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11.10.2008
would that i had the proper habit of annotating my peculiar life herein
but for now
displeasing:
foam soap. So unsatisfying in assuring me of a proper handwashing! I want to self-lather, not have my soap pre-lathered. Why is the darn stuff everywhere overnight? When did the silent revolution happen? Is it just because it's cheaper to whip up air than to buy the regular pink industrial stuff?
pleasing:
the Obamas make tuna salad (old-ish footage). Finally! In my adult life, a president who's smart and liberal, and can cook Indian food. Housies and I have been speculating about whether presidents and their families miss doing everyday chores when they move into the White House. Can you imagine not getting to pick out your own produce? Corollary: does 1600 Pennsylvania Ave belong to a CSA or purchase local foods?
tempting:
neckwarmers and cute winter hats. it's been so lovely around here, weatherwise, that I can almost imagine myself having the time to knit up some of this stuff before the cold sets in.
but for now
displeasing:
foam soap. So unsatisfying in assuring me of a proper handwashing! I want to self-lather, not have my soap pre-lathered. Why is the darn stuff everywhere overnight? When did the silent revolution happen? Is it just because it's cheaper to whip up air than to buy the regular pink industrial stuff?
pleasing:
the Obamas make tuna salad (old-ish footage). Finally! In my adult life, a president who's smart and liberal, and can cook Indian food. Housies and I have been speculating about whether presidents and their families miss doing everyday chores when they move into the White House. Can you imagine not getting to pick out your own produce? Corollary: does 1600 Pennsylvania Ave belong to a CSA or purchase local foods?
tempting:
neckwarmers and cute winter hats. it's been so lovely around here, weatherwise, that I can almost imagine myself having the time to knit up some of this stuff before the cold sets in.
10.17.2008
jews in a box
chag sameach, again, yeesh
Tuesday afternoon, for the first festival meal of Sukkos, Will and I met up with two friends of mine in the BZBI sukkah at 18th and Spruce. For those not phamiliar with the Illadelph, 18th and Spruce is right near Rittenhouse Square, the toniest downtown 'hood. In Boston, think Back Bay. In New York, Union Square. In DC, Dupont Circle. Smaller and relaxed-er than those, cause this is Philly.
Their sukkah is a charming three-sided metal-and-tarp affair, gaily bedecked with dried corn stalks and mums and gourds (America's great contributions to the harvest festival!) and awesome Shrinky Dink ornaments of apples, stars, and Israeli flags. Hung in the sukkah were a big sign saying "chag kasher v'sameach*/Happy Sukkot!" and a plastic-encased building permit. We spread out a beautiful pink silk quilt on the sidewalk, and as if we were a living diorama, feasted on homemade bread, quinoa salad, pesto, and lentils, to the great amusement/confusion of the many passers-by. Cars, trucks, construction workers, ladies of leisure, dog-walkers: we provided spectacle to all comers.
Only two people asked what we were doing. One, a woman named Ann, had been in Turkey recently with her husband, and apparently to her we looked like we were in Turkey. Will's theory was that this resulted from the combination of bright-colored-patchwork 'rug' and grain/lentil dishes. Ann consented to be our guest, as ritually significant during Sukkos, and to eat a few slices of delicious pear.
This is the first year that I've had my own lulav and esrog, the four species of plants that are brought together and ritually shaken in the weirdest pagan holdover in Judaism. (The shaking is supposed to bring blessing--and rain.) It's nice to feel not like a hanger-on or an adjunct, waiting to share someone else's ritual objects, but large and in charge, with my own bundle of rustling palm fronds and fragrant citron.
*'happy and kosher holiday!' which I appreciate, because who else would wish you an appropriate ritually fulfilled holiday? "enjoy your parties, and DON'T FUCK UP!"
chag sameach, again, yeesh
Tuesday afternoon, for the first festival meal of Sukkos, Will and I met up with two friends of mine in the BZBI sukkah at 18th and Spruce. For those not phamiliar with the Illadelph, 18th and Spruce is right near Rittenhouse Square, the toniest downtown 'hood. In Boston, think Back Bay. In New York, Union Square. In DC, Dupont Circle. Smaller and relaxed-er than those, cause this is Philly.
