frail gestures

It took me six years of living outside the New York metropolitan area to see the city as the greatest place on earth.

New York is a place of textures, smells and sounds. I used to wonder if a person would get lost in it, if she would fade into the details. But I have grown to see New York as a place of infinite inspiration for those who refuse to stop seeing the trees for the forest.

Yesterday, I went to see friends there. We started out at the American Museum of Natural History. So much of that museum hasn't changed in fifty years, it seems. I go there and want to walk out and hop a taxi to the old Waldorf. We walked around the flea market at Union Square and I caught the scent of cologne, then incense, then somebody's coffee. I see the national debt -- illuminated in large, orange letters -- ticking away in the distance. Walking near Rockefeller Center, "Silver Bells" breaks out like a soundtrack in movie. I smell pretzels and feel, with caution, the closeness of other people as I push my way through a crowd. I feel at home, as if to be part of the textures of the city would make me something more interesting, more inspired.

The city allows you to be who you are: In a place where 9 million people live, you blend in no matter who you are or how you present yourself. That's its gift and its curse.

Bush:
A. "Drats! They child-proofed it!"
B. "I found the WMD!"
C. "I want to see the wizard."
D. "Dude, I can't hold it any longer."

Now that I found the cable to connect my camera to my computer, I wanted to share the coolest sculpture I have ever seen.

It's called "Game Fish" and it's at the Renwick Gallery, which is part of the Smithsonian. Larry Fuente created it in 1988.

Check out the detail. It's made of all kind of kitschy game pieces and toys, from chess pieces to the plastic letters that go on the refrigerator.

Quote the Washington Post:

Larry Fuente formed his splendid "Game Fish" from a mounted sailfish and game accessories -- dice, poker chips, domino tiles, Scrabble letters, yo-yos, badminton shuttlecocks and Ping-Pong balls.

Just wanted to share that.

If it weren't sad, it would be funny how with a few words some people can make others feel small. There's one person like this in my life right now, a person I have to deal with and who is supposed to be a friend but who, if she is a friend, isn't a very good one. She'll be so sweet to my face, but in the next room I'll hear her say some nasty thing, either not realizing or not caring that I have very good hearing.

The first time she did this, I was sad. The second time, angry. Angry because with a few nasty words, another person could make me feel live an out-of-place, geeky 12 year old again. I, who grew up to be intellectually and physically confident. I ooze confidence, I told myself when this happened again.

So why the hell to I care, then?

I'm twice as old as I was when things like this were the norm, when as 12 year olds we gossiped about our friends and our peers who were above us on the social hierarchy looked down on us, glad they had that privilege and probably terrified themselves. Could it possibly be that some people never change? Could it be that I haven't changed as much as I'd like to think?

As I see it, there are three ways to respond to this: First, I could ignore it. But that seems like saying it's OK to disrespect me. And I hate feeling manipulated, feeling like somebody else can make me feel a certain way and I can do nothing about it. Second, I could do something passive aggressive. Usually, though, those things backfire. Or third, I could confront her next time it happens. Perhaps I will; I'll just walk up to her and tell her that if she has something to say she should say it to me. I'd hope that could turn the tables, that she'd be so flabbergasted she'd be speechless. But she could argue, could be yearning for a fight. What if I backed down? But if I could do it, that would be something to be proud of.

Children who other kids see as geeks or nerds or whatever are told to console themselves in two things: that they are better off in the long run than their more socially apt peers and that social dynamics change as we age. And mostly that seems to be true. I feel like I've grown into myself, that for the most part my self worth isn't based on what I wear, how I have a good time or how convincing of a chameleon I can be. I'm usually thick-skinned. And I haven't noticed the same social hierarchies as an adult, when I was in college or now as a working professional. Yet, eerily, it seems they creep back.

The key, perhaps, is choosing not to comply with those dynamics, to assert control over who you are and how you will interact with the world.

Easier said than done, though.

P.S. I'm really looking forward to going home for Thanksgiving.

I told myself I wouldn't let this be a forum to ruminate, kvetch, wax on news. I also told myself I would give up drinking Coke and would go to the gym five times a week. Hell, three times a week.

So, back to the news. Senate Dems are trying to stop Republicans from adjourning for the year by Thanksgiving, seeking to capitalize on the GOP's waning influence. Makes sense, so far. But what do they distribute as their talking points? Any new ideas? Strong positions?

Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid's key point seems to be that "Republicans' misplaced priorities in Congress built a bridge to nowhere in Alaska. President Bush is conducting a presidency to nowhere." Pretty last week.

On an amusing note, Conservative whackos want to replace Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg with Wendy Long, counsel to The Judicial Confirmation Network. Michael Gaynor writes on the revelation the Supreme Court nominee Samuel Alito opposed abortion rights, among other issues, in a mid-1980s job application to work for the Reagan administration. He lauds her for quickly responding that Alito's judicial philosophy, that a right to abortion is not guaranteed by the Constitution, was mainstream judicial thought.

Gaynor writes, "God bless Ms. Long! She belongs among the Supremes too. Justice Ginsburg, who resents America's long history as a Christian country and fantasizes about constitutional right status for prostitution and polygamy , should resign immediately to make room for Ms. Long."

Um, OK.

I'm trying to steer this thing away from news, news and more news, but I had to mention a rather interesting piece by John Edwards in today's Washington Post. About voting for the war in Iraq, Edwards begins, "I was wrong."

