cupboard are the same as far as I'm concerned. So maybe I miss out on the true chef's delight at savoring the cilantro (not dill! heavens, no!) in a particular dish.

My friend, who like me isn't into cooking, and who like me has a boy who is an excellent cook, just lets him do all the cooking. She does all the cleaning up. I wish I could take this route. To me, cooking is twice the chore that cleaning up is, so I think it wouldn't be fair. Besides, it's good to switch around who does what, to build in appreciation of the other person's duties. Besides, if I don't practice I'll never get better.

Last night I made a mushroom and cheese polenta that wasn't bad. This weekend, I will take a stab at dumplings and a coffeecake.

My Career Aspirations

Some jobs that I am completely ill-suited for but nevertheless would secretly like to have:

Bike courier. I love the way they know their way around the whole city. They're so slick, weaving in and out of traffic, steering with one hand as they talk into their walkie-talkies. I have a terrible sense of direction and none of the chutzpah required to ride a bike in traffic, so this one is a no-go for me.

Pro hockey player. They're like big playful polar bears, cuffing each other and pawing each other's heads to celebrate a goal. I am totally amazed by their speed and agility on skates. Ever since I was about ten, I had crushes on hockey skaters, even just the guards at the rink.

Backup dancer for Beck. His shows usually involve somebody doing something cool just behind him, like whirling a glowing orange thing on a string in slow circles around their head, or doing jumping-jack/semaphore dancing. Plus, then I'd get to be around Beck, who looks like he is still in high school but is apparently in his thirties. Maybe I could convince him not to be a Scientologist.

Autumn leaf photographer for nature calendars. Think how great it would be if your whole job was to go for walks in beautiful forests. And playing with the different lenses to get the red leaves to look even redder must be fun.

"Calm down" rider - those people who ride calm, relaxed looking horses alongside racehorses after the race, to get them to stop freaking out. The racehorses are jogging along wild-eyed, foaming, trying to chew on the other horses' manes, and the calm horses just ignore them and present a model of togetherness. Any job that makes me look like I'm in control while someone else is flipping out, sounds kind of nice.

Roach Wars

I'm at war with the cockroaches in my apartment. They're probably the only beings (except Republicans, ha ha) that I feel willing to kill. Even ants and fruitflies, I don't kill - I just think, what if I was that ant, wouldn't I want a large mammal who has no vested interest in my death to be merciful and leave me alone? I still feel that way about the cockroaches, actually. Especially when I start chasing one, and I can see how hard it's running, trying to get away. It's so sad, killing something that wants so much to live. I wish I could communicate with them and put up a big sign in cockroachese, "Please go away. If I find you here, I'm going to have to kill you. Please just live somewhere else. And don't reproduce so much."

(I guess that's also what a lot of other species on earth would like to say to humanity.)

The only sure way to do it, I've found, is to use your bare hands. If you start casting around for an implement or taking your shoe off, that little thing is going to get away. You have to just pound em the minute you see them. Sometimes with the bigger ones, this is a bit daunting. You can feel the crunchy splatter as your fingers crush through the exoskeleton. There's a fine line between striking as soon as you see one, before you lose your nerve, and going into jungle-cat hunter mode, unblinking, maneuvering to get the right angle and cut off escape routes. I am getting good at it.

But in the end, they will win the war, because they always do. In fact, by killing every roach I see, I'm probably just selecting for a super-powerful roach that will actually be invisible.

Yappy Yap

For some reason I keep getting drawn into long conversations with people I know incidentally. I know, for example, all about the problems that the security guard in my building has had teaching his daughter Yvonne to drive, and about the 60th birthday party his wife threw him, and about his volunteer work at the local homeless shelter. I know about the house recently purchased by the janitor, who is also teaching me Spanish, a few words at a time. I know about my bus driver's new kitten, the yoga classes the clerk at the post office is thinking about taking, and my building super's plans for his anniversary with his wife. I know the receptionist is taking the LSAT in two weeks.

