1. Always respect a closed door. We renounce private property, not personal privacy. 




2. Everyone must take their turn selling our soaps, veggies and textiles at the farmers’ market on Sundays. Everyone is equally averse to working the booth, so no excuses for shirking work duty will be accepted. “Writing” is no excuse for missing work duty. We all have ample hours for “writing.”




3. When using the kitchen, library, bathroom, stables, gardens, workrooms and other common spaces, your wish to remain undisturbed can be indicated by donning your “invisible hat.” Anyone not wearing an invisible hat will be assumed to be open to an exchange of greetings and possible small talk. If everyone but you is wearing an invisible hat, find a good book. 
   Special note due to recent issues::  being under the influence of a substance is no excuse for ignoring someone’s invisible hat. If you feel you must communicate something immediately, write a note, set it down in an obvious place, and walk away.




4. All communications are to be made via community corkboard. Please check the corkboard frequently for relevant messages, but that said, please do not approach if someone is already reading the corkboard. No one likes a hoverer. If you do receive a message, you are encouraged to go to your room and think about it for a couple of days before responding.




5. When using the communal bathroom, if you get the sense that someone is attempting to defecate, please do your business and move along; don’t stand around brushing your teeth and staring at your skin in the mirror.




6. Please use headphones for all music, movies, etc., and please chew with your mouth closed. Excessive coughing, muttered expressions of disgust or delight, laughing, weeping or other vocalizations will not be tolerated. Please do not wear heeled shoes or flip-flops. Please make every effort to be as generally unobtrusive as you would have others be.




7. Unfortunately, we here at Separate Commons have come to realize that we must enforce one mandatory social gathering per month, so that members of the community can recognize each other by sight. Rest assured, all social events will have clearly pre-determined start and finish times, as well as a definite, stated activity and objective. You will not find yourself mingling. We will consider special exemptions for those who would ordinarily attend, but who just really, really do not want to right now.




8. Separate Commons is a community for introverts, not for hermits or misanthropists. If anyone is deemed to be behaving in an hostile or antisocial manner, they will be asked to leave. Please check the corkboard frequently for notices to vacate.

__

(Thanks to my clever, clever roommate for thinking this up and making us do it, even though we were all tired and whiny!  See also:  this Improv Everywhere stunt.  I don’t know if this is where S got the idea or if the subway just suggests such activities!)

The Faker, in which Mrs. Miyagi explores and instructs in the fine art of faking it till you make it (or until people leave you alone); and

Nurse Factory, in which an amazing artist and bird-mom posts her projects, street art, and adventures with the chickens.

Check them out!

If you’re not familiar with The Morning News, be sure to look around.  I’ve been a daily reader since 2002, and have posted here about their yearly Tournament of Books, among other things.

Q: Have had Pook for two years about, doe, want to breed her butt she is not intrsted in Thomas (male lop). Can she be gay? Or mebe Thomas is not male?
14 replies

Q: My dwarf rabbit, Bun-Chums, keeps biting me whenever I pick him up to cuddle. Help! Should I pull his teeth out?
47 replies

Q: My son gave rat poison to Tibbens, and when I tried to make her throw it up (went to put pencil down her throat), she bit me. Is this normal behavior? She’s never bit me before! Also, should I feed her something to get the poison out?
25 replies

Q: If I wanta et these rabbit, should i make him deworm fust? Anny advise on home to do – can’t pay vet!!!
114 replies

Q: To the ‘Anonymous’ person who responded that breeders are terrible and cause the death of countless unwanted bunnies in shelters, may I just say that I am a proud breeder of rabbits, and that I am very careful with my rabbits, and responsible, and make sure they all go to good homes. And so, it is not my fault that there are unwanted shelter bunnies. That is of course very sad, but this is my hobby, and everyone has a hobby. Do you can’t enjoy your dinner because you worry about Africa? So why shouldn’t I enjoy my hobby? And for the record, I am aged 5 and sign my real name, so ‘Anonymous,’ have some courage. – Cindy Peters-Rogers, Age 5
6 replies

Q: My bun leap around and roll onda floor. Do thismean he happy? Whatchoo think?????
0 replies

Q: My husband died two days ago, and I think my lop, Misty, is in mourning! She is listless, sad, won’t eat…What can I do to help her get back to her old happy, hoppy self?
5 replies

Q: Jiggles has been lying still for three days, in his own urine and his hay, not eating or pooping. But he is breathing. Is this be something wrong? Time to call vet?!?
2 replies

