Today i drove home from work gazing at the houses going by, some repaired, some in construction, some still boarded up. Water lines are still visible on some, and if you look at the oak trees you can see there is no lichen on the bottom three feet where the water stood three years ago.

Today, on the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina's landfall, the first major storm since that one threatens Louisiana again, and the citizens of New Orleans are anxiously watching the "cone of uncertainty" that swallows our state in it's ominous white shading. Classes are canceled through Wednesday, contra-flow will begin on Sunday, the city is filling up with National Guardsman and Black-hawk helicopters circle overhead. Buses have been brought in, prisoners have been transfered, and in some driveways SUV's sit with doors open as families load up precious belongings.

With Gustav still on the other side of Hati, it's hard not to wonder if we are over-reacting. The storm, if it hits, will not even be here till Tuesday. It could still veer to Texas or Florida. We won't know much for sure until late Sunday. But the memories of Katrina linger, and no one wants to be caught unprepared. We try to be ready for the worst case scenario while not being overly-panicked. What I haven't heard anyone talk about is what will happen if we see catastrophic flooding again. Will we give up? Will the nation give up on us?

The timing couldn't be any more fun, if it can be called that, as the GOP convention gets ready to kick of in St.Paul. Even if Bill Clinton could only muster a passing mention of the Gulf Coast last week, it will be impossible to ignore when the incumbent party takes the stage, sharing it with yet another storm.

Here's a recent article in adbusters about hipsters

It reminds me of an article I wrote about 10 years ago on how it is now impossible for there to be any true cultural rebellion in the society because any such rebellion will be immediately copted by the mainstream, packed up, and sold in store windows of every mall in suburbia.

A few years ago my brother, a total geek, went off on a rant about the idea of counter culture and the ideal of "rebellion," claiming that to truly be rebellious you would have to wear a slack, a sweater vest, and thinck black glasses. To which I replied "Been done - geek sheik, try again."

A few weeks ago K was on another of his anti-hipster rants when he told me that he had thought about it and decided that if I was trying to be a hipster that I was not cutting it. I was dismayed and offended by the suggestion that I am a hipster wanna-be. But is it true? Do I secretly want to be a hipster? This article helped me answer that question with the bit about the non-presription glasses. My glasses, while decidedly hip, are perscription, and I avoid wearing them most of the time because I prefer the way I look without them.

In addition to my genuine myopia, there are some circumstances and tastes in my life which cause my chices to overlap with hipsterdom, including my choice of neighborhood (at the time it was close to my job) and my black and white skull and crossbones studded belt, but I am pretty certain that my mainly un-hip existence is a consequnce of my independent mind and not my fashion inadequecy.

That being said, crowds of hipsters make me uncomfortable and even oddly insecure, becuase i have this feeling that they view me as inferior for my un-hipness. It bothers me that I might give a second thought to the judgement of these shallow types. I think K hit on my fear with his comment - that I might be percieved as trying to be like them and failing.

That, at least, is one of the great comforts of getting old - nobody expects to you be cool anymore.

Well my boss people are out on vacation all week, which means I'm all by myself in the office, running the show on my own and such. That means I have to start answering the phone and dispatching drivers at 7 am, but I can do that from my house. I can even do that from my bed, and I do. And it also means that I can take license to get to the office a bit later, like 9 am. And once I get here I'm free to really goof off all day on the internet without the guilt of being perceievd as goofing off.

The reality is that I spend the majority of my time at work doing pretty much anything except work. It's turned into a great opportunity for me to gather information and explore possibilities for my future. While listening to NPR I read the newspaper, do the crossword, read wikipedia... but also peruse the offerings of local schools and keep an eye on the job market. All this sitting around at my desk with nothing in particular to do inspires me to try to try to find something to do. Clearly I cannot be content to sit around doing nothing all day. I actually desire to be productive, if only I could work out how.

