I hope that if human beings are born with anything it's a seed of dignity. Nobody's perfect, but it has been a personal endeavour of mine to grow that seed and have it flourish in spite of the human race. Sometimes life drowns out hope and so, we flounder. For me, all it takes is a storm to remind me that there is something greater than individual misfortune or fortune out there. Outside, it's storming. "When the rain comes, we run and hide our heads. We might as well be dead." (Beatles.) I have a tendency to walk outside, slowly, in the rain. Something about water from the sky always gives me the feeling of replenishing those intangible things, like dignity, that I have lost or been robbed of. Of course, the rain would give me these things. It has nothing to do with people.
Now, there's something to think about: people. Over the past few years, I have not changed or assimilated into the crowds. Rather, I have learned how to pretend up to a point. All things pass away and through in the end. The relevance of all of this? A shame that I am working through inside myself: shame because I am a fool, proven, once again. I trusted in the myth of community, of acceptance, of what-goes-around-comes-around, and of the sincerity in what some leaders preach. I am always foolish because I was born with hope and not dignity--dignity, if I possess any, came from elsewhere. I forever harbor hope even in the realm beyond despair.
What am I talking about? Hypocrisy at its greatest. A quintessential text-book case. Before I get into this I should make clear that I am a secularist Jew and my faith resides in the potential of humanity to transcend the animal human and to attain the Humane quality. I reiterate: the potential. My faith resides in the race's hybridity and our ability to rationalize and overcome our inherent fear of "Other" in order to attain new levels of social and individual evolution. But all of this is nothing but a pleasant and foolish dream. It is merely potential. Still, I dare to hope.
In the beginning (yes, let us begin in a biblical fashion), I was brought up with and taught Jewish values. It all boils down to standing on one leg and summing up the entire point of every tradition and every teaching with "Love your neighbor as you do yourself." Silly me, I take that to heart. Yes, I'll take in an absolute stranger for an indefinite amount of time, until they're family, because it's what is right. No questions asked. No favours. Because blood is not thicker than water. Intentions are. Actions are.
When you preach a doctrine, follow it. I'm not much of a preacher in that sense. I just do what I think is right and for no other reason other than the fact that I have faith in its correctness. I don't do anything for a prize. I do it for myself and for the Providence that tells me that it is the right thing to do.
But people are selfish and preach good (but often empty) words with bad intentions and the actions (or inactions) follow the intent. Sincerity is not in the formula for being accepted, but rather for being excluded. I must say, beforehand, that this is directed at a specific group of people. I must claim them as my own: the contemporary American Jewish community.
I have been thinking about this in depth for a long while: what went wrong? I'm about to attend a program in Berlin that has me reading the history of Jewish life in Germany over two centuries (1743-1933). The Jews of Europe, and particularly Germany, tried to assimilate; they were more German than Germans; more French than the French; etc. etc. Yet, everyone knows what happened in the end and anyone who denies it is proof of this incontrovertible fact: assimilation is impossible.
Except, possibly, right here in the United States. We are so well assimilated, if we choose to be, because we have been allowed, unceasingly to do so, that we have utterly forgotten, as a community, what it means to be Jewish. All the while we flaunt the jargon of Mitzvot and Tzedakah. This is all only rhetoric, a platform from which to jump and reach the ever-coveted status-quo. Fortunately, I refuse to jump. I even refuse to climb to the platform. And thus, I am a secular, well-assimilated, strong American patriot who realizes that I will never fit in to the communities into which I was born, because I choose to adhere to my dignity. I also realize that I will never be fully accepted into the American community, either, precisely because I am both an American Jew and a Jewish American.
Thus is my dilemma. I am not a neutral entity, but one who by my very nature walks the line between the two worlds of masked exclusion and feigned acceptance. For me, the line becomes an entirely new, third world. I will claim that all of us Jews who dwell in the midst of the American diaspora make up this third world. I will also acknowledge that most of us fail to recognize its existence and claim allegiance to one side of the line or the other, or disavow ourselves of the idea of Jewishness, assimilation, and what it means to be an American Jew or Jewish American. This disavowal is perhaps even worse than denial, for it resides in ignorance and the antithesis of Jewishness: amnesia. We have forgotten our roots.
Yet history will tell us that for all of our lofty dreams, we remain rooted, despite our forgetfulness. History reminds us that Jews are those deemed so by the general population and not by individuals or those who claim membership in the Jewish community.
