XyWin and Win2000 - (add. NY personal experience account)l

[Mimi Gauthier LeBien mgnola@xxxxxxxx]

I have just upgraded, or rather bought a new laptop with Windows
2000.  I've been able to work with XyWin and Xy4 on my desktop with
Windows ME, however, is it possible to load XyWin onto Windows
2000? 



Also, excuse my ignorance, I know Macintosh does not use DOS, but is
there any way to run any Xywrite program, or one like it, or one
compatible to it on a Macintosh system??



Thanks.



************OFF TOPIC*************



For those interested, I have included my experience being trapped in New
York last week, below.  Bless all and peace.



Mimi Gauthier LeBien








**********

Mimi Gauthier LeBien

mgnola@xxxxxxxx

September 11-12-13-14-15-16, 2001

Manhattan




September 11th: 
       I am in New
York. I flew in Monday night and was scheduled to be on the new
"Iyanla" talk show on Tuesday (produced by Barbara Walters) to
talk about RLS, the neurological disorder I have. I was scheduled to fly
back on Tuesday afternoon after the taping, definitely a quick trip. The
producers only called me on Thursday afternoon, so this was very last
minute. "Iyanla" is syndicated CBS, NBC, and ABC. I was at the
CBS studio when the attacks happened. The show taping was cancelled, of
course. I don't know when I'll get back home.



I feel like I am in another country at times. I'm here by myself. It's
about 5:00 a.m. and I've been up since 2:00 a.m. It's hard to sleep when
you know that just a few blocks away there are thousands of people buried
under rubble.



The day of the terrorists attack, there were not enough hotel rooms to
hold all of us. In fact, all hotels were bloated with stranded people. I
thought I could come to my in-laws "room" near Washington
Square on 5th Avenue. The limousine (which in itself was Fellini-esque
driving around in Beirut...) drove me as far as he could down 5th Avenue
(in the direction of the studio), and then basically he had no other
choice but leave me curbside on 56th Street and 5th Avenue. I had
luggage, was in high heels, and yes, a girdle.  I was dressed for
the taping.   So began the hike towards hell, carrying luggage
for over fifty blocks.   By 30th, I had booted the shoes and
was barefoot, by 25th, I had purchased $6.99 slippers at Duane Reade
pharmacy.



 My biggest concern was that upon arrival, 1-5th Avenue would be
evacuated or worse, incinerated.  Walking towards the blooming
orange and black smoke, it looked like everything below 10th Street would
be gone .  Finally, I was blessed, the apartment was untouched by
terrorism.



September 12:   The city is quiet
save the ambulance, army tanks and occasional helicopters overhead. 
Missing is the familiar thunk -poom pa poom poom, -thug- of the street
-wise thug.  An eery patience hangs near downtown
Manhattan.   And there is no beat at all except perhaps in the
back of our throats.  Missing is the vogue, the petty, the
macabre.  Today we are stone cold sober.  People wander up and
down the middle of the empty streets - 5th Avenue, Park Avenue, Broadway,
what a joke, holding pictures of their loves like amputees with a phantom
limb.    What, are we all just fragments of the
other?  Each others missing parts?  I'm a thigh, you're a
stomach.



A man in the lobby of 1/5th is covered with a fine white-gray
powder.  He looks holy, like the monks who spend their lives
worshipping Death.  After mixing the silver ash of the cremated with
water from the Ganges River, he would paste it all over his body and
face.   Ghostly and skeletal he chants and
fasts.    He only eats what comes to him, he eats the
bowels of the dying and drink from their skulls.   So, this
man, this wall street, what?, shimmering in silver ash, told me he
returned to his building and picked through ground zero - told me 
he waded through a section of the building still partially up because he
heard some small voices that were waning. He said that in that part of
the building he knew there was a day care center.  He had to leave
quickly because the building was starting to crumble again. 
Everything and anything that comes out of my mouth at this point in the
conversation sounds absurdly inappropriate.



Along the streets, church doors open like Mother's arms, and we stumble
in and out of them. They welcome any of us with the warmth of candles,
cold water to drink, and the chance to get on our knees.  I've ended
up at about three different services so far and I really can't say nor
does it matter what denomination.  All I know is that on my knees is
the only position that feels appropriate at this time.