Their sukkah is a charming three-sided metal-and-tarp affair, gaily bedecked with dried corn stalks and mums and gourds (America's great contributions to the harvest festival!) and awesome Shrinky Dink ornaments of apples, stars, and Israeli flags. Hung in the sukkah were a big sign saying "chag kasher v'sameach*/Happy Sukkot!" and a plastic-encased building permit. We spread out a beautiful pink silk quilt on the sidewalk, and as if we were a living diorama, feasted on homemade bread, quinoa salad, pesto, and lentils, to the great amusement/confusion of the many passers-by. Cars, trucks, construction workers, ladies of leisure, dog-walkers: we provided spectacle to all comers.
Only two people asked what we were doing. One, a woman named Ann, had been in Turkey recently with her husband, and apparently to her we looked like we were in Turkey. Will's theory was that this resulted from the combination of bright-colored-patchwork 'rug' and grain/lentil dishes. Ann consented to be our guest, as ritually significant during Sukkos, and to eat a few slices of delicious pear.
This is the first year that I've had my own lulav and esrog, the four species of plants that are brought together and ritually shaken in the weirdest pagan holdover in Judaism. (The shaking is supposed to bring blessing--and rain.) It's nice to feel not like a hanger-on or an adjunct, waiting to share someone else's ritual objects, but large and in charge, with my own bundle of rustling palm fronds and fragrant citron.
*'happy and kosher holiday!' which I appreciate, because who else would wish you an appropriate ritually fulfilled holiday? "enjoy your parties, and DON'T FUCK UP!"
10.14.2008
unholy alliance?
Lately I've been complaining that I can't get through a day without a conversation about Sarah Palin. Blah blah blah, she's so terrifying/awful/hilarious. So, hoist to my own petard, I'm blogging about her--after three months, I know I know it's ridiculous.
But not as ridiculous as this: sheitel.com is now selling a Sarah Palin wig. Yes folks, now you in the modest-haircovering Orthodox world can look like Our Sarah, lovin' Jews for Jesus and hatin' that mean old goverment (shoo! git back on the side of the American people!) and stylin' the bouffant. I loves it.
In other news, I am now an official amateur wedding organizer. I stage-managed Ken and Zoe's beautiful wedding yesterday (a few nice photos here) and bridesmaided too.
7.16.2008
poetry and radical theology at a mental health treatment facility
[cross-posted at the Hadar blog...which you probably can't see, as I think it's private]
[This is from a post that I wrote with my yeshiva buddy Sigal for the internal Hadar site where we all discuss, supposedly, our social-service projects. For those who are not keeping up, I'm in summer yeshiva in NYC with a fabulous posse of smartass yids. 14-hour days = no blogging.]
We've been having a great time, despite feeling exhausted on the way there every week. There isn't much servey service to do, so we mostly chat with the clients and the staff about whatever folks are thinking about. All the lead staff there seem to be some variety of Buddhist, many of them very learned and into talking about their texts and their experiences and their questions. Sigal often shares little snippets of Torah with them. We've discussed the meaning of "darshan" in the Jewish and the Hindu/Buddhist context, and speculated as to shared etymology...
Today we ran the second in our highly experimental three-part poetry series. After a few weeks of basically just hanging around--with the staff, as noted above, and with the guys, who love Judge Mathis and would do quite well on Family Feud--Sigal and I asked the director, Carlos, if we could lead a little poetry workshop. Or rather, if there would be interest from the clients. They have been quite variably interested in our presence, some wanting to chat every week and some basically ignoring us. As you'd expect. Carlos said, of course, we have some poets already! We envisioned this as a small but pleasurable activity/skill that matters to each of us and that we could share with the clients.
In each week--this and last--we brought a Mary Oliver poem (Wild Geese and A Summer Day) to be discussed, and planned some writing prompts, and basically just sat around with a couple guys eating cookies and writing stuff and discussing. We had to do a lot of reassuring and encouraging, but not so much drawing-out as we expected. That is to say, these guys have produced some amazingly forthcoming and soulful work. The poetry is great to hear and the conversations great to have. Next week we're going back for the last time! Boo.
One month to my birthday.
[cross-posted at the Hadar blog...which you probably can't see, as I think it's private]
[This is from a post that I wrote with my yeshiva buddy Sigal for the internal Hadar site where we all discuss, supposedly, our social-service projects. For those who are not keeping up, I'm in summer yeshiva in NYC with a fabulous posse of smartass yids. 14-hour days = no blogging.]