And yet my friends range from Christian to Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, agnostic, and atheist, and from Jewish to outright confused, and to indifferent. I will not call this assimilation and I will not call this a "melting pot," but a tentative and cynical faith in that human potential to transcend the animalistic aspect of our selves.
I am a fish half-way out of water, and the water is my element. I am one who drowns in the air. Yet I am aware of my precarious position in this strange and ambiguous world. My tail is on the land and my eyes in the waves. I am half drowned in air and still, indecisive. Nevertheless, I suspect that has and always will be my position, for I can neither neglect the religious part of me nor abandon the secular. My comfort rests in the notion that I do not pretend to be one or the other, but somehow, a master of both. Thus, I must live in a curious brine of cynicism alongside hope, expecting nothing of the world but what I may make of it.
Of course, the idealist in me continues to seek out a dignified existence, a utopia of thought where we live in a world like "Imagine"--it's easy if you try...The idealist pulls back and sees the world from a distance, where dignity and hope can be derived from something as simple as rain, and where small children don't grow up only to die for some old man's esoteric agenda. But I'm not stupid. Idealist, I may be, but even more so: a Realist. On any plain, I am a fish half-way out of water and I drown in air, one eye above the surface and one below.
I cling to my roots.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
A friend's question wakes up the Little Girl. The answer comes.
"So, you question us on matters of Good and Evil," says the angel, Micha'el. "We have been here before, have we not?"
"I have," she says. "But not with you. And my questions weren't really answered."
"Perhaps they were. You just couldn't comprehend." The angel sighs.
"Then what was the point?"
"Fair enough. I will begin again. What is it you wish to know?"
"These meetings with you and the others...could the same thing happen with your opposites? Could I meet with a demon instead?"
"This is not your question, but a favor you are fulfilling."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. Except people get their answers. Although they may not comprehend. We do our jobs as best we can. But you may act as a liaison this time, since you, too, are genuinely interested, if not in the actual meeting , then in the theoretical meeting."
"Ok."
"You must understand that the distance between an angel and a demon is vast. As vast, in fact, as the distance between you and I. An angel exists on a higher level of order. Not because we are better, but because of our natures. An angel follows a path and does not stray. A human being has freewill and therefore exists in chaos.
"Let us take the 'curse of holy'--of course, it is not really a curse in the manner of demons. This is merely a translation from the untranslateable. Holiness is not a curse, you see, but a covenant we have made. There is no way for us to break it, much like the Brit Millah cannot be broken. Skin cannot be grown back. Yet we see the freedoms of the human being, and the follies. It is a matter of definition. 'Angel.' We are messengers and you see, quite clearly, how we often fail."
"But that's because people aren't listening properly. Or listening at all."
"That is besides the point. Whether one believes in our existence or not, whether one listens or not, it is our purpose, our reason for being--only to convey a Truth in a manner in which a person will comprehend. The 'curse of holy,' then, is our failure to do so and part of that failure is due to the difference in our natures. We cannot show you the beauties of Eternity. We can only convey the idea. If you merely glimpsed it, and I mean directly, you would die. You would lose yourself. Human beings are meant to live until their time is up. Then, you may see Eternity, but still in a different way than we do. You become it and we observe and remain couriers between Eternity and this, the Mortal World.
"And you, the human in this relationship, cannot show us the beauties of the Moral World. Nor can you show us the horrors. Sure, we comprehend the tragedy but we can never feel it. Yes, you will say that's a blessing. And for you, we are able to comfort you. But for the majority who do not listen, mostly because they do not know how, our inability to experience prevents us from being able to truly make a connection, to teach them how to listen when they don't even know we are here. Yet we persist, and gladly.
"And so you ask of meeting with demons and I will say that they are our Curse. You have met with demons many times. All of you have. For unlike angels who exist beyond this realm, demons are integral.
"Look at it this way, my dear: Every time you look in a mirror, you converse with a demon. Every time you encounter another one of the human race, you encounter a demon. Freewill is the creator of demons and the human race chooses. And yes, we angels fear that evil in you and yet, we are intrigued. The human race chooses and there are some who choose goodness, right over wrong, listening over deafness. Nonetheless, it is in the nature of Man to make mistakes, thus the demon in everyone, thus the residue of evil that forever lingers in the air you breathe."
"But aren't there some who are solid? Who possess people? Who have their own names?"
"Certainly. People allow themselves to be possessed in every moment. You have to understand that possession is not from the outside, but from within. And human beings are solid, are they not? And most of you have names, as do your vices.