I'm not sure how these conversations happen. It's not like this is a small town. It's not like, in most cases, I even try to get into conversations with people. I'm usually hurrying, trying to get somewhere, and get drawn unwillingly into discussion, and am then unable to extricate myself. Mostly with the security guard. I used to feel bad that he has such a boring job, so I introduced myself to him and would always inquire about his weekend or make other small talk if I could. Now he waylays me every time I go in and out of the building, and wants to tell me all about his life! I've been late to meetings, twice, because I couldn't get away - he would just keep talking right over me as I feebly protested, "I have to go!" edging towards the elevators. Now I walk past him as fast as I can so I won't get stuck - twice I've ducked into the elevator calling, "Have a nice day!" over my shoulder, and I can hear that he's talking to me but I keep going anyway. I feel awful about this. I hate being rude to people. Why do I get yapped to so much? It's probably because my social skills are so poor. If I was more skilled, I would know how to gracefully end conversations and get away.

Looking Forward

I think I'm going to enjoy my looks in my thirties. For a while I held onto this kind of coltish teenagery image. (I still have a lack of style and poise that is sometimes attributed to youth.) But I think I am transitioning to a more solid, serviceable image. Less tentative, more reliable. It's the sitting on the front steps in the autumn sunlight, wearing plaid flannel and jeans, holding a gardening spade, look.

The best beauty tip I ever got was from my boyfriend, who told me to stop washing my face with Crisco and just use water. After that, my skin cleared right up. Kidding. I was using some elaborate regimen of skin-care products. But it might as well have been Crisco. My skin has been very happy ever since I stopped messing with it.

If Pigs Could Swim

I read an interesting article about animal cruelty today, called "If Pigs Could Swim." The overall gist was that animals, particularly farm animals, are treated a lot better in Europe, where farmers are legally required to give chickens enough space to stretch their wings and pigs hay to root around in (by comparison, in the U.S., chickens are crammed into tiny cages too small for them to stretch, and pigs are kept on bare concrete floors). The European Union will outlaw veal crates in 2007, and battery egg production in 2012. This is really good to hear. But it's frustrating that we're so far behind. Most Americans don't seem to care about animal welfare, and most of our laws are geared towards insulating businesses from having to comply with any regulations, regardless of how little it is to ask (enough room to stretch, for Pete's sake!) or how much difference in the quality of life it would make for the animals.

The article goes on to make the interesting point that in the U.S., we tend to believe in the basic decency of our fellow Americans, and so the general feeling is that livestock producers aren't cruel to their animals, or at least "no more than necessary". The horrible conditions under which farm animals live, and the routine nature of violence against animals by the workers who are supposed to care for them (usually resulting from boredom), show that this belief is misguided. In Europe, however, people typically believe that their fellows are capable of appalling cruelty, and so laws to protect animals are seen as universally necessary. This attitude has benefited people as well as animals - the end of slavery and the women's suffrage movement came much sooner in Europe than in the U.S.

I think there are two lessons here: First, don't be naive about people's capacity for evil. Believe the worst, prepare for it, and guard against it. Second, do what you can to prevent boredom among farm workers. Their jobs may be awful, but they could be structured to provide the variety and the occasional rewards that people need to keep from turning to destructiveness. I wonder if anyone is working on this.

Self-Improvement Takes a Back Seat

There's never enough time. I'm under pressure to get to work earlier these days (my boss noticed I've been slinking into the office late), so I leap out of bed as soon as the alarm goes off, skip breakfast, and race to the bus - then fret and pace as it doesn't come for half an hour. In the afternoons, there's grocery shopping or other errands to run on the way home, then nearly every night there's something going on. Cooking dinner, eating dinner, and tidying up fill up the rest of the evening. Most nights I pass out unintentionally on the sofa, wake bleary-eyed at midnight, and stumble to bed knowing I'll have to get up early again the next day.

I shouldn't complain. I have it so easy, compared to most of the people in the world and throughout history. But when, when will I learn Spanish? do yoga? go to the gym? finish my origami project? practice my sketching? volunteer with kids? work in my garden, if I get a plot in the community garden next year? There are so many things I am supposed to be doing on a daily basis, that just never get done.

Si, Se Puede!

