New Bookshelves

My cramped apartment mandates a Spartan decorating style, with which my simple tastes have easily jived. The one challenge since I moved in was what to do with all the books. For years they lived on teetering bookshelves which one by one were removed from the apartment as shelves sagged or fell off and joints hinged at angles that were not right. Books migrated under the bed, out in the hall, in unused drawers – anywhere that I could fit them. I bought one new shelf for music, and kept one old shelf by the bed.

My brother helped me put that shelf together in the middle of the big room I had all to myself during my volunteer year in New Bedford (I would later find out that enormous bedroom had once been the upstairs unit’s living room when our house was a two-family). It was cheap and flimsy when I bought it, and even my dear brother’s best efforts could only make it last for so long. Like most things in my life, I stretched it way beyond it’s life-expectancy, and every morning I opened my eyes to see a wobbly, dusty bookshelf topped with a row of language books on top of which my alarm clock (more than a decade old, natch) was uneasily perched.

Last summer I took a course in arts and worship that was not at all what I expected, which aggravated me at the time (and, to be honest, still aggravates me a bit). It was a lot more talking-at-collages and a lot less liturgical-theology than I hoped, but in the course of all the quiet time it offered us I gave a lot of thought to hospitality, particularly the hospitality I offer myself. I love beauty but surround myself with unbeautiful things. I try to be a person of good quality, but I content myself with an atmosphere of poor quality. My bookshelves sag and I leave them be.

I wrote many reflections on that over the summer, some of which are too personal to share [Sidebar: Yes, there are things I consider too personal to share, despite my aggressive oversharing.] One I found today offered this: To what am I being invited? To simplify and beautify. I deserve beautiful things in my life. I deserve cleanliness, neatness and health. What holds me back here? Am I too lazy to care for myself even though I find energy for a million other things? Is it that self-care doesn’t build me up in peoples’ eyes the way accomplishment of other kind does?

And today I wonder too – when I have been acclaimed or praised, when I have accomplished what I set out to do, does coming home to an ugly bookshelf satisfy the corner of my heart that knows that the praise is bullshit? When people tell me that I’m good or smart or beautiful or kind or talented, and I don’t believe them, does an ugly apartment give solace to the part of me that feels like a fraud? At least here, where I’m alone, I get what I truly deserve.

Two days ago I remembered the promise of hospitality I made to myself over the summer and replaced the stupid bookshelf. Now I just have to do something about those ugly walls.

The new shelves

DISCLAIMER: This was written under the influence of a Tori Amos CD
 

Light through the leaves

Not long ago, over the phone my mother lamented with a laugh that the tree that split in a recent batch of storms had changed the way the light shines on her face through the window at sunrise. Half the leaves that once rose tall now touch the grass, and she knows that they'll never get around to cutting the tree down.

Where I sleep it's never really dark and I'm always hearing something, so the morning is never a surprise. There's always a part of me awake. Where she is, the morning light is red through leaves that burst against the sky's pure blue, and the yellow of the trees on the way into town matches the stripe down the center of the road.

When she told me all this I knew that the next time I was home she'd suggest I lie down on her spot on the bed to observe the red shadows of the tree at dawn.

Great women are like meteors

Last week I took yet another tour of the state house, an activity that always brings my civics nerd-dom to the fore. I love history, politics, policy, and majestic buildings, so this oft-repeated trip inspires and interests me. I have no illusions about the inclusion of my people in most of Massachusetts history: women, Catholics, and even the iconic Irish were absent from most of the decision making for a large portion of the history of the Commonwealth. So I know how significant it is when we walk by the sign on Senate President Therese Murray's door, and my heart aches a little when we stand in the House chambers, beneath a ceiling encircled with names of Massachusetts greatest (white, anglo-saxon, protestant) men.

Most days I can be patient about the progress women have made. Things are easier for me than they were for my mother, and were easier for her than for her mother. I went to a college my mother couldn't have gone to and have the freedom to live on my own, have a job that I love, and basically do what I want. Things are OK.

At the very end of the tour, in a side hallway near the stairs, we viewed the Portrait Gallery of six of the Commonwealth's most extraordinary women. It was a challenge to listen to our tour guide and read the quotes and look at the portraits. I was struck by this quotation of Lucy Stone:

In education, in marriage, in religion, in everything disappointment is the lot of women. It shall be the business of my life to deepen that disappointment in every woman's heart until she bows down to it no longer.