"Most of you are mongrels, good and evil mixed. To meet with a demon directly, you must merely make a choice. You have already made it, have you not?"
The Little Girl smiles: "I have. I'm talking with you."
"Yes. You are."
"So, you question us on matters of Good and Evil," says the angel, Micha'el. "We have been here before, have we not?"
"I have," she says. "But not with you. And my questions weren't really answered."
"Perhaps they were. You just couldn't comprehend." The angel sighs.
"Then what was the point?"
"Fair enough. I will begin again. What is it you wish to know?"
"These meetings with you and the others...could the same thing happen with your opposites? Could I meet with a demon instead?"
"This is not your question, but a favor you are fulfilling."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. Except people get their answers. Although they may not comprehend. We do our jobs as best we can. But you may act as a liaison this time, since you, too, are genuinely interested, if not in the actual meeting , then in the theoretical meeting."
"Ok."
"You must understand that the distance between an angel and a demon is vast. As vast, in fact, as the distance between you and I. An angel exists on a higher level of order. Not because we are better, but because of our natures. An angel follows a path and does not stray. A human being has freewill and therefore exists in chaos.
"Let us take the 'curse of holy'--of course, it is not really a curse in the manner of demons. This is merely a translation from the untranslateable. Holiness is not a curse, you see, but a covenant we have made. There is no way for us to break it, much like the Brit Millah cannot be broken. Skin cannot be grown back. Yet we see the freedoms of the human being, and the follies. It is a matter of definition. 'Angel.' We are messengers and you see, quite clearly, how we often fail."
"But that's because people aren't listening properly. Or listening at all."
"That is besides the point. Whether one believes in our existence or not, whether one listens or not, it is our purpose, our reason for being--only to convey a Truth in a manner in which a person will comprehend. The 'curse of holy,' then, is our failure to do so and part of that failure is due to the difference in our natures. We cannot show you the beauties of Eternity. We can only convey the idea. If you merely glimpsed it, and I mean directly, you would die. You would lose yourself. Human beings are meant to live until their time is up. Then, you may see Eternity, but still in a different way than we do. You become it and we observe and remain couriers between Eternity and this, the Mortal World.
"And you, the human in this relationship, cannot show us the beauties of the Moral World. Nor can you show us the horrors. Sure, we comprehend the tragedy but we can never feel it. Yes, you will say that's a blessing. And for you, we are able to comfort you. But for the majority who do not listen, mostly because they do not know how, our inability to experience prevents us from being able to truly make a connection, to teach them how to listen when they don't even know we are here. Yet we persist, and gladly.
"And so you ask of meeting with demons and I will say that they are our Curse. You have met with demons many times. All of you have. For unlike angels who exist beyond this realm, demons are integral.
"Look at it this way, my dear: Every time you look in a mirror, you converse with a demon. Every time you encounter another one of the human race, you encounter a demon. Freewill is the creator of demons and the human race chooses. And yes, we angels fear that evil in you and yet, we are intrigued. The human race chooses and there are some who choose goodness, right over wrong, listening over deafness. Nonetheless, it is in the nature of Man to make mistakes, thus the demon in everyone, thus the residue of evil that forever lingers in the air you breathe."
"But aren't there some who are solid? Who possess people? Who have their own names?"
"Certainly. People allow themselves to be possessed in every moment. You have to understand that possession is not from the outside, but from within. And human beings are solid, are they not? And most of you have names, as do your vices.
"Most of you are mongrels, good and evil mixed. To meet with a demon directly, you must merely make a choice. You have already made it, have you not?"
The Little Girl smiles: "I have. I'm talking with you."
"Yes. You are."
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
June 17, 2009
Before I say anything else, I just want to let everyone know that I'm posting all of these on a blog, so if you miss any, you can look them up at this address: http://escapefromkipple.blogspot.com/ --I will post this address at the top of all entries from now on.
It's been a while. I basically gave up on going to Israel because I have no funding and no one will help me within the Jewish community in Atlanta, stating that it is "unethical to help an individual" whatever that means. I have a $1500 deposit to hold my place in OTZMA due Monday. Let's just say that for all of my cynicism, I remain dichotomic: I hold the world both dear and repulsive simultaneously, hopeful and hopeless, etc. etc. People disgust me but they also make me happy. And let's just say that help and good will comes from anywhere, even unthought of and surprising places. For the first time in a while, I believe that I will be putting my faith in people for once. Not people I thought I would be putting faith into, but people, nonetheless. We'll see how it all plays out.