We've been having a great time, despite feeling exhausted on the way there every week. There isn't much servey service to do, so we mostly chat with the clients and the staff about whatever folks are thinking about. All the lead staff there seem to be some variety of Buddhist, many of them very learned and into talking about their texts and their experiences and their questions. Sigal often shares little snippets of Torah with them. We've discussed the meaning of "darshan" in the Jewish and the Hindu/Buddhist context, and speculated as to shared etymology...
Today we ran the second in our highly experimental three-part poetry series. After a few weeks of basically just hanging around--with the staff, as noted above, and with the guys, who love Judge Mathis and would do quite well on Family Feud--Sigal and I asked the director, Carlos, if we could lead a little poetry workshop. Or rather, if there would be interest from the clients. They have been quite variably interested in our presence, some wanting to chat every week and some basically ignoring us. As you'd expect. Carlos said, of course, we have some poets already! We envisioned this as a small but pleasurable activity/skill that matters to each of us and that we could share with the clients.
In each week--this and last--we brought a Mary Oliver poem (Wild Geese and A Summer Day) to be discussed, and planned some writing prompts, and basically just sat around with a couple guys eating cookies and writing stuff and discussing. We had to do a lot of reassuring and encouraging, but not so much drawing-out as we expected. That is to say, these guys have produced some amazingly forthcoming and soulful work. The poetry is great to hear and the conversations great to have. Next week we're going back for the last time! Boo.
One month to my birthday.
5.29.2008
5.28.2008
off my game
backward glance navel gazing
One big writing deadline upcoming and I have to move to New York (just for June+July) on Sunday. After April and Josef's wedding, for which I am somehow the announcer/crowd-control gal. What to wear? It's been gangbusters since Miriam's memorial, too much going on and too much work to get done. Beautiful weather, a lot of jaw tension and pain. I have a lot of dreams of Miriam, night and daytimes both. I'm nervous that Greg is probably showing up here sometime to read this. Hi, Greg.
I was talking with a couple of folks today about ND, the aftermath of our relationship, the patterns and shapes that were in it from early on. That's not to say 'I should have known' or to bind up my regrets, but rather, to name the topology of what I want to have learned. I hope.
We had been together for about five weeks (so, we're talking late May 2006) when ND said to me, I'd like to marry you. This wasn't your typical bended knee/ring affair, but I wouldn't have liked that anyway. I told Alyssa and Ross the next day, feeling sick with pleasure and confusion on someone's stoop at 12th and Chestnut, and they were all, huh? And, happy. Sort of. Everyone was still trying to understand our weird whirlwind romance at that point. I was.
I had told him, yeah! I'd like to marry you! but maybe in a year! He agreed this was a good time frame, citing Pat Allen--one of his relationship-psychology gurus. We had already argued about Dr. Allen's conception of gender dynamics in straight relationships, etc etc: men want to be respected, women want to be cherished. I had event planning nightmares, and spent the next couple of weeks, no joke, crossing the street to avoid walking past fancy bridal shops. Also, drycleaners'--those hideous sequined lace gowns in the window.
This could be a simple story of ready vs. not-really, but I think not. ND has a vision of life in which dramatic risks and bold action have big payoffs, and love happens between wildly polarized people (masculine men and feminine women--how many arguments about gender did we have to have?) even though of course everyone's functionally equal when it comes to power. I simply don't experience life as a series of suspension bridges to be crossed, burned, or jumped off. I like things to feel right before I do them. Giant pansy.
The other thing is, and I don't want to be unkind, that I think ND wanted/wants a partner to be in the passenger seat in his life. Not sure if you're reading this, ND, and if so, I'm trying to be fair and clear here. As I said to you in Jerusalem, there are lots of smart, wonderful women who do want their male partner's leadership, who do want to give support behind the scenes and run a life primarily in their homes and for their families. Not me. I need to drive sometimes, or have my own car or whatever. This is a terrible metaphor given that I don't have a license, but there you have it.
It helps to rehash the breakup in these terms because I ache, now, over losing my future with ND. I don't regret it--it was looking like a hard future with a lot of irreconcilable arguing. If it was my fiance and not just boyfriend who left me, though, it's clearer to me what the loss is really about. I thought I had something figured out about the future. Were we engaged? I probably should have done a Nancy Reagan and just said, no.
backward glance navel gazing
One big writing deadline upcoming and I have to move to New York (just for June+July) on Sunday. After April and Josef's wedding, for which I am somehow the announcer/crowd-control gal. What to wear? It's been gangbusters since Miriam's memorial, too much going on and too much work to get done. Beautiful weather, a lot of jaw tension and pain. I have a lot of dreams of Miriam, night and daytimes both. I'm nervous that Greg is probably showing up here sometime to read this. Hi, Greg.