The thing is that this situation could be a perfect opportunity for me to get some real writing done. I mean, here I am, forced to sit at this desk all day with not much at all to do except occasionally answer the phone and talk to someone about dumpsters, which is only a tiny distraction. Eight hours a day at a desk in front of a computer should result in massive amounts of productivity. But the problem is that my bosses require me to keep up this ruse that what I'm doing is actually working, despite the fact that there is so very little work for me to do. While I can get away with reading craigslist and the Economist and such things, even writing the occasional email, it would be unacceptable for me to be openly working on my own writing projects on their time. And I guess it would be difficult to do it clandestinely. (Not impossible, though... Maybe one day I could publish a book called "Essays I secretly wrote at work.")

Frustratingly enough, after I spend eight hours sitting at a desk unable to really do any work, I get home and find that I am reluctant to sit down again at my own desk. Not only am I sick to death by that time of sitting in front of a computer, but there are just other things to do, such as dinner cooking, dish washing, laundry, hair dyeing, beer drinking, book reading, bike riding, ex-boyfriend calling, dress making, napping, etc. While I do manage to get some writing done it comes with a price - the price of piles of dirty laundry on my floor, an empty stomach, a sink full of dishes, yards of fabric waiting to become clothes, ex-boyfriends robbed of my glib indifference, three inch roots.

Well, for this week at least, free from the presence of my generous and benevolent employers, I can try to make productive use of this time, which I am indeed doing. Maybe I should try to work out a way to write clandestinely at work all the time. All that typing will really make it sound like I'm doing shit, too. Can't imagine what I'd say if they ever inquired as to just what in the world I am so furiously typing about down here, though. They know damn well I don't have any work to do.

Ah here I drift along toward midsummer, wiling the days away with work, books, internet, bar conversation, etc., feeling that I ought to be doing something but no clue which direction to head. The London thing has been delayed indefinitely due to my boss-to-be getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar to the tune of about 4 million... dollars or pounds? I don't know. Big difference, except not really. It's prison either way. So that leaves me thinking I'll be around here until the fall, and now I'm wondering if I should blow off the whole London thing altogether. It's a lot of money, and a good way to pay off my student loans. But is it really the direction that I want my life to go?

It's the easy way out, for sure. But it's also the "responsible-thing-to-do." It's giving in to being part of the corporate machine. But if I'm not going to do anything but work meaningless jobs anyway I might was well go for the lucrative one. And, anyway, I might find it stimulating. I might be wildly successful and fulfilled on some level. It could be what they call a "great career move."

But then again won't I just feel like I sold out? Won't I always feel somewhat ashamed of myself and suspect that I turned my back on being and doing something more meaningful and true to myself? I have options still. I could get on the ball and pursue teaching and writing. It will never be a money making career, and I may work my ass off for little recognition, but it would feel more genuine.

Ah, well, what to do? Look for a sign? I don't know. I'm kind of a nihilist and I believe that we determine our own destinies, and that any higher power there may be is not interested in our careers. I don't even think there is a "right" and "wrong" choice. It's just a choice. I have to choose something.

So I met this guy recently. Just a normal New Orleans ne'er do well fluff head. He just turned 40 and he's still sitting around waiting for some great revelation, waiting for destiny to find him. He obsesses over horoscopes and makes constant reference to his zodiac sign, as if it were the sole determining factor of his actions and personality. I mean, this guy takes no responsibility for his life. Whenever some banal coincidence or somewhat unlikely turn of events comes along his eyes light up as if he knows he is having revealed to him some new piece of the puzzle, some new reassurance that the world is magical and destiny will soon be landing in his lap.

I use to be that way. I'm not now. I grew out of that somewhere in my mid-twenties, and I now fully realize how material, random, undetermined and unconcerned with our fates is the world around us. I know that I have choices, and that those choices are entirely my own. There really isn't anything that I "should" do. There are certainly desired outcomes, and ways of achieving those outcomes, but what those desired outcomes are is entirely up to me.

