OT/OOC
Snapshots of my week
I'm at the gym (yes, I do Curves), and someone asks me why I am wearing gloves. These are biking gloves and are obviously not designed for warmth, but the whole concept of workout gloves is foreign to these ladies who barely manage the circle of machines and restboards. I explain I am allergic to the hand sanitizer and wear the gloves to keep from getting the crap on my hands. A long discussion ensues where I explain what bothers me and what doesn't and try to explain when I move away from certain people some days- it's not because I don't like them- it's because they smell perfumed, or they get really happy with the Purex.
I am at the rally at the start of the protest week. Jazz and I stand at the crowded back of the nave. I see there are seats upstairs and down in front, but I don't feel like hearing the whoopigranolamellowness. I know there is a dinner planned. I tell Jazz I'm going to find the kitchen. I explore. The architecture is like something out of my dreams- one large room telescoping into another large room with all sorts of warren connections and huge sliding doors. I find the kitchen and say the magic words, "What can I do to help?" I am greeted with warm smiles, but everyone seems too harrassed to have a task. I watch for a little. The salad people need help with the lettuce, and I step into the choreography as if I was planned. I make friends with the other cooks. There is always a kitchen. There is always a need to do.
We are the protest in front of the courthouse. I was admiring the architecture of the surrounding buildings, and wondering how to translate that into the Sims. I look back at the Courthouse, and there is a red stain on the central pillar. An older man is sitting in front of it, and he is surrounded by cops. The man who had been singing protest songs has stopped, and a professional activist is reading a statement of protest. It repeats Peace over and over like that part in the Catholic mass. I feel they are trying to explain that this is Christ's blood on the Courthouse as a Sign from God, and I know that this is only metaphor. Another woman explodes in fury next to me. "How dare he!" She points at the man on the steps. "That bastard is going to make things harder for us! He is jeopardizing the entire trial! How dare he!" A more fragile lady asks me, "What do you think? Was that wrong? Why did he do it?" I don't know why she is asking me, but I tell her, "He wanted to share the message. Perhaps it was the wrong time for this, but it was how he felt he could share his solidarity." I knew it meant there would be increased security tomorrow. But I felt if Bush wants blood, perhaps this is a good offering for him.
We are at the protest in front of the courthouse. A woman is explaining why she was excommunicated from her church for speaking of women's rights and how difficult it is to be an Actor in a small town. She seems far from stable. Another woman approaches to explain about the difference between capitol letters and upper and lower case names in the value of identity. The first woman walks away, giving the second woman a look that says, "I can't bear to be near you- you are crazier than I am." No matter who you are or how you think- there is always someone crazier than you. The biggest trouble with any extreme is there are always fanatics willing to voice the cause, but those who can invest the time are often without jobs for a reason. This is yet another reason I'd like more inexpensive healthcare. I'd feel safer if they were taking their medication. We finally see the veterans arrive and voice support of the troops. Their speaker is obviously a Roman Catholic priest who gives a speech with a quality that reminded me of some of Marc Antony's speech from Shakespeare's play- he began by praising the protesters, and then explained why we need to make sure there are no muslims in this country, or non-whites either. At this point, someone from the local news shoved a camera in my face. The reporter wants to know what I think. I ramble. I have too many snapshots of insanity. This is too surreal for me. I know the people on trial were far more rational about their decision than anyone on either side of the barrier at this moment. I don't swear. I am very proud that I didn't swear. I say I am glad there are voices on both sides of the fence - both for and against this war- and they are here right now and speaking, and listening to each other, and this message is being heard and not censored. I summarize with this, "This war-- This war is not a moral war. We have no business being over there. We all support our troops, but we want to bring them the heck home. Now." I fret and hope I wasn't an idiot.
We see the tape later. I look coherent and not too fruity. My t-shirt cannot be read. I did have someone recoil from it earlier- they found it too violent. It said, "I wish I could CTRL-ALT-DEL you." They have misspelled my name, but I am not surprised.
At the event yesterday, a friend tells me she is single again. I have never known her without her husband or her daughter. It is a bitter, ugly divorce, where he was having an affair. The other woman was supposed to be the head retainer, but backed out in order to have face time with him. So my friend stepped up and took the head retainer job, and both of the other two were pushed from the household. My friend earned her pointy hat through tears. I felt badly, but helped keep her laughing this day. I hope she ends up happier. Another friend approaches me- Katja asks all about the horror of two weeks ago, and I reassure her I am fine, or as fine as I can get. Another lady, whose name I never remember but we are on a hugging friendship nonetheless, had not heard of the incident, so I had to tell her too. Sometimes, I don't know how to handle the sympathy. It's who I am now. It's not a matter of having the strength to cope. There is no choice in this. I simply must learn what is possible and what is not possible, and just be. I spend time with Wulfstan's sister. She tells me all about how much Wulfstan admires me. I am surprised, as I barely know the man, but I have seen him for years. We talk about scribal things and drinking things, and even personal plumbing, and we share jokes; then Wulfstan comes and teases me for all the scrolls I have done. He says "You have been busy!" But I don't think I have. There were at least two months when I did not put pen to paper. I always feel I have not done enough. I do what I can, but I don't know what is enough. I have my list of what I want to do, and frankly, it only grows.
Today is half over. I am still tired from lack of sleep. Colin is asleep with his face in my elbow.