Either way, I've been praying hard and hoping more than I've hoped in a long time. My letter with my plea for help funding my year in Israel has gone out to a million people and people are responding for once. I am hopeful. I work and then I wait.
What's playing in the background? Jackson Browne: "Late for the Sky"
I saw him in concert three years ago with my then-friend James at the Philadelphia Folk Festival. It was great. When I was there I happened to sit next to a woman who had a guest pass around her neck...issued to her by Jackson himself. She told me to send her a demo. I never did. But perhaps she'll remember me and listen and like what she hears.
For the past two weeks, I've been doing more than scrambling for funds for Israel. I've been going to the gym, trying out Zumba and Yogalates classes. I'm so sore but feel really good and, as usual, once I start, start shrinking so fast that it scares me. In eight days I've gone down one size. I still miss dancing. The Yoga instructor is an ex-Broadway dancer, out of Britain, who came over while performing with the show "Cats". We started talking about dancing and she said that she thought I was a dancer when she saw me just because of the way I move. That surprised me. I didn't think it was that apparent in ME. But I suppose so. Then we started talking about setting up ballroom classes at the JCC here, which would be splendid.
On other notes, I finally started working on my book, Early Silver, again. And reading for the Leo Baeck program. I've been slacking like no other on the reading. I read five books in three days of a series, just for fun. James Patterson. Seriously...not my favorite of eloquent writers but seriously good for brain mush food and entertainment. All a great procrastination technique to avoid Amos Elon's straight history text, The Pity of It All: A Portrait of the German-Jewish Epoch 1743-1933. I thought it was supposed to make things clearer, but now I'm more thoroughly confused about how the Holocaust came to be than ever before. I still have about 150 pages to go. I read 100 today. A record for this kind of book. But that's how I work when I'm on a deadline for school or work. Efficiently and quickly.
The temperature was around 95 today. Not too bad, actually. And it's supposed to start raining again next week. We've been getting extreme torrential downpours lately and we're almost out of the drought! Over the weekend, I took my first solo road trip to visit my friend Steve in Alabama and there was an AMAZING tornado-esque storm about two hours after I arrived. The air pressure was insane, thunder and lightning everywhere. Rain coming down with drops the size of me from the waste up. Serious rain. I loved it. The wind was so strong, trees were bent all the way over to the ground.
Playing in the background now: The Eagles, "Best of My Love"
Anyhow, I'll keep you posted. I leave for England in two weeks from today. July 1. Then, the adventure begins. After Europe, like I said, I'll either go on to Israel or pray that one of the jobs I've applied for comes through. I'm also applying for more in the meantime. I suppose I'll just have to wait. Until then...
Before I say anything else, I just want to let everyone know that I'm posting all of these on a blog, so if you miss any, you can look them up at this address: http://escapefromkipple.blogspot.com/ --I will post this address at the top of all entries from now on.
It's been a while. I basically gave up on going to Israel because I have no funding and no one will help me within the Jewish community in Atlanta, stating that it is "unethical to help an individual" whatever that means. I have a $1500 deposit to hold my place in OTZMA due Monday. Let's just say that for all of my cynicism, I remain dichotomic: I hold the world both dear and repulsive simultaneously, hopeful and hopeless, etc. etc. People disgust me but they also make me happy. And let's just say that help and good will comes from anywhere, even unthought of and surprising places. For the first time in a while, I believe that I will be putting my faith in people for once. Not people I thought I would be putting faith into, but people, nonetheless. We'll see how it all plays out.
Either way, I've been praying hard and hoping more than I've hoped in a long time. My letter with my plea for help funding my year in Israel has gone out to a million people and people are responding for once. I am hopeful. I work and then I wait.
What's playing in the background? Jackson Browne: "Late for the Sky"
I saw him in concert three years ago with my then-friend James at the Philadelphia Folk Festival. It was great. When I was there I happened to sit next to a woman who had a guest pass around her neck...issued to her by Jackson himself. She told me to send her a demo. I never did. But perhaps she'll remember me and listen and like what she hears.