I could say to myself: "My aim in life is to be old, alone, miserable, and in insane amounts of debt." That would be easy to achieve. (The hardest part would be the alone part. Sometimes you just end up with people when you are not paying attention.) And there would be nothing inherently wrong with that choice. It's mine to make.

That, however, is not my desired outcome. What, then, is my desired outcome? Here it is important not to speak in negatives. For example: "to not be poor" does not work. It's also important to be specific. "I want money." Well how much damn money do I want? "Enough." Enough for what? Uhhh..."Enough to own a decent house and a working automobile and such. Enough to take two vacations a year. Enough money to keep my wardrobe up to date and pay for the care and feeding of my eventual dog. Etc." What else do I want? "To create and communicate and impress others with my genius." That is not specific enough, but it's a start.

Does my desired outcome include being alone? (By which I mean not married or at least coupled off in the long term). Well, no. I think my desired outcome includes a healthy and fulfilling relationship, but I don't think it's a goal. Hopefully it will be a natural by-product of doing a lot of other things right. It's not something I need to go out and try to make happen. It's just not going to work like that. No, sir.

What about children? That, yes, would be a desired outcome, but again, not a goal. That desire must be subverted to others. Oh, damn my biological clock. Damn my quickly dying reproductive system. But by my calculations I have at least 10 more years. We remain fertile late in life in my family. Having children is a fate that sometimes (often!) chooses its victims, but I have grown too wise and cautious to fall into accidental pregnancy, so I doubt if that particular fate will get the chance to choose me first.

So, more immediate desired outcome would be fulfilling career in which I get to do something that a)makes "enough" money and b) gives me professional satisfaction. And I'm not hopelessly at square one on that one. I have some talents and some experience to work from, in three areas: writing, teaching, and business. That is where the crux of my dilemma lay. Which to pursue?

This is the point at which I need to hone my desired outcome to something far more specific, and also to avoid having my thinking shaped by negatives. That's difficult for me. My mind always races after the flaws in things. It's a bad bad mental habit which probably stems from my early struggles to identify the flaws in myself that I might route them out. Such was the consequence of being taught at a very young age that I was "bad." It's a very difficult thought pattern to defeat.

It's difficult not to fall into the trap of avoiding pursuing things because of an inherent belief that I am undeserving of it. That, I suppose, is my most menacing challenge. It is what drives my avoidant behaviors, including drinking, reading trashy novels, pursuing meaningless hobbies, traveling, and heinous bouts of depression. Those things are distractions, escapes, and excuses.

Some people live out their whole lives hiding from reality that way. It's easy to become an alcoholic. Especially in this city. It's easy but is it really easy? Isn't there an implied misery? After a while you have to stay drunk as much as possible in order to drown out the dread self-disappointment that might otherwise catch up with you. A lot of alcoholics who have done little to nothing with their lives proclaim that they are happy with the way things are. Of course they say that. They might believe that. But is it true? I doubt it.

But being an alcoholic is not the only way to avoid your life. Some girls become welfare moms. Some boys join the army, or a gang. You could become a pothead, of course. Or you could decide that you are insane, emotionally unstable, incapable of looking after yourself. You might join a cult, or just "give your life to God." You could get sent to prison. Or, you could sell you soul to an international Telecommunications Consulting firm. That option, at least, will help you pay off those damn student loans. };>

Ouch. It's really hard to type right now.

So the Fernando Botero exhibit opened at NOMA yesterday. Feeling that I could use a little cultural education I set out on my bike up Esplanade Avenue today with the aim of catching the 2:00 lecture. So there I was riding up Esplanade, gawking at what I believe was an Art Deco building on the left side of the street, when I suddenly realized I was on the verge of smashing into the parked car on my right. I gasped and swung to the left just in time to crack the side view mirror of this car against my right hand - so hard that it knocked my handlebars 15 degrees to the right.