Q: Well, Cindy Peters-Rogers, Age 5, you have an EVIL hobby, and you are a HORRIBLE 5-year-old BUNNY MURDERER!!! I hope you enjoy your HOBBY, CINDY!! Don’t let all those dead bunnies bother you, just keep adding to the pile!!!
P.S. FYI, I NEVER enjoy my dinner, and am ALWAYS worrying about Africa, so don’t ASSume, get it, ASS???
-Anonymous, Age 43
56 replies

Q: My rabbit, Periwinkle, just exploded, spraying fur and blood in all directions, and now I can’t find anything left of her. Is this something to worry about? Should I consult my vet?
20 replies

1. Gail Collins. The New York Times was long overdue for a female columnist who wasn’t Maureen Dowd, and Gail Collins is more than the Times deserves: tart, smart, funny and perceptive, her takes on the issues of the day are both informative and cathartic. I just checked out one of her books, America’s Women: 400 Years of Dolls, Drudges, Helpmates, and Heroines, but have only read the first chapter so far. I’ll let you know how it is. Also, in addition to her columns, Collins’s conversations with David Brooks are a treat. I have to confess, in the past, I have occasionally liked David Brooks, but he’s been heinous lately, and as his tenure at the Times goes on, he contradicts himself ever more blatantly. I dearly love a good journo fight, and Matt Taibbi (an occasional guilty pleasure for me, I’ll admit – his reportage may be spotty, but sometimes you just need a good, unapologetic rant) has lately been picking Brooks’s columns up in his teeth and shaking them back and forth until their necks snap.

2. The public library. I like to write in my books, dogear them, and read them in the shower, so for years, I insisted on buying books and keeping them in piles along my baseboards. But I don’t make that kind of money these days, and have finally learned to make good use of the public library. Yes, the inability to write in the books is a serious handicap, but otherwise, I am a total library convert. There’s a small branch near my house, and I can order whatever I want through the system to be delivered there, and they notify me by email when my holds are ready. Best of all, you can renew your books on the computer, and as long as nobody puts a hold on them, you can renew them indefinitely (I’ve renewed one 12 times already). And all for not one red cent (not counting city taxes). Beat that, Kindle.

3. Susan Schorn’s McSweeney’s column. I go back and forth on McSweeney’s, and particularly on their columnists. Some are good, some are boring, many have long outlived their original gimmick, good for only a post or two, but weirdly extended. But one of their new columns, Susan Schorn’s meditations on martial arts, self-defense, anger, weakness, and related topics, is fantastic – and not just because I’m into karate lately. I agree with Schorn about everything, and wish she lived next door to me, so that I could bother her all the time (and all of her other humor pieces are great, too). Speaking of karate:

4. Shotokan karate. I have been training at a local dojo since August (I’m currently a yellow belt), and I am obsessed. Fantastic exercise, and a wonderful outlet for pent-up aggression, karate is sport, art form, self-defense training and a study in focus and discipline, all in one. I try to make three classes a week, and, while I still couldn’t beat up a four-year-old, my kiai has deepened from Chihuahua to Rottweiler.

5. Jezebel and The Awl. I am putting these together, because my enjoyment of them is similar. For some reason, when Jezebel debuted, I immediately decided that I didn’t care for it. I can’t remember what about it offended me, because I’ve really been enjoying it lately. In addition to the progressive and feminist news alerts, there are hearty round-ups of celebrity gossip. And while I am not interested enough in celebrity garbage to actually read up on it, I must admit, do I want to know when Brad and Angie finally break it off, or when Lindsay Lohan ODs in a club bathroom, or when somebody has a major weight reversal? Yes! Yes, okay? I do want to know that! I admit it! But I don’t need to know the deets – I just want a headline and a photo, and that’s what Jezebel delivers. Now, The Awl, helmed by former Gawker editor, Choire Sicha (aka the only person who ever wrote for Gawker that I actually liked), is a hilarious, well-written chronicle of all things that would particularly interest…well, Brooklyn dwelling, underemployed pseudo-writers like moi. Plus, it is one of those lovely, rare blogs in which the commenters expand on (and often outshine) the posts. Kinder than Gawker and sharper than The Gothamist, The Awl fits just right.  If I could only read one blog, this would probably be it.