For the past two weeks, I've been doing more than scrambling for funds for Israel. I've been going to the gym, trying out Zumba and Yogalates classes. I'm so sore but feel really good and, as usual, once I start, start shrinking so fast that it scares me. In eight days I've gone down one size. I still miss dancing. The Yoga instructor is an ex-Broadway dancer, out of Britain, who came over while performing with the show "Cats". We started talking about dancing and she said that she thought I was a dancer when she saw me just because of the way I move. That surprised me. I didn't think it was that apparent in ME. But I suppose so. Then we started talking about setting up ballroom classes at the JCC here, which would be splendid.
On other notes, I finally started working on my book, Early Silver, again. And reading for the Leo Baeck program. I've been slacking like no other on the reading. I read five books in three days of a series, just for fun. James Patterson. Seriously...not my favorite of eloquent writers but seriously good for brain mush food and entertainment. All a great procrastination technique to avoid Amos Elon's straight history text, The Pity of It All: A Portrait of the German-Jewish Epoch 1743-1933. I thought it was supposed to make things clearer, but now I'm more thoroughly confused about how the Holocaust came to be than ever before. I still have about 150 pages to go. I read 100 today. A record for this kind of book. But that's how I work when I'm on a deadline for school or work. Efficiently and quickly.
The temperature was around 95 today. Not too bad, actually. And it's supposed to start raining again next week. We've been getting extreme torrential downpours lately and we're almost out of the drought! Over the weekend, I took my first solo road trip to visit my friend Steve in Alabama and there was an AMAZING tornado-esque storm about two hours after I arrived. The air pressure was insane, thunder and lightning everywhere. Rain coming down with drops the size of me from the waste up. Serious rain. I loved it. The wind was so strong, trees were bent all the way over to the ground.
Playing in the background now: The Eagles, "Best of My Love"
Anyhow, I'll keep you posted. I leave for England in two weeks from today. July 1. Then, the adventure begins. After Europe, like I said, I'll either go on to Israel or pray that one of the jobs I've applied for comes through. I'm also applying for more in the meantime. I suppose I'll just have to wait. Until then...
Saturday, June 06, 2009
You can definitely tell the wealth of an institution by the quality of its toilet paper. When you've got a high school with the plushy "Charmin" aka "it's good for your baby-soft-butt" toilet paper and automatic flushers, you know you've got some overly rich patrons on your hands. Too bad they're not my hands, but at least the benefit of the plushy paper is mine.
Ok, so I was at a place with those lovely benefactors today, where they all dress their clone children (all under the age of five) in pink with pink bows and they all run around in one pink fluff flurry like little cotton-candy avalanches across the floor, all giggly. Aah, I wish life were that simple. I pick them out by their struts: who's going to be a nerd in ten years and who's going to be a player. This one, that one. "How can you even tell the difference?" Oh, yes. That. I can't. They'll grow up to be Hallway Girls, all upper middle-class and pampered to perfection in a line and I'll be singing "Bless the Children" in the background. I'll be (like) too old to even (like) think about walking those hallways for a visit to old teachers, so I'll be lucky enough to miss their P.D.A. Their parents will donate to their self-righteousness and the bathrooms will be stocked fit to burst with the plushy and I will be proud of my grunginess and roughing-it style: newspapers and scrap paper recycled. Nothing goes to waste.
I've been busy, as usual, before today and before the pink fluff haven that brought me back to reminiscing about my Day School days. Getting everything in order, seeing friends off to Israel and Italy. The news came in on Thursday for me, though: I made it into OTZMA and now I'm hoping for those last funds and for scholarships to come through so I can be on my way. I will. Spent yesterday dealing with stupid student loan companies deferring. Have to resume that on Monday. One won't let me defer right now because I'm not in a "period of payment" due to the six-month grace period between graduation and loan company vulture mode. I have three weeks to get everything in order. If not, I'll deal with it from Europe.
Sorry for not writing for a few days. I've been in contemplation mode. I wrote a few days ago, but the writing slips into another kind of narrative with which some of you may not be so familiar. Seraphim are the main characters and a little girl is the other. Think of the little girl as me or you, or just a figment of the imagination.
June 4, 2009
Tonight is one of those nights where the heat keeps me awake and my mind races around like it's running for its life. I'm caught up in a very good book for once. It spits mythologies at me--and people I know. Fairy tales aren't the only places where people meet gods. Sometimes you meet them in real life, too, staring down at you from rooftops or holding your hand when you're alone in a crowd and need someone, something, to keep you afloat.
It has been a while now since I have met with angels. My life shifts into magical realism and myth. I accept it. There are some lives that cannot sustain sanity without dipping their feet in madness. Mine is one of them. I let myself float in dreams like this because these are the dreams that are real. These are the experiences that feed me.