Luckily I had in my bag a little tool set which allowed me to loosen the necessary bolt (with some effort given the condition of my hand, which I will get to momentarily) and set the handle bars straight again. Upon initial inspection of my now slightly crooked pinkie finger and taking into account the pain radiating up my arm I suspected that I had managed to break it. That did not deter me, however, from continuing on my journey to NOMA.

As I made my way around the rotund whimsy of the Botero paintings and sculptures my finger began to go through a transformation, becoming stiffer and stiffer and a little blue. Sitting in the lecture I began comparing left pinkie to right pinkie, which continued to swell at the base. At the end of the lecture I looked again at the puffy figures in the paintings, and back again at my own hand, and I realized that, improbably, my own finger had become a Botero.

How odd.

Here it is early April and the weather is perfect. My little yellow house in the Bywater feels great right now, fresh and airy from having the doors open in the afternoon, a little breezy from the ceiling fans, the wood floors slightly cool to my bare feet. When I get home in from work there is a long stretch of evening light filtering through the leaves of the crepe myrtle trees outside my window, and I feel I have more time to get things done.

Tonight I cut my hair again. I think I'm satisfied now with my shaggy red shoulder length do. I've watched half of The Green Mile and made hoppin' john and cornbread for dinner.

My roommate will be moving out at the end of May, and I've decided to try very hard to swing the full rent on my own. I'm trying to decide how to arrange the house and am excited about the prospect of more space and privacy. I have a large oak table that I bought last year and sanded which I will reassemble as a craft table somewhere, and hopefully having that will facilitate more sewing. However, the financial reality will mean the need for a second job. Wince. But I am putting my faith in the universe to provide a few hours a week of work that will be pleasant enough that I don't resent having to give up free time for it.

I have been in daily communication with K again, and it's nice. I try to maintain a certain psychic distance from him, which is working. I'm working out just how close is not too close and trying to maintain that. It's a bit of a tight rope walk. We'll see how it goes when he's in New Orleans, which won't be long now.

I'm off now to plan tomorrow's ESL lesson.

That was nice. Watched another movie I've seen a thousand times with J, who is very tall, and who loves to read, as I have just learned.

And I received this letter from Juanma. He writes the best letters I've ever read, and I just have to post this one here.


Hi Lacar,



I am trying to decide here what should I drink, a beer or a rum-cola. What do you think? Well, I have there on the fridge beer from Uruguay, quite apreciated here in the south of Brazil, and loads of buzz in the living room's wardrobe, but I think I feel just like a cold beer or a rum-cola, nothing like whisky or vodka. Do you remeber those rum-cola I use to drink there in Istanbul, with lemon skin inside and a bit squizzed lemon as well? They have gorgeous lemons in this country -it makes a diference, believe me- and the bottle of Bacardi Gold is ten dollars, the large one, one litre... But the beer form Uruguay is nice as well, balanced, thick I would say, and I didnt have dinner yet, and I guess I wont have. Dificult to decide, to beer or not to beer? I think I will face both bottles, the beer and the rum, and will decide, cause you know sometimes things talk to you. I am coming...

Well, i am back. Finally I went for the rum. But can you believe? None of the bottles talked to me, even when I looked to them the seemed to be slightly taciturn, specially the bottle of rum... but the one that talked to me was... the lemon. Amazingly enough, when I saw that half lemon I left today near the coffee-maker, after using the other half for seasoning the steak I had for lunch, standig there, between yellow and green, so fresh and juicy, so chubby... I understood that my first and probably only drink of the day, would be the rum-cola.

