I’ve been in the subways a lot, gone this way and that under the city, spent lots of quality time with my fellow zombie citizens, listening to the NYPD recorded announcements about how luggage could explode.
I’m having more memories than usual, more regrets, lost friends, lost moments - as I struggle up the stairs to the sunlight. I’m having more unexpected laughter as I walk down the street and remember something deeply funny from the speeches of the almost-five-year-old Lena.
I feel the large shadow of the justice system. So racist and arbitrary and – such a mystifying subculture. I have lawyers who are friends, but even they flabbergast me. The courts are a place to stay out of, and I’ve failed to. I’m in it. I’m in the system now.
I feel that they have no case. But I’ve had friends, smart and prosperous ones, who were innocent and lost and were remanded into custody. And I didn’t mean to get arrested, not this time. It wasn’t civil disobedience. I was hand-cuffed while I was speaking.
Now I’m staying in a friend’s apartment writing a chapter of my next book. The apartment is on 37th and Park, right near Grand Central. I walk over there and remember what happened and I feel really exposed and delicate. They can walk up to us and put us in jail any time they want.