Time is irrelevant. I skip back into your past and make it my present. This was three weeks ago, on the tip of the Cape, in Provincetown, on May 15. Angels were everywhere, and so I recorded them:
When I was young, I lived on the ocean. I used to see angels there. They spoke to me. I asked them why they deemed me worthy of holy. They said that holiness for them is a curse and human beings lack in perception.
Everything is a matter of perspective.
"You question us, yet you remain," says Micha'el.
"I know. It's for want of a friend. And if I have to go beyond humanity, I will."
And I do.
So they take me in and I understand, just a little bit, the curse of holy.
Above me, a black egret flies. Maybe it's a sign. The wind blows freely. I climb a dune and stand atop it. "Queen of the hill!" someone shouts. My arms spread out and an angel is behind me, wrapping itself around me. We clasp hands. No one else can see it.
When I was young, landlocked meant nothing to me. Water was all around but not a drop to drink. My toes are stuck in the sand and the sun beats down on me. There are some places where the perspective is more becoming of me, places where it's just me and nothing ahead but ocean.
Here, I forget sometimes that my heart is a time bomb. The clock stops and lets me live a little. I take my chances. The tide goes out. I do an about-face and resume my search for home.
This is an example of dreaming while I'm awake. I can get to a place where Time is malleable and bends to the whim of my hand. No, I cannot change the past, but I can bend it so that it is the present for observation. Yes, I can peek into the future and see its infinite possibilities and their collapse, in favour of one, as fate, or circumstance, or choice, passes them by. I can live those other choices in the state of observation, but I always come back. Fiction and reality intertwine and it doesn't matter where one ends and the other begins. If we believe something strongly enough, like angels or gods or nonexistence, eventually, it becomes real.
I dream of a house balanced precariously, like a seesaw, on a boulder in the middle of a riptide, even though the tide is low and I get to it on foot. "One day, you'll be stuck here, too,"/"You'll be here one day, too," says the person inside as he laughs and keeps the balance on a three-legged stool, and chews on an unlit pipe.
I never knew where "here" was and I may never know. Angels will say that "here" is irrelevant, too physical, as long as I am present in myself. I trust them because there has been no other reliably consistent direction.
Ok, so I was at a place with those lovely benefactors today, where they all dress their clone children (all under the age of five) in pink with pink bows and they all run around in one pink fluff flurry like little cotton-candy avalanches across the floor, all giggly. Aah, I wish life were that simple. I pick them out by their struts: who's going to be a nerd in ten years and who's going to be a player. This one, that one. "How can you even tell the difference?" Oh, yes. That. I can't. They'll grow up to be Hallway Girls, all upper middle-class and pampered to perfection in a line and I'll be singing "Bless the Children" in the background. I'll be (like) too old to even (like) think about walking those hallways for a visit to old teachers, so I'll be lucky enough to miss their P.D.A. Their parents will donate to their self-righteousness and the bathrooms will be stocked fit to burst with the plushy and I will be proud of my grunginess and roughing-it style: newspapers and scrap paper recycled. Nothing goes to waste.
I've been busy, as usual, before today and before the pink fluff haven that brought me back to reminiscing about my Day School days. Getting everything in order, seeing friends off to Israel and Italy. The news came in on Thursday for me, though: I made it into OTZMA and now I'm hoping for those last funds and for scholarships to come through so I can be on my way. I will. Spent yesterday dealing with stupid student loan companies deferring. Have to resume that on Monday. One won't let me defer right now because I'm not in a "period of payment" due to the six-month grace period between graduation and loan company vulture mode. I have three weeks to get everything in order. If not, I'll deal with it from Europe.
Sorry for not writing for a few days. I've been in contemplation mode. I wrote a few days ago, but the writing slips into another kind of narrative with which some of you may not be so familiar. Seraphim are the main characters and a little girl is the other. Think of the little girl as me or you, or just a figment of the imagination.
June 4, 2009
Tonight is one of those nights where the heat keeps me awake and my mind races around like it's running for its life. I'm caught up in a very good book for once. It spits mythologies at me--and people I know. Fairy tales aren't the only places where people meet gods. Sometimes you meet them in real life, too, staring down at you from rooftops or holding your hand when you're alone in a crowd and need someone, something, to keep you afloat.
It has been a while now since I have met with angels. My life shifts into magical realism and myth. I accept it. There are some lives that cannot sustain sanity without dipping their feet in madness. Mine is one of them. I let myself float in dreams like this because these are the dreams that are real. These are the experiences that feed me.