6. Amanda Palmer. The former Dresdan Doll has an awesome solo album. Plus, she’s engaged to Neil Gaiman, and showed up at The Golden Globes with her boobs and her pit hair out. She’s a fucking badass.

7. Small, well-done, original blogs. Tiring of sprawling, massive, constantly updating blogs, I have lately been discovering small, creative, focused sites that do one thing and do it well. Edith Zimmerman writes hilarious very short stories. Tom Oatmeal (who I found through EZ) makes milk come out my nose. And firmuhment is continually brilliant and original – scanned documents that inspire essays, short stories, and humor. I’m not sure if firmuhment is a single author deal or a team effort, but every post has obviously had a lot of work put into it, and I appreciate that.

8. Firefox’s new skins. I spent the lion’s share of my day staring at my browser, so anything that makes it more visually appealing makes me happy. Firefox’s new skins are a small adjustment that, surprisingly, makes a big difference. Currently, I’m enjoying Spring II. Goes well with my igoogle theme.

9. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I resisted getting into this back in high school when everyone was super into it, and haven’t gotten into it since, because I didn’t want to consume seven seasons of TV. But my coworker has them all on DVD. Uncle, okay? I’m through six seasons already, and ready to register as an official member of the Joss Whedon fanbase. In addition to the overall awesomeness of the series, I enjoy identifying basic karate moves in the fight choreography.

10. My new phone. After three shameful years of hitchhiking on my parents’ family plan, I finally ponied up and got my own phone plan, and a phone with a full keyboard and a camera. And man, it makes a huge difference! I no longer wince at the sound of a text message arriving: it doesn’t take me a year to peck out a response anymore, and my phone looks cool and is really fun to use. And yesterday, when my brunch coffee came in a giant bowl with no handle, I was able to document it quickly and easily, no forethought required.

11. My rabbit, Thomasina. Thomasina is so freaking adorable!! And I love having a pet! This was a good move. She’s my little pal, and she does hilarious things and entertains me, and she’s cuddly and fun. Right now, for example, I am trying to write, and she is collapsing her little grass hut on top of her head, and making eyes at the rabbit she thinks lives in my closet mirror! OMG, she’s a gas. I won’t work at all today.

A spokesman for the Diocese of Bath and Wells said: “There is no such thing as a real gnome so why should we have such unnatural creatures in churchyards?”

– Telegraph.co.uk, November 2008

When Pastor Scott had discovered the original gnome, he’d assumed it had been put there by a teenager and he threw it out without a second thought. But a few days later, Karen Allen knocked on the door of the rectory. Karen was the longest-serving and most active of the various church volunteers, and she kept close tabs on all things happening at Holy Ascension. In fact, Pastor Scott felt that Karen was generally more interested in the policies and procedures of Holy Ascension than he was, and in the concerns and troubles of its parishioners.

‘Pastor Scott,’ said Karen now. ‘Anna Trilby is all upset. That darling little garden gnome she put on her mother’s grave went missing last week. I suppose some kids took it, and I know that these things can’t be helped, but I thought I’d let you know, she’s upset. Apparently, it was her mother’s gnome, and now Anna wishes she’d just hung onto it.’

‘I threw it out,’ said Pastor Scott, surprised. ‘I thought kids put it there.’

‘Why would kids decorate Anna’s mother’s grave?’

‘I didn’t imagine Anna put a gnome there. I thought it was a joke.’

‘Oh, no, her mother loved that gnome. You threw it out? Has the trash gone?’

‘I’m sure it has.’

‘Oh, no. I suppose I’ll have to tell Anna. She’ll be so upset.’

‘Well, don’t make a point of telling her unless she brings it up again.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, tell her, if you feel you ought to, but frankly, I don’t see the point of it.’

‘I think she’ll want to know what happened to it.’

‘It was just a gnome.’

‘It was her mother’s.’

‘Well. Tell her I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.’

Two days later, a new gnome was on Mrs. Biddemore’s grave. This gnome had a little wheelbarrow full of plastic flowers. Pastor Scott stared at it resentfully. He didn’t know exactly why, but he didn’t like it. He felt it was flip. And also, it was tacky. All the other graves sat sedately, somberly, with their bunches of flowers in various stages of decay. There were no gnomes, no statuary of any kind. There weren’t even any plaster saints or angels. On little Tom Hansbury’s grave, there was a small stuffed lamb, moldy from dew and rain. It looked pretty bad, but of course, parents bereaved of small children had to be permitted to place toys on the graves. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, Pastor Scott would remove the lamb, just as he had removed so many plush and plastic toys and dolls over the years. The families never noticed, or if they did, they perhaps assumed the little tributes had disintegrated, filtering through the soil to mingle with the remains of their owners.