Then I heard the tour guide say "Not only does this gallery honor these six women, it honors all women". I'm sure our well-spoken and bright guide was just following her script, and I'm sure most of the people I was with were thinking "isn't that nice", but I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying something snide. Don't pretend that portraints of six women make up for centuries of grave injustice, and don't imaging that just because Lucy Stone was a woman, she'd be content with sharing her honor with everyone else just to be nice. This is better than nothing, but it's not even close to justice.

I'm glad we honor Dorothea Dix and Florence Luscomb and the other leaders whose faces are on those brass plaques. In no way does that make it right that so many people's voices were excluded from decision making just because of their gender (or race, or religion). It doesn't make it right that we criticize our successful female politicians for being pushy or unbecoming, and then ridicule the other half who we keep in the public eye in order to have someone at whom to laugh and gawk.

Earlier that same day, at the JFK Library, I saw an inscription Jackie Kennedy wrote in a gift to her husband:  "great men are like meteors, consuming themselves as they light the earth". Fifty years after she quoted Napoleon, women deserve their chance to be meteoric and powerful - and it's not because they are women but because they are human, skilled (or not), wise (or not), strong (or not) like all other humans. The meteoric trajectory is not for every woman nor is it for every man, but everyone deserves a chance to have her photo among the legislative leadership, her name painted above the house chamber, her visage sculpted in bronze.

Set Me as a Seal on Your Heart

During my summer of crazy tri-training I had a little phone trouble. There were a few days when I wasn’t getting notifications of messages, so when trying to organize my standing swim-breakfast date with Brendan and Nicole they left message after message and I thought they were blowing me off.

It seemed reasonable that they would want a morning off from me stomping up the vine-covered back stairs at 7:30 to eat their English muffins, so I went straight from the pool to class and didn’t think too much about it. Around noon-time I checked my email and saw about 15 different messages from them. Where are you? Are you ok? What did you do this morning? We went to the pool and looked for you.
For some reason I take great comfort in the image of Brendan, dressed for work, standing at the front desk of the pool in the humidity and heat, asking our favorite lifeguard to check the bottom of the pool.

Those two were married yesterday, in a liturgy that was sacramental in every sense of the word. Over pasta and breadsticks about six weeks ago we put together a ritual that included four languages, three blessings, two pieces by Handel, and a procession to beat the band.

The Gospel reading was the Beatitudes, and as I listened to those words read while my beautiful friends stood side by side, and our other friends and their families surrounded them in joy, my breath was taken away by how perfect everything was. They already live the Beatitudes, they already live the Good News. They are peacemakers who hunger and thirst for justice. They are pure of heart and merciful. The truth that was confirmed in the light of that Gospel passage isn’t displayed in piety or lofty speech, but in the work those two do for other people, the love they show their friends, and that they went out of their way to look for me at the bottom of the pool.

Yes, there is a special grace involved in their sacramental marriage. Still, even before the vows, the air in the church was simply crackling with grace. By doing good work their whole lives they have surrounded themselves with other generous and loving people, and the power of the community’s love was nearly tangible.

Because I’m so practical (and cynical) I know it seems a little incongruous that I am often talking or writing of love. If love were only the romantic, indulgent kind displayed on all of the wedding cards that I browsed the other day, then I doubt I could be bothered for very long. But because of God and the people in my life I know fierce, diligent love. I know productive, gritty love. I know relentless, inescapable, sustaining, thrilling love. I have learned Father Zosima’s lesson that “active love is a harsh and fearful thing compared to love in dreams”, and led by the example of the people in my life I have tried to plunge into that love.

Nicole and Brendan let me tag along on their adventures in goodness, and I am so grateful. This morning I congratulated them once more and sat on the Common with a few of our other friends from our volunteer year. The sun was shining and the breeze was cool: a perfect September morning. We talked about work and family and told dumb jokes, and then I went off to noon mass. Sitting in the pew (a rare occurrence) I had trouble focusing, thinking about the previous day. In my distractedness clarity hit me like a ton of bricks: my whole life is a sacrament. The outward signs of grace are not objects - not my apartment or car or job. Relationships manifest grace, and I have better ones than I deserve.

Set me as a seal on your heart,
as a seal on your arm;
For stern as death is love,
relentless as the nether world is devotion;
its flames are a blazing fire.


Deep waters cannot quench love,
nor floods sweep it away.