Time is irrelevant. I skip back into your past and make it my present. This was three weeks ago, on the tip of the Cape, in Provincetown, on May 15. Angels were everywhere, and so I recorded them:
When I was young, I lived on the ocean. I used to see angels there. They spoke to me. I asked them why they deemed me worthy of holy. They said that holiness for them is a curse and human beings lack in perception.
Everything is a matter of perspective.
"You question us, yet you remain," says Micha'el.
"I know. It's for want of a friend. And if I have to go beyond humanity, I will."
And I do.
So they take me in and I understand, just a little bit, the curse of holy.
Above me, a black egret flies. Maybe it's a sign. The wind blows freely. I climb a dune and stand atop it. "Queen of the hill!" someone shouts. My arms spread out and an angel is behind me, wrapping itself around me. We clasp hands. No one else can see it.
When I was young, landlocked meant nothing to me. Water was all around but not a drop to drink. My toes are stuck in the sand and the sun beats down on me. There are some places where the perspective is more becoming of me, places where it's just me and nothing ahead but ocean.
Here, I forget sometimes that my heart is a time bomb. The clock stops and lets me live a little. I take my chances. The tide goes out. I do an about-face and resume my search for home.
This is an example of dreaming while I'm awake. I can get to a place where Time is malleable and bends to the whim of my hand. No, I cannot change the past, but I can bend it so that it is the present for observation. Yes, I can peek into the future and see its infinite possibilities and their collapse, in favour of one, as fate, or circumstance, or choice, passes them by. I can live those other choices in the state of observation, but I always come back. Fiction and reality intertwine and it doesn't matter where one ends and the other begins. If we believe something strongly enough, like angels or gods or nonexistence, eventually, it becomes real.
I dream of a house balanced precariously, like a seesaw, on a boulder in the middle of a riptide, even though the tide is low and I get to it on foot. "One day, you'll be stuck here, too,"/"You'll be here one day, too," says the person inside as he laughs and keeps the balance on a three-legged stool, and chews on an unlit pipe.
I never knew where "here" was and I may never know. Angels will say that "here" is irrelevant, too physical, as long as I am present in myself. I trust them because there has been no other reliably consistent direction.
Friday, June 05, 2009
A year ago today, my friend Brianne died. Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. She was twenty-two years old...
I knew this one was coming. We had been waiting for a while. That's a terrible thing to say. But it's true. We knew about three weeks before that she definitely wouldn't make it. After going into remission a few times, with each remission only lasting about a month, with the last one ending in the choice between hospice and home, I prepared myself for the news of her being gone. On June 5, 2008, exactly three months after Eve died, and a few weeks after Winston Napier, I was prepared, but more in the numb kind of way.
I was working in Worcester for the summer. Info desk in the mornings, administration in the afternoons. She was having a "celebration of life" party that day. All of us, friends and family, were invited. I couldn't make it because I was in Massachusetts. She lived in Georgia. The saying that "only the good die young" seems like such a cliche to me. The good die young, but not everyone who dies young is good and not everyone who dies is young. Three months of 5ths, though, had brought the end of two twenty-two-year-olds, one by bullets and the other by disease. And one in his fifties, by choice. Two-and-a-half months later, there would be a fourty-five-year-old, too, because of a heart-attack, even though he was in top shape, in the best of health, and one of the best dancers in the country.
I swallowed my grief and held it in. I'm still holding it. Slowly, though, it dawned on me. I had been wrong all along and Douglas Adams was right: it was stupid to search for the meaning of life. It really is 42, whatever that may mean. Life is chaos. Life is madness. Life is a maelstrom of brief moments of celerity and large plains of fear. It is worth what we make of it, and only that.
So, I was an English Major. I dedicate myself to fiction and the analysis of it. I claim it tells me about life. But I know it's all only theory. Theory upon theory and I become the living dead. It's not real life. It's everyone else's. It's fantasy and fantasy is an escape. Forget the Subtle Knife. I don't need a blade to cut a window out of this world and into the next by finding the smallest of gaps in the fabric between this world and the next. All I need is a book and light to see by. Then, I'm gone. I fall in love with characters who don't exist. I cry for them and I leave real life behind.
Eventually, inevitably, I come back. I am no Sibyl Freid. But I make up names for myself. I am Nyx Waterhouse. I am Shae D. Fields. I am Aurora Borealis. The list goes on. Call me by one and I'll answer.