I put a picture up on the wall above my computer today. It's a photo of a young sort of Peruvian looking woman with a baby tied to her back, gazing at the camera with an expression of such warmth and friendliness that the first time I saw it, I could hardly look away. I just stared at her, captivated. She seems to be saying to me, "You can do it." I'm not sure what she's reassuring me I can do - that I will have the strength someday to have a baby, like her? That I will be happy in my life, despite uncertainties and dangers? That I will be loved? Her eyes have a kind of timeless peacefulness. They project love, the way the famous green eyes of the refugee girl on the National Geographic cover projected fear, and the eyes of the little girl trapped in the mudslide in the Life photo projected misery. It's almost like she's reaching across the miles to give me a hug. I'll never meet this woman, but I wish she was my friend.

Global Warming and Anarchy

People who are in the know say that as global warming advances, severe storms like Katrina are going to be more frequent. We're taking the resiliency out of the system. The extremes are just going to batter us - in fact they'll become the norm. It worries me to think about experiencing more than one disaster a year on the scale of Katrina, or the tsunami last winter. Katrina really strained our resources and capacity for organization - despite our affluence, our foreknowledge of the hurricane, and an emergency-response system that should have been primed after 9-11. People starved in their attics and died in droves at the Superdome. Diabetics went without insulin. A woman in the throes of a life-threatening breech birth labor was alone, without help. Survivors were raped, rescuers were shot. I think it's the anarchy that scares me most of all.

The whole thing just seems to be a wake-up call that when things get bad, they are going to get really bad. The horror stories that we are used to hearing about in impoverished, politically volatile countries could happen here, to Americans. Our children might grow up in a society that's very different from the one we have known - much more primitive, dangerous, and unstable.

This is another reason I wish I was husky and strong. If I find myself in a kind of martial-law anarchy riot situation, I don't want to be a victim.

Laughing At Work

I read two quotes today that made me laugh out loud.

Here's the first one:

"Buddhism and motherhood may be a tough fit; it's hard to imagine today's white-knuckled uber-moms adopting a non-Western, Zenlike detachment from their parenting: 'Will Dylan be admitted to the summer-session AP English preparation course and then get in early admission to Brown? Maybe yes, maybe no. I leave it open to the winds.'"

And the other:

"She's America's just-past-jailbait superfox."

Binder Clips

Today I visited the U.S. Senate in Washington, D.C. The Hart building was my favorite - they have a beautiful airy atrium with a sort of Calderesque black sculpture in it, and all the hallways are open like little bridges crossing back and forth across the gulf of space. They're lined with plants, so there's greenery everywhere. I bet the senators fight over who gets to have an office in Hart. The other two buildings, Dirksen and Russell, are quite a bit more somber, with long dimly-lit hallways that look subterranean even when they're not.

I think I saw Cindy Sheehan, but I could be wrong.

I'm very tired now. I visited every single office in the whole Senate. My feet feel broken, they hurt so much. I'm glad it's over - and also inwardly feeling punchy because only I know that I walked around all day with binder clips holding up my underpants (the elastic broke).

Thank Goodness for Pigeons

I know these posts sound a little bipolar. I'm heartbroken about what happened to the pets abandoned in New Orleans, and exuberant about having all my limbs. I'm breaking up. No wait, I'm getting engaged.

When I take the large view of things, I feel slammed by the misery of existence - the incredible suffering in the world. My mind reels with things to worry about: eroding riverbanks, political prisoners, starving polar bears, women in labor with no one to help them, parrots suffocating in smugglers' suitcases, child prostitutes, veal calves aching in their tiny crates, and everything else that is wrong. I realize the world my children grow up in will be radically different from the one I know today, and that the change will be for the worse. While life on earth will always find a way, the beauty and richness and complexity that we know today is going to suffer - we're heading for a pinch, and it's going to be bad. I feel helpless and crazy at the thought of the immeasurable loss. At the same time, perhaps mercifully, I can't hang onto those thoughts for long. I take solace in the flight of pigeons wheeling around the park (I know! They're invasive - and I know! The park is full of homeless men sleeping on benches. But still, I love watching the pigeons.), or the affection in the eyes of a friend, or even, ridiculously, the pleasure of eating more potato chips than are good for me. As small and meaningless as these things are, they keep out the darkness. And they come up, again and again, irresistably. Jane Kenyon had it right with "Happiness":

Happiness

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

-Jane Kenyon