Song of Songs 8: 6-7a

Where I am, What I miss

I haven't posted much this week, mostly because I hate writing those "today I got up. Then I walked to the window. Then I ate a sandwich" play-by-play posts. We have been working so hard here and been so busy that I haven't had time for any of the Deep Thoughts that I take such pride in sharing on my blog.

In lieu of Deep Thoughts there has been plenty of Little Advances and Hard Work, which is why I am here. Masterclasses and coachings have kept us busy, and I have learned so much from watching my colleagues on stage. We sang a truly lovely concert in a botanic garden a few days ago. The setting was so beautiful it made up for all the challenges of singing outside.

Last night was the mainstage production of Carmen. We had guest artists singing principal roles who had also been the faculty this week, and all of the Young Artists sang in the chorus. Having just done the show a year ago with BOC, I really enjoyed spending more time with the score and the drama. The orchestra was rip-roaring, the principals were to die for, and the audience was thrilled.

There is something nice about getting out of the big cities. Last fall and winter I did a few gigs up in New Hampshire, and it was a completely different world. Everyone was so friendly, our venues fed us, and people said things like "you have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard!" You just don't find that audience warmth in the big cities.

Speaking of big cities I just walked away from my computer and left it unattended. Apparently in Colorado people don't steal things, which has been another bit of culture shock. When I wrote my earlier post entitled "all the doors are unlocked" I didn't realize how much of a theme that would be here.

Despite all its charms, I am ready to leave the middle of the country and head back to my beloved coast. In a few days I will fly out back to the land of fast walkers, rude drivers and blunt neighbors. Steamboat is charming and kind and picturesque, but I will take real over picturesque any day. I am glad there are people who cherish this place the same way that I cherish New England, whose 'real' doesn't include a gritty neighborhood and a can lady, or a Podunk hometown.

What I miss

Day 2: The day I discovered that there are poorly attended concerts all over the country.

I couldn't help but think of my dear BOCers last night when we held an aria concert at the library and the performers outnumbered the singers. I have performed in (and, I add sheepishly, been responsible for promoting) a handful of poorly attended concerts. We set the date, and rehearse, and invite our friends and fans, and then...no one shows up. I can think of at least three BOC concerts that followed that trajectory, and I'm glad that I surround myself with people who can still put on a good show and laugh at how few people are in the audience.

Hearing all of these standard arias from my new colleagues always makes me think of the voices I know best which I have heard sing those arias before. Because I didn't go to music school for undergrad I never really had singer friends, and even when I was at conservatory I kept a lot of people at arms' length. But after 4 years of singing with many of the same people, getting to know their voices and their stories, some of my dearest friends are other opera singers. Even as I make new opera friends, I am still a little territorial on my old friends' behalf, jealously wanting to guard their signature arias from other people.

After the concert we planned some leisure time, so I offered to buy some wine if someone could drive me to the package store. My use of the New England colloquialism was met with blank stares, and someone asked "why would you need to buy boxes?" Once I translated into standard English and was driven to the store, I was relieved to hear that the clerk was from New Hampshire and had family in Boston. All tricked out in my concert dress and prom hair I must have been a sight. He offered a discount if I sang for him and I politely declined.

How the morning feels

For as long as I have lived in Boston, leisurely Saturday mornings have had a unique effect on me. For some reason, when I walk down a neighborhood street in the cool of morning everything is right with the world and I am where I am meant to be. Maybe it’s that I am walking anywhere - where I grew up nothing was close enough to walk to, and any jaunt on foot implied a nature walk. Not that I didn’t love Saturday mornings growing up too – some of the most consistent memories of my childhood involve my mother making pancakes in the sunny kitchen while we all padded in and out, in our slippers or bare feet.

This morning I woke up with nothing to do. This is not a common occurrence. This academic year in particular has been extremely busy, as my singing and conducting have become less a hobby and more a second job. I won’t complain; being paid to do music is what I always wanted. Still, there’s a loss there, and the loss of leisure takes a toll. So today I slept in (to an hour which is still terribly early to most people) and then wandered out to get breakfast.

As soon as I hit the streets I got that feeling again. I live in a city! I sometimes think excitedly to myself. Not only do I live here, I have made it my home, and am friendly with the can lady next door, the guy with the construction truck, the folks who work at the funeral home around the corner. And on these quiet brisk mornings I am on the same pace as everyone else. I am not leaving the house in an audition dress and prom hair like I usually do on weekend mornings. I am in flip-flops and a ponytail, just like everyone else, easing into the day.

