Beautiful Hound

100 Happy Days
25/100

Remus Love








Decided to move back to The Weather in the Streets...

Mixed Metaphor

I think that sometimes I see my life as a series of meals, and I have never learned to eat properly. My pacing is poor: one minute, I'm desperate and starving, gobbling experience as fast as I can, cramming myself full, too full, scared that someone will rip it away before I have had a chance to finish. I can almost see myself, hunched protectively over that portion, eating with my hands, barely able to catch my breath.

The next minute I'm feeling frail and tummyacheish, staring at a platefull and not knowing where or how to begin on it, overwhelmed by the textures and tastes and even by the utensils. How do I use my fork? Do I remember how?

I've been working for years on a pieced yoyo quilt. I don't have stamina, but I come back to it whenever I want it and without worry. Open the box, look at the bright circles and the thread and discs and feel good. It's in different stages of creation, from piles of uncut fabric to yoyos to a yard or two of finished quilt. And for some reason, that's okay with me. I can see what it is now, what it was and what it will be. It has accepted my pace without judgment. When I work on it, I accept my pace.

The quilt is separate from the rest of my life; that is, I don't take it in as general metaphor. It just seems to exist. The yoyo box is a place I go whenever I feel like it. Wholesome and tangible. Easy. Welcoming. No gobbling, no tummyache. No one will snatch it away, I'm certain, because who else wants a box of cotton fabric? And who would deny me the humble pleasure of it?

I haven't yet found the way to reconcile my life to itself, one part to another, pace to pace. I could say, mixed-metaphorically, that I vow to spend more time in peaceful piecework and less time in alternating glut and starvation.

I hope I will.

I will try.

Ten Little Things for 2014

1. be quiet
2. be present
3. be nice
4. think calmly
5. go slow
6. quit whinging
7. write dissertation
8. tell the truth
9. be with friends
10. make music

Guilty Pleasures

A facebook meme. I had to think about this, what constitutes a "guilty" pleasure, because on the one hand, I feel vaguely guilty a great deal of the time about most things (so Jewish). On the other hand, I'm old enough to be unashamed of my slightly shameful predilections.


1. Overpriced pedicures. At the all-pink salon, where they bring tea in rosy pink cups or, in the evenings, a pink cocktail. Having my feet dominated by Iris, whose deceptively fine hands bring on a sort of twilight sleep of deep delight.

2. Taylor Swift. But I have to listen on my headphones. Guiltily weeping.

3. Lindor truffles. Sucked not chewed.

4. Bingeing on those pithy-yet-specious list articles all over the internet: "6 surefire ways to get your man to give up his soul to you," "8 unmistakeable signs that you're a psychopath," "12 ways to get out of a speeding ticket." I like my world reduced to lists.

5. Being a pathological fantasist.

6. Lingerie catalogs

7. Memorizing complex rap lyrics and rapping along. Alone in the car. Latest "achievement": DMX's Get It on the Floor ("you motherfuckers wonder why I start shit")

8. Taking selfies. Using filters.

9. Lottery daydreams

10. Writing micro erotic
creative nonfiction.

Zionist Girl

The term Zionist Girl puts me in mind immediately of the sturdy rosy-cheeked antiHolocaust antivictim of the early Palestine Propaganda posters.

But when I got called that in a "conversation" (I use this word loosely, very) on facebook, it wasn't meant fondly, nostalgically, as a compliment, or even a matter-of-fact description; rather, it was offered as a scathing indictment, as sneering as any indictment could be.

A "friend" of mine (and again I use this word loosely, very) posted a speech of Mandela's about the wickedness of Israeli policy toward Palestinians. Said friend likes to post a great deal about Israeli Apartheid. I had held my tongue, but finally commented, one short paragraph, uttering that fateful word, the word that never fails to unleash the hellhounds of anti-Israel absolutism: "antisemitic." (let me add, I really won't weigh in on whether or not I think Mandela was antisemitic, I wouldn't have the energy; it was the repeated and pointed posting of anti-Jewish State material that seemed suspect). Anyway, there followed a virtual firestorm of anger toward me.

The immediate reply to my comment was typical: "anti-Zionist doesn't mean antisemitic."

To which I say: anti-Zionist doesn't mean antisemitic. Except when it does.

A German chick called me "stupid," after which ad hominem attack I left the conversation. But being the compulsive person that I am, I snuck back to the scene under cover of the deepest night to see how the thread unfolded.

It was not so much an unfolding as a foaming-mouthed effigy burning. Having never before been burned in effigy (or called a Zionist Girl, or, for that matter, been called Girl much at all recently--that went out at the same time as "Miss" was replaced by "Ma'am," but that's a whole other story of heartache), my interest was greatly piqued.

The discussion can be boiled down handily: "That Zionist Girl can't handle the truth of Israeli Apartheid. She is racist. She is ignorant. And she left the conversation because she can't defend the indefensible." There were several people agreeing on these talking points. Angry people.

First let me say, this isn't exactly about specific Israeli politics, only tangentially. Or symbolically.

The problem is:

a lone Jew speaking up in a hostile crowd of people who are angry at the Jewish State and not just its policies but, I would argue, its very existence. The problem is that surge of intense disgust/ire that passes for discussion. The problem is the rapidity with which this discussion degenerates into an attack on that lone Eponymous Jew. The problem is tone and meta-message. The problem is a lack of self-awareness in the angry mob.

The thread, after I left it, was notable for one glaring characteristic: a repeated use of the words "Jew" and "Jewish," coupled with the words "racist" and "fascist" in a simmering and barely contained group rage. The term "Zionist," opaquely layered, quite obviously, with the word "Jew."