Today has been tiring day. I went to bed yesterday after 4 am, and woke up around 11, a bit dizzy and in a horrible mood, grumpy, thinking of my way of wasting time, example for any learner of idle around the world, lately. Well, you know me, going to bed late, spending the morning between the gym and the pool, the afternoon infront the computer, teaching two or three hours a day... and in the night, here we go again. Well, I try to stay at home from sunday to wednesday, with just one drink, alone like tonite -except because you are here- and in this simple way, time is running away, and I dont know very well for what, but no questioning myself anything. By experience, I think I know that the inertia of your unconscious behaviors are the only true in life, and the way of finding answers is not asking anything. Cheesy, I know, but dont laugh. ;) It is what I think. Tomorrow I will wake up again not very early, not very late, I will have my breakfast -I love breakfast-, will go to the gym, will lay a bit under the brazilian sun, will swim a bit in the pool, will have fish for lunch, will spend the afternoon infront the computer, will teach 2 hours, will spend the night with some friend, then will go bed late, will wake up not very late, not very early at the following day, will have breakfast again... and will wait for some answer, coming some day, aiming some direction, and by now, just leting myself to enjoy the inertia of the emptyness of aims, hurries, reasons, projects, targets, goals. One life, just mine: now wasting a bit of it in the pleasure of doing nothing.

If you read again what I wrote, could be one of our conversations when you were convalescent of your famous tonsilitis, and I was talking about the irrelevance of the day we were bumping off together, because I was the only one in the proper conditions for drinking or talking. Now I wonder how is your life there in USA. I try to picture you in a land that I dont know, in a country that I just imagine from the suspicious testimonies of movies and serial movies, a country, eventhough doesnt appeal me too much, is the center of our world, the one where you and I were born. I try to picture the black people telling "I be..." -impressive confession-, guys like your superman cousin, inspiring songs for rock bands, cheap fuel and cars for everybody, baptist churches and reservoirs, long roads, lots of trucks, distance between people, and Lacar spending her time between her huge family and New York... I think I cant, too strange. Too abstract.

Breaking news: I will go to Istanbul for summer. I will meet there Pedro for one week, and then we will go to Prague, to visit Amancio. Sometimes you find yourself chasing your past, your own shadows, and this is exactly what we are going to do this summer. Today I was having my cigarette after lesson, at 21:30, and I though I didnt want to go out, but sitting in the roof, or in some crap bar, with a beer or a rum-coke, and chating with you, and what I am doing here infront this computer is, of course, chasing my own shadows once more, looking to the past, instead looking forward. It is my inertia. It is fine.



Kisses,



Juanma.

I love him. It's way past my bedtime.

Ok, so Mississippi had it's primary yesterday, and Senator Obama won. Sure, great. Let's just get one thing clear, here, though. Obama did not get his 61 percent of the vote because the people of Mississippi are hungry for change, but because 70 percent of registered democrats in Mississipi are black. And Hillary Cinton did not get her 37 percent because those voters wanted an 'experienced' candidate. No, sorry. Those voters wanted a white candidate. And the other ones wanted a black candidate. That is simply the way it is in Mississippi.

"...for a state with images of a strictly segregated past, the Democratic primary is a chance to alter some long held stereotypes." Take a look at the numbers and you will see that the stereotypes hold true. Or you could go ask any of my aunts and uncles and cousins who voted for Hillary why they chose her, and the will tell you that it's because she's not a _______.

We had a similar situation here in Louisiana, where I voted for Hillary because she has a vagina (and a health care plan). I don't care what color it is.

Today's happenings... was on my way to work this morning, believing myself to be running about 5 minutes late, having woken up incredibly resistant to, um, waking up, feeling that it was much too early, and then the NPR voice announced "Good morning, it's 6:59." shit. I am on my way to work 55 minutes early. I momentarily consider turning around and going home to jump back in to bed for a few before I realize that won't work. Crap. So I call in and ask if I can come to work early. So I did.

The early bird karma must have been in the air, because I'd been at work half and hour when K called, out walking his dog already at the Godly hour of 8:30 am New York time. Crazy early for that one. And then of course Sarah called to ask me questions I didn't understand...oh well.

And then I checked my bank account and found that my dead father had reached down from the heavens and deposited $60 into it. Nevermind how that works.

And then I spent a lot of time on the phone with Sprint and got very frustrated.