On my way home, egg sandwich and coffee in hand, I was passing near the post office and my stomach tightened up. My brain started racing: aren’t there applications I should be sending off? Do I need to be shipping a demo today? What’s next? What’s next? I remembered the competition application on my kitchen table, and that it’s not due until late May, and relaxed a little bit.

There’s a pithy adage that singers throw around when someone is spending too much time working: they don’t write songs about being in a practice room. In other words, if you want to make art, live a little. Similarly, they don’t write songs about being overworked, or about obsessive self-promotion. The artistic spark needs oxygen to flame.

That application sits next to me on the kitchen table now. I don’t have to sing until 3:30 today, so I’m not going to fret about the state of my voice until lunchtime at least. I’ll probably run today, but I might wait until the morning warms up a little. It’s a lazy Saturday, and there’s no hurry.

A Lesson in Humility

Due to where I live, I pass panhandlers almost every day. Usually they are at major intersections near the edges of my neighborhood, and a few characters frequent certain storefronts on Broadway.

Most people, if asked, will offer some Theory of Interaction with the Indigent: I keep a dollar in my pocket to give away ~ I buy them food instead of giving money ~ I think they should get jobs ~ I try to just smile if I have nothing to give. We come up with these theories in our dormitory common rooms and church forums on justice. They are big beautiful ideas of who we want to be. Yet I, after being faced with people begging for change nearly ever day, have adopted a practice very different from any theory of my youth: I ignore them.

Sure, some days I dig into my parking meter reserves, and most days I try to at least make eye contact, but rarely does the window come down when I’m waiting at the light. It’s not because I’m frightened or can’t afford it, but because when I am in the car on my way home I feel lazy, and I’m often too emotionally over-extended to engage another person.

This past Sunday dawned bright and cool, and not long after dawn I set out to meet friends with whom I was to go to a race later in the day. I waited at a huge intersection which was abnormally empty. As a man approached I rolled down my window. It’s the Lord’s Day, I thought, and I was feeling secure and moved by someone panhandling in the middle of an abandoned intersection.

When I gave the man some money, I suggested he get a cup of coffee, thinking “I am enjoying coffee as I drive, he should be able to enjoy some too”. Unfortunately he took umbrage, responding “Do I look like I’m high? This money is for rent.”

The light was still red, so he continued with his story. Its particulars aren’t important, but it involved leaving his job at a big box store because they capped his wages at $14/hour. The light turned green and I offered words of encouragement. His parting words were “well, it’s been a lesson in humility. Not everyone is nice like you.”

Nice like me. I drove away flushed with shame, knowing that I am not nice. I claw my way toward generosity and goodness like someone scaling a mountain. But to him, I was nice. My easy frustration and indulgent complexity meant nothing to him in our short interaction, and I was doubly shamed by my quick assumption that all of my over-thinking would matter at all to a person who was just looking for someone to be nice.

The real reason I was flushed after our conversation, and the reason this conversation has been on my mind for days, was his casual mention of a lesson in humility. We claim to seek humility, but don’t want the ugly steps it takes to get there. If my life continues on its current path, chances are I will never be humbled like my new friend. I will not beg for change, I will not approach strangers for rent money, I will not be so alone that I tell my story to strangers on Melnea Cass Blvd.

One can only become humble by being brought low. When Jesus said “blessed are the poor”, was this part of what he was talking about? The destruction of illusions about our own self-sufficiency is a pre-condition for deepening our faith, but it takes guts. We want to trust in a higher power while maintaining a secret stash of our own power, just in case.

The story of the woman caught in adultery was the gospel reading for the Fifth Sunday of Lent. It’s an incredibly rich story, which – to my great horror – is often reduced to a morality lesson about sex. To me, it is a story of powerful, proud people, hiding behind indignance. The woman is truly powerless, having sinned like we all do, but her sins more exposed than any of ours ever are. Like many women she has been made physically vulnerable, at the mercy of a merciless crowd, yet even the crowd doesn’t value her - she is only a way to catch Jesus in blasphemy, to bring a charge against him.

When Jesus intervenes, he turns everything upside-down, as he often does. Suddenly the righteous are dismissed, not by force but by moral reasoning: Let one who is without sin cast the first stone. And the one who is brought low, the last person with whom we would want to change places, is lifted up, touched by God, directed by holy wisdom, and redeemed.

