Jenny Goes to Crawford

Ok, one blank key on Susan's laptop is the "E" "D" - oh! That's what that is! And then "C" - yeah, there's a little of that one left.

So I'm on not-my-computer, sitting on not-my-bed listening to not-my-dog cry (Susan left for a swim). And I'm still trying to figure out - feel out -if going to Crawford is not-my-cause.

Bush is certainly not-my-president. Except for on paper. But I'm not going to Crawford to get him impeached or disbarred or declawed. I keep saying that I'm going to give Cindy Sheehan my support. And my presence is more potent than an email. But is it more potent than giving money to an organized peace group? Or to the Demos? What does it mean to take my body there?

I grew up in Berkeley. I should already understand this concept osmotically. My uncertainty makes me feel like I'm betraying something.

But I can hear my therapist in my head. Vaguely. Something about feeling my feelings. Something about certainty not being the point. And then finally she points out that I am in a Motel 6 in Tucson writing this and feeling strange at the same time and suggests that maybe I could try sitting with that tension for a minute.

Damn her. Where's my pill?