Adds Edwards, "While we can't change the past, we need to accept responsibility, because a key part of restoring America's moral leadership is acknowledging when we've made mistakes or been proven wrong -- and showing that we have the creativity and guts to make it right."

He doesn't offer much of a solution, beyond withdrawing troops gradually after next year's elections, because they are more of a hindrance to security there than a help, and training Iraqi troops to provide security there. Then again, sometimes there is no good solution, just a best solution -- the lesser of two evils. Could it be that the longer U.S. troops are in Iraq, the more motivated the resistance will be?

As the number of U.S. troops killed in Iraq approached 1,000, I found myself anticipating an outcry that didn't occur. But 2,000 seems to have struck a chord. What would 3,000 do? Or, God forbid, more?

On another note, I saw the Dalai Lama speak yesterday. A friend and I talked our way into press passes. They telecast the speech, delivered to the neuroscience conference here, to the media room and then he came for a press conference afterward. He instructed us that members of the media should be "long-nosed" -- that we should investigate and hold the powers that be accountable.

He struck me as a person of humility and humor, to the point that it was stunning. As the speech began, he struggled with his English -- for whatever reason, it never occurred to me that he would have trouble with the language -- and fumbled with his materials, dropping something at one point and easing into his address like one would ease into a conversation with a stranger. As he spoke to individual journalists on his way out, he seemed to address the humanity within them. He said we are all basically the same person -- and I think he's right.

As I see it, there are three stages of living in D.C.

At first, you're trying really hard not to be a tourist. You'll go out of your way to avoid bad or unfamiliar areas, and should you end up in, say, Brookland, you'll try not to look out of place.

In the second stage, say six months in, you're starting to get comfortable. You are overly eager to give directions, just because you're glad you're not lost all the time. You also start to adopt an unnaturally preppy style. You are amused at tourists, with their too-short, wedgie pants; fanny packs, and CIA or FBI shirts.

Now the third stage. Tourists become annoying. You should be grateful to live somewhere people would actually want to visit, but any sense of gratefulness has left your citified self.

So on the Metro today, I'm transferring to the Orange Line at Metro Center. Filing toward the one downward escalator, I hear the train approach. Train arrives. I'm at the escalator. People stand on the left and right. The left and right! Am sardine on escalator. Trains on both side have doors open. People on escalator are waaay to calm for people who have any place to be. Make train by rushing though closing doors.

The lesson: Tourists suck. Sorry.

... When Sen. Pete Domenici (R-N.M.) says this:

"There's a growing suspicion that the oil companies are taking unfair advantage ... to line their coffers with excess profits. ... The oil companies owe the American people an explanation."

Why is it so hard to write in the first person?
I had hoped this medium would help me with that, but instead it's turned into constant ruminating on news, my outlet to compensate for a career that requires impartiality.

As it turns out, I don't really want my personal life out there, exposed to all of cyberspace. So, I'm vague; forgive me.

I had cut myself off from this to redo my personal statement, which now has a point. AK things it might be on "drama queen" side -- I took out the reference to journalism as a "demanding lover." (Bad writing can affect anyone!)

Starts the statment:

It is never easy to say good-bye to something you love. Writing, for me, has been a way of life and journalism a demanding fixation whose expectations only grow, but who educates and challenges at every turn. Like any devotion, though, even the greatest passions can come with too high a price. For me, this too-great price has been political noninvolvement for the sake of a journalist’s sacrosanct impartiality.

Mostly, the trouble has been this pervavise sense of going nowhere. It's odd; I'm not unhappy, but I'm restless like a capricous child. It makes me think of D.H. Lawrence.

Restlessness
At the open door of the room I stand and look at the night,
Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant into sight,
Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly into the light of the room.
I will escape from the hollow room, the box of light,
And be out in the bewildering darkness, which is always fecund, which might
Mate my hungry soul with a germ of its womb.

I will go out to the night, as a man goes down to the shore
To draw his net through the surf’s thin line, at the dawn before
The sun warms the sea, little, lonely and sad, sifting the sobbing tide.
I will sift the surf that edges the night, with my net, the four
Strands of my eyes and my lips and my hands and my feet, sifting the store
Of flotsam until my soul is tired or satisfied.

I will catch in my eyes’ quick net
The faces of all the women as they go past,
Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the wet
Cheeks and wet hair a moment, saying: “Is it you?”
Looking earnestly under the dark umbrellas, held fast
Against the wind; and if, where the lamplight blew
Its rainy swill about us, she answered me
With a laugh and a merry wildness that it was she
Who was seeking me, and had found me at last to free
Me now from the stunting bonds of my chastity,
How glad I should be!

Moving along in the mysterious ebb of the night
Pass the men whose eyes are shut like anemones in a dark pool;
Why don’t they open with vision and speak to me, what have they in sight?
Why do I wander aimless among them, desirous fool?
I can always linger over the huddled books on the stalls,
Always gladden my amorous fingers with the touch of their leaves,
Always kneel in courtship to the shelves in the doorways, where falls
The shadow, always offer myself to one mistress, who always receives.

But oh, it is not enough, it is all no good.
There is something I want to feel in my running blood,
Something I want to touch; I must hold my face to the rain,
I must hold my face to the wind, and let it explain
Me its life as it hurries in secret.
I will trail my hands again through the drenched, cold leaves
Till my hands are full of the chillness and touch of leaves,
Till at length they induce me to sleep, and to forget.