There was nothing tacky about these mementos. They were heartbreaking and touching. This plastic gnome, however, with its broad grin and its stupid garish plastic flowers made a mockery of that sad, moldering, pathetic little lamb. Pastor Scott wouldn’t stand for it. It was an affront to all serious people buried in his churchyard.

After service the following Sunday, as Anna Trilby paused to shake his hand in the doorway, Pastor Scott asked if he might have a word. Anna waited for the small congregation to exit, and then followed Pastor Scott into the rectory.

‘Have a seat, Anna,’ he began. ‘I noticed that you’ve found a replacement gnome for your mother’s grave.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Listen, I hope you don’t feel bad about throwing her gnome out. I was upset, I’ll admit, but I’ve gotten over it. It was an honest mistake, and I know you didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘Good, good,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘Anna. I know that decorating the graves of our loved ones is an important part of the grieving process, and I hate to interfere with your remembrance of your mother, but I can’t help but feel that…well, this new gnome. It’s not your mother’s gnome, is it?’

‘Well, no,’ said Anna. ‘I bought it at Mayo’s.’

‘Yes, you see.’

‘I’m sorry, Pastor. I don’t see your point. Is there a problem with the gnome being there?’

‘Well, Anna,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘I know your mother liked her gnome. But I’m sure that there were a great many things she enjoyed that even you would agree it would not be appropriate to festoon her grave with. For example, perhaps she liked cake, or flannel pajamas, or bridge. But you wouldn’t put any of those things on her grave, would you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Anna. ‘I guess I…. Well, for one thing, a gnome is garden statuary. So it makes sense for it to be outdoors in a natural place. My mother loved to garden.’

‘Yes, but this isn’t even her gnome!’ said Pastor Scott. ‘She never met it – it’s a gnome from Mayo’s! And I’m sorry, Anna, I don’t mean to go on about this, but I just feel that gnomes are comical. And they are also fairytale creatures. They’re not real. An animal or an angel is one thing, but a gnome in a churchyard? I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel it’s appropriate.’

‘Well,’ said Anna. ‘I don’t know what to say! I’m sorry if you don’t personally care for gnomes, but it’s my mother and my gnome, and with all due respect, Pastor, I don’t see that it’s any business of yours.’

‘Well, it’s my churchyard, and I have to look out for the interests of all of its occupants, not your mother alone.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, have there been complaints? Is my gnome disturbing the peace of my mother’s neighbors?’

‘Let’s not be disrespectful,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘This is exactly the kind of flippancy regarding the dead that I fear the presence of garden gnomes is likely to encourage.’

‘I can’t continue this conversation,’ said Anna, rising. ‘You’re making me very angry. I think you’ve overstepped your bounds.’

‘Anna, I’ll let you have some time to think over what I’ve said. I think that when you’ve calmed down and thought about it rationally, you’ll realize that—

–But Anna had slammed through the door.

Pastor Scott was sorry to have had a confrontation. He had meant to be more sensitive, but there simply was no precedent for dealing with such a situation. He thought it over at length, but determined that, awkward as it might be, he was in the right. The gnome had to go. If Anna did not remove it in three days, he would.

The next day, Karen Allen knocked on his door again. She came in and settled herself without waiting for permission.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened with Anna Trilby?’ she opened, as if he were a naughty child come home from school with a note.

‘I told her, quite rightly, that I didn’t feel that garden gnome was appropriate in the churchyard, and of course, she wasn’t happy. I’m sorry to have upset her, but I stand by my objection, and furthermore, I’ve decided to remove it in two more days if she doesn’t come to her senses, so you might want to talk to her, Karen. Perhaps you could say it more sensitively than I managed – make her see that it could be seen as disrespectful. I have the other parishioners to think of.’

‘Have any of them complained?’

‘Well, who would?’

‘Pastor Scott, is there anything the matter?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It just seems…well, I mean, this isn’t like you, to get so worked up over something so trivial. I can’t help but think you must be under some stress.’

‘I am not worked up, Karen. I am perfectly calm. I simply don’t think it’s appropriate for people coming to mourn their loved ones to be confronted with a grinning, silly, plastic hunk of whimsy. It’s ridiculous, and it’s sacrilegious, and I will not allow it.’