I was talking with a couple of folks today about ND, the aftermath of our relationship, the patterns and shapes that were in it from early on. That's not to say 'I should have known' or to bind up my regrets, but rather, to name the topology of what I want to have learned. I hope.
We had been together for about five weeks (so, we're talking late May 2006) when ND said to me, I'd like to marry you. This wasn't your typical bended knee/ring affair, but I wouldn't have liked that anyway. I told Alyssa and Ross the next day, feeling sick with pleasure and confusion on someone's stoop at 12th and Chestnut, and they were all, huh? And, happy. Sort of. Everyone was still trying to understand our weird whirlwind romance at that point. I was.
I had told him, yeah! I'd like to marry you! but maybe in a year! He agreed this was a good time frame, citing Pat Allen--one of his relationship-psychology gurus. We had already argued about Dr. Allen's conception of gender dynamics in straight relationships, etc etc: men want to be respected, women want to be cherished. I had event planning nightmares, and spent the next couple of weeks, no joke, crossing the street to avoid walking past fancy bridal shops. Also, drycleaners'--those hideous sequined lace gowns in the window.
This could be a simple story of ready vs. not-really, but I think not. ND has a vision of life in which dramatic risks and bold action have big payoffs, and love happens between wildly polarized people (masculine men and feminine women--how many arguments about gender did we have to have?) even though of course everyone's functionally equal when it comes to power. I simply don't experience life as a series of suspension bridges to be crossed, burned, or jumped off. I like things to feel right before I do them. Giant pansy.
The other thing is, and I don't want to be unkind, that I think ND wanted/wants a partner to be in the passenger seat in his life. Not sure if you're reading this, ND, and if so, I'm trying to be fair and clear here. As I said to you in Jerusalem, there are lots of smart, wonderful women who do want their male partner's leadership, who do want to give support behind the scenes and run a life primarily in their homes and for their families. Not me. I need to drive sometimes, or have my own car or whatever. This is a terrible metaphor given that I don't have a license, but there you have it.
It helps to rehash the breakup in these terms because I ache, now, over losing my future with ND. I don't regret it--it was looking like a hard future with a lot of irreconcilable arguing. If it was my fiance and not just boyfriend who left me, though, it's clearer to me what the loss is really about. I thought I had something figured out about the future. Were we engaged? I probably should have done a Nancy Reagan and just said, no.
5.19.2008
two months later
...sorry, mom.
Some sad closures to relate. The echoing sentiment in my head, for the last six weeks, has been: This is not how I wanted things to end.
Right, so I'm back in Philadelphia. The end of the Israel adventure wasn't sad, just melancholy--I was pleased to be returning stateside, and feeling frustrated with the things I was and wasn't able to get done while there. I didn't become fluent in Hebrew or, you know, end the conflict. So there's that. I did come to understand a lot more about identity and culture and what-have-you, and got pretty clear on where I fit in with all that. Working at Encounter was fantastic.
All of this experience of clarity and growth, blah blah, was rather overshadowed by having to sign a lease/pack/move in the week immediately after my return. Complicated by: ND broke up with me two days after I got back. In a manner that was not how I'd have wanted things to end. Most of you will have heard about this already, and/or predicted it for a long time, and there's not much I can or should say in this forum. Six weeks later the wound is still open, but beginning to itch as it's scabbing over. Ugh. Well, I guess I just meant, I don't have any regrets and I think it was the right thing for us to separate, and it'd take a while to recover from two years of anyone.
So recovery has its ups and downs.
We moved because of our psycho landlady (wanted to sue us, evict us, prevent us from moving out...honestly) and true to form she changed the locks on us and therefore captured/detained a goodly chunk of our possessions. We'd been trying for amicability in all kinds of ways and to be yelled at by her and called immoral, etc, was actually quite upsetting. At some point, though, the high moral path climbed above the treeline and it got cold and rainy fast up there on the bare rocks. We've since then returned to the cozy den of correspondence by lawyer.
The new apartment is great. We have lovely wood floors and wide windowsills for the cats to stare down the cats-across-the-way. We have a funny little fire escape balcony overlooking the lavish Swim Club. Secreted within an ordinary city block lies a multi-pooled oasis of delights, replete with chaise lounges and teenage lifeguards. The pools, in mid-April, were swathed in tarps and empty of water, but since then there have been many crews of rubber-booted technicians unswathing, un-debrising, and un-emptying. Or rather, filling. Those pools look deliciouser by the day.