The only way to describe the look in all of our eyes is the white collar
on Wall Street, the boom boxers, the chic and the street-wise - like the
twin towers - we have all been leveled.  We look at each other with
the same eyes, that of fear and loss.  We forgot to be proud. We are
all looking for Home.



Walking home from a chapel on Wednesday, I notice an etching in coal on
the sidewalk near where i am staying: "VIGIL IN PARK AT
DUSK." 



I just returned from the vigil.   The light from candles
spreads light to others and a fire blooms in the blurred water of the
fountain.   Children light candles gleeful to play in fire and
water, yet soft in their voices, sensing the solemnity gathering like a
storm.  I smell musk, frankincense, ylang ylang, and bergamot. 
Is it 2001?  Hibiscus, calla lilies, and bleeding roses tucked in
the gate, behind which our first President's stone form seems to even
breathe.   tears,  awkward mourning, prayer,  some
song here and there...."all we are saaaaying......is give peace a
chance."........(one
voice)......alllll....we.......are......saying....."



........and the orange-black smoke still hurls, blooms, and spews like a
bad "B" movie, behind Washington Square.   It takes a
while to crank up the juice, before the blood runs in our veins again,
but it happens. 



That's the miracle. 



Hundreds maybe a thousand of us, cranking up the juice, cranking against
the thick current of apathy, invoking the spirit of the crushed, the
stunned,  the incinerated -



Dante's hell at Ground Zero.  I am convinced 5,000 lay shattered and
scattered.  I call them "The Waiting."  I 
wonder if someone might be there to "show them to their
seats."  Like an usher of sorts holding a light, guides you so
far before letting go of your arm in the dark.   Mass hysteria
of the spirit kind. 



Sitting on the concrete, can't remember the last time I sat around fire
singing "kum ba ya, my lord," no joking.  A real camp
fire.  "He's got the whole world in his hands.......he's got
you and me brothers in his hands.....he's got the fire fighters in his
hand....he's got New York City in his hand....he's got U.S.A. in his
hand...." and even as far as "he's got the Iranian people in
his hands, he's got the Iranian people in his hands......he's got
Israelis nation in his hands...."



.....another helicopter.....whak,whak,whak,whak,whak,whak..... who's
coming, who's going?



"If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the
mo?.or....rning....."

"My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, for thee I
sing..."



And when the juice is really, really, boiling and the flags are held the
highest, and we're drawing the   blood up from the center of
the earth this time,  we find ourselves really singing "start
spreading the news. .... I?m leaving today...(nervous giggles)...king of
the hill, top of the heap (what are the words, again??)...(Oh yea....)
"MY...... .....LITTLE......... ........
......TOWN................BLUUUUUUES......are.....LONGIN'
to.....STRAY!!!!!!!!!  i WANT to be a PART OF IT........NEW YORK,
NEW YORK..........(and!)............if   -  
I   -  can   -   
MAKE    -    it   
-    THERE!......" 



September 13th: I'm about 13 blocks from what
used to be the World Trade Center.  On the streets today I am
breathing in little particles in the air.  We wear bandanas,
painters masks, or cut out stockings around our mouth and
nose.   Flies in the air startle me.   I imagine what
I may be breathing in and I think of the man in The Green Mile sucking
the pain out,  and the little bugs of evil hurling out of his wide
mouth. 



And yes, I believe, we are One.... one for all, all for one.



September 14th:
        I
mostly want to be home and hold my family in my arms. Everything here is
very unreal.  "...And on the third day he rose again, according
to the scriptures..."



September 15th: Panic sets in and I am on the
phone for hours at a time.  I am able to snatch a last minute
cancellation on the #19 Crescent train to New Orleans leaving Saturday
and arriving Sunday evening.



September 16th: So, I'm home.  I did get
a plane reservation to leave out of Hartford on Saturday evening also,
but I opted for the long way, the rhythmic way.   The train
gently rocks, sings like a mamma, turns and leans close to the
ground.



o watch our land unfold before me.





Peace and Love,

Mimi