‘Well, really, Pastor. It’s just a gnome.’

‘Now it’s a gnome. Next week, it’ll be a pink plastic flamingo, then it will be a lawn jockey, then a pinball machine. A line must be drawn somewhere!’

‘Alright,’ said Karen. ‘I’ll talk to Anna.’

The next day, the gnome had friends. There was now a gnome on Biddy Morris’s grave, as well – a garish little fellow with a pipe and a kerchief – and a large plaster chipmunk eating a nut on Tobin Hart’s.

‘Karen,’ called Pastor Scott.

‘I know, I know,’ said Karen, near at hand. ‘I tried. I talked to Anna, I tried to explain your objections. But she seemed to think you were attacking her. And I guess she told Maeve and Becky, and they said they thought the gnome was cute and you didn’t speak for them, and they thought they’d cheer up their own loved ones’ graves as well.’

‘It’s mutiny,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘I can’t believe they would spite me this way. Karen, I’m not trying to be the heavy here. I feel it’s inappropriate! I have to see after the interests of the dead.’

‘Oh,’ said Karen. ‘Why don’t you just let it go? Be the bigger person.’

‘It’s not about me, Karen,’ said Pastor Scott, and he gathered up the gnomes and the foolish chipmunk and carried them into the rectory.

By the following Sunday, none of the ornaments’ owners had stopped by to discuss their absence. Pastor Scott assumed they’d realized they’d been behaving badly, and had decided to let the matter drop. He prepared his sermon as usual, and the congregation came in, settled itself, and all was as it had been on previous Sundays. Pastor Scott felt relaxed. There were no bad vibes in the air. He was certain that everyone had decided to be adults again.

At the usual point in the service, Pastor Scott invited the children to come forward for their special sermon. This Sunday, he’d decided to speak on faith.

‘How many of you believe God exists?’ he asked the children, and was pleased to see most of them raised their hands.

‘Whew!’ he said. ‘That’s a lot of you. How do you know He exists? Have you seen Him?’

There was a faint little chorus of no’s, and a couple of yes’s. The congregation tittered.

‘Well, then,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘How do we know God exists? Because Pastor Scott says so? Because your moms and dads say He does?’

‘We believe,’ said Katie Mullaley.

‘That’s exactly correct, Katie,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘We have faith. Faith is belief without proof. We have faith in things that we can’t see or hear or touch, but we know that they’re there. Like love, or happiness, or Santa Claus.’

‘There is no Santa Claus,’ said Mike Anders, obnoxiously.

‘Well,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘Some people say there is no God. We know they’re wrong, though, because we have faith that God exists. We have faith in God, just as we have faith in the love of our moms and dads, and just as we know that our moms and dads and grandmas and grandpas love us, even when they die, even though we can’t see or hear them anymore. We know they’re there, looking down on us. Are there any other things you can think of that you have faith in, that you know are there, even though you can’t prove it?’

‘Gnomes,’ said Amber Trilby.

Pastor Scott felt suddenly sick. He felt the eyes of the congregation upon him.

‘Well, Amber,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘Gnomes are a little different than God. You see, gnomes are like…well, they’re like the characters in a book or a movie. They aren’t real, but we like to pretend they are, because it’s fun.’

‘But God is a character in a book,’ said Mike Anders, who was getting too old to be coming down to children’s sermon.

‘That’s true, Mike,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘But the Bible is a true book. Like your history book. It’s about things and people that really happened.’

‘But if God is in a book, and gnomes are in a book, and we can’t see any of them, how do we know God is real, but gnomes aren’t?’ said Amber.

‘Well,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘Because many people feel God in their lives. And people don’t feel gnomes.’

‘I have fairies in my closet!’ said Stephanie Wiseman, and attempted to tell a long story involving a fairy. The congregation laughed.

‘Santa Claus isn’t real,’ interrupted Mike Anders. ‘But everybody says he is – him and his elves. Maybe God’s fake and gnomes are real. Or maybe God has gnomes like Santa has elves.’

‘Well, now we’re being silly,’ said Pastor Scott. ‘The point is, it’s good to have faith, but we must be selective about our beliefs. Thank you, and God bless you, children.’

The children returned to their pews, and Pastor Scott took a minute at the lectern to collect himself.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Faith. We all try to have faith, and sometimes it’s difficult. Faith in each other. Faith in the world. Faith in justice. Faith in God. Faith in ourselves. Faith in our ability to maintain our own faith.’ He was just riffing now. He felt suddenly subject to the judgment of the sea of faces before him.