The worst by incredibly far of things that ended all wrong.
My aunt Miriam Goodman passed away last Sunday after a long hard cancer. I tried to come up with a verb in there--battle, defense, fight. I don't like those words in general because they are violent (not just aesthetics: how can you battle your own body? it's so sad when we must) and in particular because Miriam so engaged, so encircled the medical and illness world--she transformed it, in art and in her mind, it seemed to me. She was a writer and an artist and I feel it's not right to use these sort of Susan G. Komen bravery verbs about her. It was a long hard horrible cancer and I wish to heaven that she was with us now. Not how I wanted things to end, and defininitely not when.
Anyway. Please do check out her work. I'll be collecting the speeches that people gave at her memorial services shortly. It was stunning to hear the words of her many collaborators, friends, and family: mostly women, many writers, smart as hell and openheartedly grieving the loss of Miriam's mind and love and presence in our lives. There's really nothing I can properly say.
Feebly, though, I'm reminded to write. She read this blog avidly and cared about people making time for their writing. So, it's to the grindstone for me: deadline for a big draft coming up in two weeks. And I'll try to be back here as well.
...sorry, mom.
Some sad closures to relate. The echoing sentiment in my head, for the last six weeks, has been: This is not how I wanted things to end.
Right, so I'm back in Philadelphia. The end of the Israel adventure wasn't sad, just melancholy--I was pleased to be returning stateside, and feeling frustrated with the things I was and wasn't able to get done while there. I didn't become fluent in Hebrew or, you know, end the conflict. So there's that. I did come to understand a lot more about identity and culture and what-have-you, and got pretty clear on where I fit in with all that. Working at Encounter was fantastic.
All of this experience of clarity and growth, blah blah, was rather overshadowed by having to sign a lease/pack/move in the week immediately after my return. Complicated by: ND broke up with me two days after I got back. In a manner that was not how I'd have wanted things to end. Most of you will have heard about this already, and/or predicted it for a long time, and there's not much I can or should say in this forum. Six weeks later the wound is still open, but beginning to itch as it's scabbing over. Ugh. Well, I guess I just meant, I don't have any regrets and I think it was the right thing for us to separate, and it'd take a while to recover from two years of anyone.
So recovery has its ups and downs.
We moved because of our psycho landlady (wanted to sue us, evict us, prevent us from moving out...honestly) and true to form she changed the locks on us and therefore captured/detained a goodly chunk of our possessions. We'd been trying for amicability in all kinds of ways and to be yelled at by her and called immoral, etc, was actually quite upsetting. At some point, though, the high moral path climbed above the treeline and it got cold and rainy fast up there on the bare rocks. We've since then returned to the cozy den of correspondence by lawyer.
The new apartment is great. We have lovely wood floors and wide windowsills for the cats to stare down the cats-across-the-way. We have a funny little fire escape balcony overlooking the lavish Swim Club. Secreted within an ordinary city block lies a multi-pooled oasis of delights, replete with chaise lounges and teenage lifeguards. The pools, in mid-April, were swathed in tarps and empty of water, but since then there have been many crews of rubber-booted technicians unswathing, un-debrising, and un-emptying. Or rather, filling. Those pools look deliciouser by the day.
The worst by incredibly far of things that ended all wrong.
My aunt Miriam Goodman passed away last Sunday after a long hard cancer. I tried to come up with a verb in there--battle, defense, fight. I don't like those words in general because they are violent (not just aesthetics: how can you battle your own body? it's so sad when we must) and in particular because Miriam so engaged, so encircled the medical and illness world--she transformed it, in art and in her mind, it seemed to me. She was a writer and an artist and I feel it's not right to use these sort of Susan G. Komen bravery verbs about her. It was a long hard horrible cancer and I wish to heaven that she was with us now. Not how I wanted things to end, and defininitely not when.
Anyway. Please do check out her work. I'll be collecting the speeches that people gave at her memorial services shortly. It was stunning to hear the words of her many collaborators, friends, and family: mostly women, many writers, smart as hell and openheartedly grieving the loss of Miriam's mind and love and presence in our lives. There's really nothing I can properly say.
Feebly, though, I'm reminded to write. She read this blog avidly and cared about people making time for their writing. So, it's to the grindstone for me: deadline for a big draft coming up in two weeks. And I'll try to be back here as well.