Yesterday, I found out that I'm going to Israel next year. As long as student loans are deferred, which is taking some maneuvering, but going well, and if more loans or scholarships will fall down on my shoulders or fly out of my ass like butterflies. Either way, it will happen. I get what I want. And I want this. I have three more weeks of Georgia before I don't see it again for at least a year. I have three more weeks of America.
Next year, I hope, will bring only life, unlike last year, where the stars were wickedly aligned. I reiterate: I hope. That's the thing with life. You never know what it'll bring and everything's a part of it. All we can do is step forward, one foot in front of the other, one by one, never missing a beat.
This is for Brianne, who I met on my sixteenth birthday, while I was singing under an awning in the rain in Southern Georgia, at Valdosta State University and there was a double rainbow in the sky. Just for me. This is for her and for Eve, and for all of us who have to keep on living despite the hell of today; it's for us, who have to prepare for anything, things that are even worse than 5A.M. cements or cancer, or hangings--and I'll stop there because we all, unfortunately, know the rest.
I only sent this out to ten of you. I'm in a crappy mood. But it's an anniversary and on anniversaries like this, I brood.
I knew this one was coming. We had been waiting for a while. That's a terrible thing to say. But it's true. We knew about three weeks before that she definitely wouldn't make it. After going into remission a few times, with each remission only lasting about a month, with the last one ending in the choice between hospice and home, I prepared myself for the news of her being gone. On June 5, 2008, exactly three months after Eve died, and a few weeks after Winston Napier, I was prepared, but more in the numb kind of way.
I was working in Worcester for the summer. Info desk in the mornings, administration in the afternoons. She was having a "celebration of life" party that day. All of us, friends and family, were invited. I couldn't make it because I was in Massachusetts. She lived in Georgia. The saying that "only the good die young" seems like such a cliche to me. The good die young, but not everyone who dies young is good and not everyone who dies is young. Three months of 5ths, though, had brought the end of two twenty-two-year-olds, one by bullets and the other by disease. And one in his fifties, by choice. Two-and-a-half months later, there would be a fourty-five-year-old, too, because of a heart-attack, even though he was in top shape, in the best of health, and one of the best dancers in the country.
I swallowed my grief and held it in. I'm still holding it. Slowly, though, it dawned on me. I had been wrong all along and Douglas Adams was right: it was stupid to search for the meaning of life. It really is 42, whatever that may mean. Life is chaos. Life is madness. Life is a maelstrom of brief moments of celerity and large plains of fear. It is worth what we make of it, and only that.
So, I was an English Major. I dedicate myself to fiction and the analysis of it. I claim it tells me about life. But I know it's all only theory. Theory upon theory and I become the living dead. It's not real life. It's everyone else's. It's fantasy and fantasy is an escape. Forget the Subtle Knife. I don't need a blade to cut a window out of this world and into the next by finding the smallest of gaps in the fabric between this world and the next. All I need is a book and light to see by. Then, I'm gone. I fall in love with characters who don't exist. I cry for them and I leave real life behind.
Eventually, inevitably, I come back. I am no Sibyl Freid. But I make up names for myself. I am Nyx Waterhouse. I am Shae D. Fields. I am Aurora Borealis. The list goes on. Call me by one and I'll answer.
Yesterday, I found out that I'm going to Israel next year. As long as student loans are deferred, which is taking some maneuvering, but going well, and if more loans or scholarships will fall down on my shoulders or fly out of my ass like butterflies. Either way, it will happen. I get what I want. And I want this. I have three more weeks of Georgia before I don't see it again for at least a year. I have three more weeks of America.
Next year, I hope, will bring only life, unlike last year, where the stars were wickedly aligned. I reiterate: I hope. That's the thing with life. You never know what it'll bring and everything's a part of it. All we can do is step forward, one foot in front of the other, one by one, never missing a beat.
This is for Brianne, who I met on my sixteenth birthday, while I was singing under an awning in the rain in Southern Georgia, at Valdosta State University and there was a double rainbow in the sky. Just for me. This is for her and for Eve, and for all of us who have to keep on living despite the hell of today; it's for us, who have to prepare for anything, things that are even worse than 5A.M. cements or cancer, or hangings--and I'll stop there because we all, unfortunately, know the rest.
I only sent this out to ten of you. I'm in a crappy mood. But it's an anniversary and on anniversaries like this, I brood.
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