‘Let’s all make an effort,’ he said. ‘To pass this faith on to our children. To teach them that God is real, that God works in all of our lives, and to show them that God is a true and glorious mystery…better than Santa Claus, better than unicorns, better than gnomes. Because through God lies everlasting life. And that’s no mere fairy story.’

Never before had Pastor Scott wished he could just run into the rectory after a sermon, and skip out on greeting the congregation at the door. He felt like an actor who’d just bombed onstage, but, like the actor would do, he bravely held his head up high and marched to the door, to shake hands as if all was well.

When Anna Trilby reached him, she merely said, ‘Thank you, Pastor.’

‘Anna,’ he replied. He thought perhaps she’d wait to speak to him, but was both relieved and unsettled when she headed for her car with Greg and Amber. Perhaps at last they’d reached the end of it.

On Monday, there were five gnomes in the churchyard. Two smoking gnomes, a gnome dancing a jig, a gnome with a bird on its shoulder, and the gnome with the insolent wink. On Tuesday, they were joined by a small plaster deer, and on Wednesday, a plastic snowman with blinking lights for buttons. Pastor Scott was hurt. He was being mocked, that was all – blatantly and cruelly mocked. This was no schoolyard! This was a church, and he was its leader. He was God’s chosen spokesman here. He had pledged himself to the welfare of this congregation, and they were throwing his fealty back in his face. Well, fine. If that’s the way they felt about it, let them put up all the gnomes they liked. If they wanted a tacky, irreverent, idolatrous churchyard, then that was their lookout.

Pastor Scott took to his bed for the remainder of the week. Meanwhile, the gnomes continued to multiply, bringing along playmates of every conceivable genus and specie, costumed any which way, engaging in all manner of activities and intermixing freely. With no regard for decorum or shame, they filled the churchyard, owning it utterly, blotting out the solemn graves and burying the dead.

–

Oh, how rapturously, tremendously, monumentally do I adore Gide! I want to wrap Gide around myself + go running through the streets! I want to wear Gide around as a hat! I want to lick every page of Gide, to absorb it through my pores, to drink it like water! I want to bathe myself in Gide. Which reminds me: bathe daily.

–

Was lying in bed telling H. how much I desired to possess her utterly. Not sure what she said in response, as I was busy contemplating how pretentious my use of word “utterly.” Do not use “utterly” in intimate confessions, as it sounds premeditated + insincere. At any rate, suppose H. did not feel same, as I am now writing this, rather than possessing her utterly. Wait, did she go home? …Shit.

–

Had baby.

–

Have discovered Kafka! Oh, bless! A thousand, shuddering, deep, rapturous cries of joy spring from my soul! How did I live + breathe + eat before I knew of this felicity? From now on, it’s all Kafka, all the time.

– 

Bathe every other day.

–

I do not feel X. with my son, as much as with H. Not at all X. with Philip. A little bit X. with our current congressional representative. X. with coworker Y. definitely, but only on Tuesdays. Not so much X. with anyone on the weekends…is this because of weekends, or because of X.?

–

It seems that a certain pore on my right cheek is slightly larger than those around it. Is this something that can be corrected without great trouble or expense? Look into it.

–

Today, created self, destroyed self, + created self again, as usual. Yesterday not so productive – did not create self so much as merely tinker with aspects of self. Philip walked in while tinkering with self. Embarrassed.

After reading the above, considered erasing. But then, reconsidered. I ought to be honest with myself, even (or especially?) in aspects of myself I would rather were not so. Don’t be embarrassed of revealing self in front of Philip, who, after all, loves me. And don’t be embarrassed of admitting (to self or [especially?] in print) own embarrassment about embarrassment, or, for that matter, of admitting embarrassment about embarrassment over own embarrassment.

Considered erasing above, as conclusion drawn seems to negate necessity of initial observation. Reconsidered. All is valid. Do not waste time on such circuitous contemplation in future.

–

Bathe, Susan. Bathe. Damn it, how hard is this to remember?!

Seriously, last night, as I was looking at this woman (and trying to stop looking at her), a naked old man totally ran back and forth in the apartment under hers. I am not even joking, I swear. What is with these people? Being filthy rich and having an enormous apartment in Soho must make you want to turn on all the lights and pace nakedly back and forth before the windows. How can they not realize they’re visible? I’m never leaving any curtains open ever again.

