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23:56 - Wednesday, Nov. 27, 2002 A woman that could be bell hooks' sister stands outside the door of the metro car I am exiting and I pass her without a full look. Peripherally, she's a 1/2-glanced picture of a woman who might be the sister of a famous writer. It may be hard to believe, but near-misses like this happen every day. Last Week The 7 year-old Drama Queen I pick up from school each day said if I loaned my copy of "Harriet the Spy" to someone and then someone else and then someone else and then someone else, that God would lay his hand on me. While I was thinking about God having hands, I remembered . . . I don't have a copy of "Harriet the Spy". And what if it was some key to the touch of God's wrinkly swarthy hand or the answer to that Joan Osborne song? And that my old roommate had a copy of "Harriet the Spy". This was the guy that never wanted to @%$% me the same semester I wanted to @%$@ him. So I guess, there is no laying on of hands for me. . . But he might be in luck? The Opera Singer who blew me so far away I felt like I was pulled into the actual reel of film from a Kryztof Kiezlowski movie -- spinning slowly just waiting for her to hit that note as the reel pulls around to the light and projects me into space, slams me against the screen with a huge Czech church in the background and every well-timed orchestration stealing breath from the audience to power the notes out of her-- that singer is now my co-worker. She brought me chrysanthemum tea for my voice when the yellow shit was still coming up. She travels around the country to audition for operas and then returns to our rickety building to teach children and pay rent. Doors Opening I swear the woman my sister's huge frightening doll must have been based on crosses my path once in a while. I vaguely remember wondering if the doll was Beezus, sister of Ramona. This doll was fucked up. She was about 8X bigger than the other dolls. MAde of a light orange watered-down-Spaghetti-O sauce colored plastic. Her arms in perpetual bend. Her hair, I would later realize, part Jessica Hahn and part Tawny Kitain. Her face I hardly remember. But I did see her again today. Usually she's in at least knee-high vinyl/pleather boots with a skirt and lots of Chef Boyardee hair. This Week The seven year-old Drama Queen hopped into the van I drive for work and for once said nothing about suing her teachers. She is a bundle, tied tight and full. Root Beer and Ms Stitch Our wedding planners joined the Oversight Committee for our wedding. As Quakers sometimes do where we live, we met over hummus and silence. Thoughts of 8th grade. Me with a paisley shirt buttoned to the top, fastened with a Swatch hanging out in the lunchroom/auditorium of my junior high school. Once again the fucking youth minister from the Baptist church a block away (not the one just across the parking lot, or the one a block the other way) conveniently shows up to work the hexagonal stage in the middle of the room. Some Jesus-hates-sinners guy passing out invitations to come to his church for pizza. There is no mention of not dancing, being brainwashed, or the hypocrisy of the kids in his youth group who call others fag and drink every weekend they are not at YoungLife camps. This will be the reason I never ask anyone to go near anything related to spirituality with me ever ever ever.
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