What more could any of us want? Blessed are the poor, indeed.

Seasons

A few years ago I spent three weeks in Malibu at the beginning of the summer. I returned refreshed to a Boston that had suffered a brutal heat wave in my absence, and was often asked how the weather was. Although I'd never needed a hat or gloves, and I'd never sweat through my clothes, I hadn't been totally satisfied with three weeks of 70 degrees and sunny. I didn't have the nerve to confess this to my friends and family, but I had found that monotonously idyllic weather boring.

Years are funny things. They're long enough that we can't really comprehend their span, but short enough that they can seem to pass quickly, and we give a lot of meaning to this number of 365 days. In New England we get a little of everything in each turn of the earth around the sun - snow & freezing temperatures, humidity and blazing heat. Although the warm weather seems terribly distant each February, we never really go long enough without a particular season to forget what it is all about.

I think that's why I have always liked the liturgical calendar so much. Every element of Christian living is given it's due at least once a year. No matter what the seasons of our lives are we are called to ponder the whole experience during the course of the year. We celebrate new life and the Resurrection even if our own lives feel like an unrelenting penitential season. When life is joyful we still pause for sorrowful remembrance and contrition. We go through it all - and then we cycle around and go through it all again.

This weekend I finally packed up my swimming and biking gear from triathlon training this summer. I went into fall with good intentions for keeping up with those sports, but the demands of work and music have left me no time to even find a gym with a pool, never mind swim in that pool once I've found it. I keep saying "I miss swimming", and I do miss the feel of the water on my body and the rhythm of my arms stroking through the water. But what I really miss is the season: bright mornings leading into days that would be longer than the nights, early breakfasts in my friends' kitchen, running my towel through the dryer in the sunny laundry room before I stuffed it into a backpack and got back on my bike.

Mayoral Madness

I'm sure many of you have been waiting with baited breath for the announcement of Felice Mi Fa's mayoral endorsement. Like most things this fall, Election Day has snuck up on me and I haven't peeped about local politics. Those who know me well know there is something wrong with that.

One reason for my silence is that I have been a little unenthused by the slate that is up, although the dual candidacy of "Floon" certainly makes for some drama. I, like a lot of Boston residents, am mildly uncomfortable with the length of Menino's tenure in office, but am generally happy with his leadership. Maybe it's a sign of the conservativism that can come with age, but I am less distressed by his hold on City Hall this year than I was last time around. I will admit, during the last mayoral election I voted against him even though that meant voting for Hennigan (and going against my beloved unions).

This time around, I am not so sure that kicking out Menino should be priority 1. I understand the criticisms around him: he rules with an iron fist and stifles opposition. The BRA is a mess. He won't let developers do what they want. I think a lot of those criticisms take for granted that the good of Boston depends on attracting big businesses to the newest skyscraper downtown. What Menino has excelled at is building up the neighborhoods. If all politics is local, maybe it should be more important that I can find a parking space and that the empty lot up the corner isn't completely trashed. Skyscrapers don't matter much to me, even though I can see them from the top of the street.

There is nothing about Flaherty that excites me, which is why I voted for Yoon in the run-off. If we are going to do change around here, I thought, why don't we do it right? I knew he wasn't going to win but I wanted to send a message (although after what happened with Nader in 2000 I should have known better). And yes, I am one of the 12% of people who votes in mayoral run-offs.

The announcement that Flaherty and Yoon were teaming up did not impress me. Politics makes strange bedfellows, for sure. I can't foresee real teamwork should they make it together to City Hall.

So there will be no blogtastic endorsement today, and I'm not sure who I will vote for on Tuesday (other than Ayanna Pressley for City Council). Townies, please be sure to vote.

The Can Lady Consortium

Any BC alum who was paying attention (or who ever set foot in the mods) is well aware of the Can Lady, who trudged around campus on Saturday and Sunday mornings retrieving our empties from bushes and sidewalks. Even the most justice-oriented undergrad (and there were plenty vying for that award) could use her activity as an opportunity to feel self-righteous about littering, of all things.

In retrospect this was probably not good for the moral development of BC's privileged students - and before you get all huffy, fellow alums, let me remind you that anyone who can go to a school like that is privileged one way or another, either with family influence, wealth, or simple academic inclination. So what if we had small Asian woman cleaning up the debris of our attempts at bacchanalia? We were doing her a favor, or at least that's what we convinced ourselves.