People get exercised on social media sites all the time. But this felt different, it felt more significant and far more threatening than anything I have experienced before. It left me nearly shaking, teary-eyed and scared.

There is a real darkness in that moment when you realize you are the only one of your Kind in a group, when that group calls you by the name of your Kind, and that name is spoken like a curse. That darkness presses in on you. You can feel it in your very bones. It isn't paranoia and it isn't over-sensitivity. It's a truth that can only be known in the feeling of it, a truth as old as old mass graves and charred prayerbooks. And even older still.

Merry Christmas, Ya Big Jew

It's that time of year once again. Time for the passionate arguments over denominational Solstice holiday greetings. Sympathy seems to run low when The Dreaded Other demands "special treatment."

Facebook is always a place to gauge the social temperature, and popular memes specifically are the thermometer. I am unsurprised this year to see a jokey flow chart posted and reposted all over my wall, which I will summarize: "Don't be a fucking bitch, accept whatever holiday greeting is offered, and accept it nicely."

I suppose this meme is aimed at two distinct groups: on the one hand, those hardcore Christians (a specific group of them) who balk at the idea of kowtowing to Muslims/Jews/Atheists/Pagans/assorted Freaks who don't celebrate Christmas, and offering a non-denominational holiday greeting. On the other hand, those very Outsiders who don't celebrate Christmas and want a nondenominational holiday greeting.

The problem with this frightening demand for a universal standardized Christian greeting is that now, perhaps understandably, there is a backlash against any requirement of special consideration, hence the exasperated tone of the meme.

Yet I must point out that there is a big difference between those who would insist that their Christian belief system take precedence, and those who simply want it acknowledged that we are not all practicing Christians.

In the wake of this incredibly hubristic movement to coerce obeisance (even if only tacit) to a single religion, desire for a universal nondenominational holiday greeting has become tiring to many, another demand made on them as they try to suck whatever joy they can out of the various festivals of lights.

So I'm going to come right out and say what's on my mind. Please, religious Christians, don't make me accept your Christian greeting, for I'm not Christian. And please, kind but weary friends, don't make me accept just any old holiday wish on the grounds that "come on, the offerant was well-meaning and for goodness sake, enough already."

So, no, I don't live in a country with a national religion. No, I do not celebrate Christmas. Yes, I am Other. Yes, I'm asking for special treatment and yes, I am an inconvenience.

Sometimes expression of tolerance is inconvenient: it requires thought, it requires awareness, and even vigilance.

I am a big Jew who just doesn't want to hear the words: "Merry Christmas," over and over. I don't want to be gracious. I don't want to accept the spirit or the sentiment behind it, willy-nilly.

Then again, I'm not a total bitch, and I do wish you well. May the Winter Solstice bring light and warmth and longer days to us all.

Blackout

The strangest feeling: I have no memory of this day, none whatsoever. Yet, it looks memorable. I look pleased; I look like the little girl I hope I was.

Mommy, Daddy, Liv, and Leah. A trip to the zoo, a ride on a dromedary. Sunshine. Possibly a picnic. There is even a yellow balloon.

I can only believe there must have been, there must have been, this beautiful day, because here is the proof.

Diner

The placemats, new but old-new, thin cheap paper and washed-out palette, highly informative. If conversation flags, you can always study the drink recipes.




Forks, occasionally crusted with dried egg. Water, honest NYC kitchen tapwater in food service glasses. Bowls of pickles that taste of bandaid. The waitress who, barely glancing down, proclaims my two-year-old niece "cute" in a voice that says, "I have seen an awful lot of two-year-olds in my 25 years here. They are all the same."

Uncharming, with their strange lighting and listless food on thick chipped plates, diners are the same world without end. I have conducted my business in these places: love affairs over pancakes. Turkey club sandwiches after funerals. Gossip, crying jags, laughter that tipped me sideways out of my seat.

Long may they continue to thrive, in their vinyl-coated, Star-Trek-lighting-fixtured glory!

Beloved

Is he charming? Or does he make my insides go squinky when I imagine his unblinking HumptyDumpty-ness grinning at me from the underside of the bed? It's a tough call.

My mother's adored doll, 64 years old.

The Collector

That strange little house in the middle? A hoarder lives there.

Across the street is my favorite neighborhood café. The people who work there tell me that they gather at the plate glass windows every time someone sounds the alert that the Hoarder's door is opening, hoping to get a glimpse of the interior.

The other day, walking by, I finally got my own chance to see the sun-starved marvels of an unhinged mind. The door was flung wide, almost defiantly wide it seemed to me. The Hoarder was on his step, verbally abusing a young man who seemed to be an assistant of some sort.

I glanced inside, in the studiedly casual way that all NY-ers have developed; there is a lot to look at, surreptitiously, on any given day in NYC: dramatic accidents, street brawls, supermodels and superstars, robed psychotics denouncing their particular demons in high oration, men dressed as horses, fabulous homemade shoes and unlikely pets on leashes. It is well worth honing that skill, the stealth assessment, so that one need not miss a moment of the glorious horrible insanity of the city.

What a revelation was the Hoarder's Collection. Teetering ceiling-high stacks of old newspapers formed a dark mad cathedral, the path between these pillars so narrow that I have a hard time understanding how a Brooklyn rat could pass through, let alone a portly old man.

What nightmare vision created his home, what nightmare sustains it? What chases this man down, forcing him in daily retreat further and further back into this cramped stifling warren of newspaper? I can only imagine that he is shoring up his days and ways against an onrushing tide of fear, in the only way he knows how.

10/365