My last year in Chicago, I lived in a fourth-floor studio with big windows facing out over a parking lot, which was ringed by distant apartment buildings. I couldn’t directly see any other people in their apartments, and so I breezily concluded that no one could see me, and lived for a year without curtains. I now wonder how many of my activities ended up photographed and posted on the internet.

I have become more conscious of curtains lately, as there is currently a giant gang of men working construction in my backyard, and continually bringing buckets of rubble up from under the house, right in front of my street-level windows. From what I can tell, the crew consists of a pair of Hispanic men, exactly the same height, one with facial hair and one without, who both wear hoodies and are involved in a continual fireman’s ladder of excavating rubble buckets from whatever is going on in the backyard, and one gangly, furious-looking Polish man who stands around smoking and glaring at the other two. Plus, my landlord, who shows up from time to time to conduct an endless lecture in deafening, emphatic Polish. I’m frankly at a loss to imagine what he could find to discuss at such length. I’ve never talked so much at a stretch in my life, and he ,shows up to orate at least twice a day. So, that’s the entire cast of characters as I’ve spotted them, but it sounds like there must be at least fifteen additional people working back there. I can’t tell for sure, because shortly after all this work began, the back door into our garden apartment (and our main source of natural light) was nailed shut from the outside and then covered over in thick black plastic, momentarily confusing me one morning into thinking I’d slept straight through the day. So whatever’s going on back there is a mystery to me.

Every time I enter or exit my apartment, the workers stop whatever they are doing (emerging with a bucket from just under my bedroom, or standing atop the enormous economy-size dumpster that’s been permanently installed in the street outside my window) and stare at me until I’ve passed. It’s really uncomfortable, and my initial impulse was to ignore them steadily, but that was uncomfortable as well, because I was forced to do so multiple times a day. And I felt like a bitch, since they are working on my apartment. So, at one point, as I passed one of the twins (the one with the facial hair), I said hello.

‘Heeeyyy, babyyy,’ he replied. Fine. Bitchface and steady refusal of eye contact it is, then.

Given this environment, I’m newly interested in the opacity of my curtains. When I lived in the back of the apartment, I had no curtains at all for the better part of a year. Then, summer came, and there were boys in the next yard. I bought a $.99 shower curtain, and then realized it was transparent, so I bought another one, and between the two of them, I felt fairly private. Then, I moved to the front of the apartment, with windows right on the busy sidewalk. I bought some nice curtains this time, and spent a good bit of time with a friend, taking turns with one of us standing on the sidewalk and the other positioning herself directly in front and behind my various lamps, dancing around and removing clothing, and I came away from these experiments fairly confident that my activities weren’t particularly observable from the street.

The other windows in the apartment, however, were not crash-tested. Until the back door was papered over, the guys in the back yard used to watch us as we made coffee in the mornings, as if we were some sort of mildly interesting zoo animals. I don’t miss the company, although I’m sorry for the loss of light. Additionally, there’s a little window in our shower that gives onto the backyard, but it’s frosted and marbled. Still, it’s a little disconcerting to bathe with several men carrying on a conversation just on the other side of the glass. And one of my roommates hung a scrim of washrags over the frosted glass, which immediately made me paranoid that perhaps the window was transparent after all, and I’d given everyone a show with that first morning’s shower.

During the day, I work in a cubicle with giant windows, and the immediate view is of the skyscraper opposite. It is close enough for me to see everyone across working, and even to tell if there is text or pictures on their computer screens. I sit with my back to the windows, though, and occasionally I forget that I don’t really have any privacy, especially after dark. I have yet to catch the eye of someone in the building opposite, but I’m conscious of them there behind me, and I’ll often wonder if I’m being watched and turn around to see.

This afternoon, for example, I realized I had a little boogie, and dealt with it in the usual way. But then, I wheeled around guiltily to see if anyone in the building opposite had witnessed this. And directly opposite was a man standing right up in the window, wearing a yarmulke and bowing repeatedly over his little book (the Torah? I don’t know from Judaism). To either side of him, his coworkers worked on, unawares. Now, that’s not particularly embarrassing, but…it’s private, yeah? Later, I turned around again, and he was plastered against the window, staring at me, or someone or something in my building. What do you do if you make eye contact with someone in an opposite building? Do you wave? Or does that puncture the polite fiction that, as we all go on about our private businesses in bright and framing windows, we are unseen?