With due respect to my Boston College roots, there is a new can lady in my life. She lives around the corner from me and her back deck leans out over the path to my backdoor. I can remember one evening out with a friend of a friend who happened to live down the block who started talking about our charming can lady. "I give her all my empties and she calls me her angel!" the young woman effervesced. I am sure I shocked her when I started complaining about the cute old Lithuanian lady in the babushka.

In fact, I probably came off like a complete shrew. But on Tuesday night, the night before garbage day, I was repeatedly awakened through the night by her rattling through her empty bottles. I really don't know what she does on that deck with all the empties, but it involves relentless clanking all through the night. I am getting the urge to type all in enraged caps just thinking about it.

I have also seen her going through my garbage bags. I don't know which is more insulting, the violation of my private space or the insinuation that I don't recycle.

But what is most disturbing to me are all the moochers who have teamed up with her to use her space. There is a parade of people in and out of the gate next to mine, wheeling their suitcases and shopping carts up and down the street to see what they can get from our garbage. One of them sent her son who couldn't have been more than ten down the street to pick through the barrels looking for good stuff.

For what it's worth, I don't think that any member of the Can Lady Consortium is sinister enough to have been the person who burglarized the apartment last fall. I still could do without my corner being dumpster diving central.

Summer morning with friends

You all know that there are days when I want to throw it all in the car and get out of the city. It’s too crowded, I miss grass, I miss family. There are those moments, as you know, when life seems like an episode of Friends, that make it worthwhile.

Nicole and I have recruited another friend to our morning swim club, and today was our first day meeting out in JP for some laps. We were to meet on the steps of the community center at 6:30, so I hopped on the bike around 5:45 and pedaled over. After braving the traffic of Newmarket and Egleston Sq, I arrived to find that the pool was closed until 10. I was right on time, but L & N weren’t there.

I’m enough of a Luddite to leave my phone at home occasionally to make sure the world will keep spinning. Without a phone I had no way of knowing where the rest of the team had gone, so I went the half a block to N’s house and knocked on the screen door. Her boyfriend answered the door, and I used N’s phone to figure out where the rest of our party was located.

L had just gotten to the pool, late. It was quickly decided that we should not abandon our plan to have breakfast. N and her bf decided they would come along as well, suggesting Haley House Café in Roxbury.

Two of us got on our bikes while the other two showered and drove, and we got our social justice on at the café. Drinking Thousand Hills Coffee was anti-climactic, since that’s what I drink at home too, but the breakfast was leisurely and laugh-filled.

On the way home I impersonated the Magi and went home by another route. If you can’t explore Roxbury on a bike in the morning, when can you? All this, and home before 9:00 am. Life is good, friends are good, the city is good.

The speeches are piling up, and I am in the weeds.

Here's some thoughts, more abbreviated than I had hoped, on the three speeches this week.

State of the City: Savvy self-promotion. Menino mentioned a lot of ways that the city got out in front of the economic crisis, working to reduce foreclosures and strengthen neighborhoods. He also announced that for the first time in decades Boston's population is over...600,000! We have got to be the smallest big city in the world. There's a real blessing in that, because the city government can focus on changing things block by block, school by school. They don't have as big a big picture. It's nice to live in a city where a major speech focuses on helping those who are struggling, rather than punishing them.

State of the State: If reviewing a Menino address must by definition focus on content, Patrick's speeches allow us to savor his style. Every time I hear him speak I get goosebumps. The speech was short because Bush's was coming up, but was hopeful and had a handful of decent reform points. It takes a brave man to give a shout out to CORI reform.

Bush's farewell address: Self-aggrandizing, which was to be expected. His bit about good and evil in the world gave me goosebumps too, but not in a good way, in a scary way. What about the line between good and evil running through every human heart? Clearly not. He really thinks that American force was wholly in the right. Just because the actions against us on 9/11 were evil do not make our actions good. I also think the ideology of the Bush Doctrine is complete and total hogwash, which is why I have had trouble listening to any administration speeches on foreign policy.

In other news, I have had stomach trouble all week. I came up with a few guesses why this might be occuring:

1. I have stomach cancer
2. My pharmacist is poisoning my reflux meds
3. I have esophageal cancer
4. I have an ulcer
5. I have colon cancer
6. I am getting up in the night and eating sharp things in my sleep.
7. I have brain cancer that is making me THINK my stomach hurts.