And then I came home to find that my landlady was installing the requested towel bars in the bathroom. It's so nice to have a civilized bathroom. I made a dinner of spaghetti, broccoli, and salad, which went well. Then I spent more time on the phone with Sprint and got very agitated again. And then I went to yoga class, which didn't work too well with all that stress. But at least I got a good laugh out of winning the frog race.

And then I talked to Sarah again and told her that I'd driven home from work singing "Sarah Sarah fo Farah, Banana rama mo mara, fee fi fo Farah - Sarah." She loved that.

And so now I am home again and going to sleep. But not before setting my alarm clock back to the usual time. Tomorrow I don't need so many surprises.

... from a Barack Obama supporter, as heard on NPR yesterday:

"I like him because when he speak, he don't use all them, like, dictionary words..."

*sigh*

It's all going fairly well. Monday night I actually felt like I accomplished some teaching. Last night I had my first yoga class. Tonight ESL class again, and I'm actually prepared already, which means I get to relax for a few at home. Have gotten a reasonable amount of work done on the bat jumper, including locating the source for the very specific ribbon I decided I must have for the trim. Might... just have to risk another trip to the fabric store because I've become fixated on the idea that the bodice lining must be red. Maybe the zipper, too. And I need buttons... but anyway. Also located a good source of tracing paper. Doing fairly well with the whole money discipline issue. Eating well. Sleeping adequately. Feeling quite good about things with K. He's talking about coming back to NOLA soon. I'm actually trying to convince him to stay in NY for another month. I've been somewhat reveling in my personal space lately. But I guess in a month or so I'll be ready to have him around again. Things have actually gotten better since the recent unpleasantness, and I'd like to maintain this, um, altitude for a while. If you know what I mean.

Indulged the stay in bed urge until 10, but really it lost out to the get up and do shit urge. Last night I finally finished the shirt I've been working on since December and was finally pleased with the result. As predicted, the big purple buttons made it. Then I had a little party of spreading all my fabric and patterns around on the floor and madly, manically planning future projects. Out of completely no where I've decided to make a baby-doll jumper out of the bat fabric purchased two halloweens ago. I somehow found myself in Jo Ann' yesterday afternoon, which can be dangerous. I confess I left with some super cute fabric, but I got a screaming deal on it. I'm struggling with the fact that I really want to try one of my really vintage patterns ordered from the internet, but I really really should get some tracing paper first, which is more money I have to spend... AND the dreaded cat seems to have made off with my zipper foot. Or something. I can't find the damn thing anywhere. Argh.

UPDATE. That was weird. After typing the above complaint about the loss of my zipper foot I abruptly found it. *head scratching*

I enjoyed a stormy morning sitting at my kitchen table with the back door open listening WWOZ and eating English muffins with cream cheese and the muscadine marmalade I bought from the smiling lady at the farmer's market by my house yesterday afternoon, along, of course, with my Community Coffee, all the while musing on how good it is sometimes to be living back home.

Today I plan to tackle the growing clutter in the front room, including the unpleasant business of all the damn mail. Then I have to plan my lessons for this week. Eventually I will get use to the fact that the classes are only 2 hours long and I will stop preparing way too much material. Hopefully I will have time to start work on the bat jumper, as well, before I lose my enthusiasm for it.

My mother called yesterday to report that the other mama dog had her litter of puppies, which means I must get cracking on her website and such. And now K wants me to help him find someone who will transport his mother's boyfriend's trailer back to Pennsylvania. And if I would get off my ass and finish this sales tax refund project for Buck there would actually be money in that.

Did I mention the English Mastiff puppy at work? Right. I did. He's coming out of his shell now and being bad. Yesterday he was following me around trying to eat my skirt.

Ok time to get some shit done.

I think I might actually be more exhausted today than yesterday. It feels like my skin is made of lead. My house is still a wreck. Looking forward to a rendevouz uptown with a couple of geeky and delightful friends. Oh, somebody take me out for sushi already.

I am satisfyingly exhausted following a full and proper Mardi Gras. I'm happy to report a complete lack of unpleasant instances, apart from a few drunken impacts with parked cars and the pavement. It was all good though. Mardi Gras day was warm and windy, with big puffy clouds zooming overhead mixing sun and shade. There was a general feeling of revelry and madness in the air. Many people remarked that the sudden burst of beautiful weather just in time for Mardi Gras felt like proof that God loves us heathens. I'm not sure what that says about the people in Alabama and Arkansas. It looks like a parade actually marched through my house. I think Carnival threw up in my livingroom. There are beads and boas and feathers and blinking shoes everywhere. My poor little introverted roommate and her boyfriend are so thoroughly square that they left town to escape our madness. Sorry about that girl - you do live in New Orleans.

I'm now looking forward to getting my house cleaned up and returning to some peacefulness. I'm going to be so proud to show up to the therapist tomorrow and report a nutso free weekend. I'll be back to teaching my class again on Monday, which is great fun. It's work, and I sometimes have fleeting thoughts that I wish I hadn't gotten myself into the responsibility, but honestly when I'm up there doing my teaching thing I'm very much glad to be doing it.

Oh so exhausted. sleepy time.

It's raining and raining. I cooked yuca with mojo and beans (two kinds, black and lima, for some reason...) and had that with left over sweet potatoes and salad, then climbed into the first hot bath I've had in god know how long. listened to NPR in my candlelit bathroom. now in my pajamas I'm deciding between a Czech film and Kate Chopin. I've decided not to be productive right now. I can do that tomorrow. I'd like to at least get the sleeves done on the shirt I'm making, and I need to go ahead and plan Monday's lesson because I'm driving to my grandmother's on Sunday for her 92nd birthday. Yeah. ninety fucking 2. And still lucid. And mean, too.

I'm actually feeling something fairly close to optimism.

Here is why I am no longer considering supporting Obama

So a bunch of evil liars tried to appeal to the knuckle dragging moron population with rumors that Mr.Obama is a Muslim. Obvisouly stupid. But his response is equally stupid.

And in a new mailer to South Carolina Democrats – the latest in a months-long series of religious-themed messages in the state — Obama is called a "Committed Christian," who "felt a beckoning of the spirit and accepted Jesus Christ into his life." The mailer pictures the senator standing behind a pulpit, with an organ and a cross in the background.

PUKE

Why can't he just respond by saying, "No, I'm not of the Muslim faith. Not that that's any of your business." Or how about, "What's wrong with being Muslim?" Or maybe just a simple, "Actually, I'm a Christian, but that's not why you should vote for me."

As a devout athiest I don't mind at all if my president is a Christian. So why in the hell must these bible beaters insist that their president is also a bible beater? And more importantly, why must the candidates pander to them to shamelessly?

...does that guy call me and NOT TALK? It's so unnerving.

Gaaaah.
Tumbling for the last few days through all the stages of grief. Anger. Denial. Barganing. Acceptance. Isn't there another?

Current strategies for dealing:
Allow myself some proper grieving time.
Avoid alchohol.
Reach out to freinds.
Watch (funny, non-romantical)movies.
Bury myself in intellectual thought.
Rescue Remedy.

Strategies soon to be employed:
Stop fucking moping, clean my house, wash my hair.
Resume sewing enthusiasm.
Teach English (yay! I'm useful!)
Doll myself up and go party.

To do much later:
Love someone else.

Umm yeah, so I have to pack tonight for Vermont. Mercifully, it's planning to be not insanely cold. Only like mid-thirties. Very good, since both my wardrobe and I have forgetten how to dress for insanely cold. Still have the big ole heavy duty suede coat, so that will be helpful. Biggest problem is what to do about the ole feet. I guess I'll just bring my dykey shoes and a lot of socks. Oh the snowy fun.

One nagging issue, supposedly there will be FREEZING RAIN the night I'm flying in to Burlington. Super. Maybe if I get stuck in New York K will come and get me. Or, like, not. Thppt.