June 24, 2009
When I was eleven years old, I went on a class trip across Georgia and Tennessee. I loved all of it, but the part that stuck in my mind the most was a visit to this fairy land, where gnomes ran free inside deep caverns between small canyons of rock so narrow it is hard to imagine fitting through. I have been looking for this fairy tale place for eleven years. In my ordinary fashion, I forgot its name. I also remember an underground waterfall and a place so high, the clouds stretched below me for miles and miles without my feet leaving the ground.
Two weeks ago, I finally found it again, without going anywhere. It's Lookout Mountain. I found it in a book. It was described exactly the way I remembered it through the eyes of my eleven-year-old self. The place from which you can see seven states, and Ruby Falls. Finding this place, finally, actually took the breath out of me. I'd been looking for so long and trying to describe it to people--with no luck--I thought I'd just imagined it. But no worries: it is a real place and gods congregate there. At least according to Neil Gaiman. So much for discovery.
I leave for England in a week and another place I've been dreaming of. I'm going to visit friends and family. Then, there's Germany and the Leo Baeck program. Then, Luxembourg. I can't wait to get back to Luxembourg. It's shown up in my dreams constantly for the past two years. I take that as a sign of it calling me back.
Things with Israel are still up in the air, apparently, but we'll know soon enough, I suppose. Less than two weeks. It's frustrating. At the crucial moment, no one at OTZMA answers their phones. As for the money, I've been holding fundraisers. The goodwill trickles in but will most likely have to be saved up and reserved for next year. I have already begun researching other programs, mainly for credit. "For credit" equals student loan deferral without a hassle. Either way, I'll get there soon.
I have begun another book, The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova. It is yet another tale revolving around the vampire. Not the cheezy kind like the Twilight nonsense. The legitimate, analysis-worthy kind. I still remember Bram Stoker's Dracula, studied through a post-colonial lens. The only book that ever gave me nightmares in my life. It was my first encounter with post-colonialism. I fell in love with it. Yes, me and always falling in love with ideas. Who knew I would end up with Rushdie and Butler? Who knows who I'll end up with next? To me, it was a mythology, an allegory, a tale woven from threads of truth to tell us a real story about ourselves, with a fairy tale element. It gave us a reflection of ourselves. The vampire haunts us as do many other creatures and tales born of a mythology.
But everything is a myth and myth is what we dream and what we breathe. It is what we live for, and more often, what we are willing to die for. Never underestimate the power of fiction--once it becomes myth, it might as well be fact and truth. A good friend recently said all of this quite eloquently: "The best way to know a people is to know what they dream of, and what they dream up..." Precisely. This is the reason I concern myself with mythos: fables, fiction, all kinds of fairy tales--to know a people intimately is to know what they dream and to have the knowledge and the ability to dream it with them. How else can one enter a dialogue and exit it effectively? Dream. Return to a beginning that may never have been, save in the imagination. In the end, time is experience and experience a distortion offered up to us by the imagination. Life really is but a dream.
Dreams, though, are not worth dying for. Nothing is. If it is worth dying for then it is not worth living for and I concern myself with life. Mediation, after all, is conducted between the living in the hopes of preserving life and improving its quality. This is not to say that I wouldn't die for a cause. I would, gladly, as long as I went out living fiercely and sincerely--as long as that cause is rooted in life. As long as I died without having sacrificed my dignity.
Do not make the mistake of falling victim to myth as absolute reality--at least acknowledge that even the myth is a myth. Then, you will not be fooled into believing that something man-made, collectively though it may be, is larger than life. Sure, we are powerful, but only as powerful as our dreams. I hope, more than anything else, that we, the human race, do not come to find ourselves at an end because we let those dreams and the reality we created around them go to waste.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Travel Log #5
June 9, 2009
I suppose I am good at getting into schools and programs, and at beating out just about anyone. Then there's a brick wall because I can get in all I want but I am the opposite of the presumption: I am not rich. I am, quite literally, below the poverty line; and I am no magician. Gold coins do not come tumbling out of the air. But this is fair. I am a capitalist up to a point and thus must make my ow luck and my own fortune. I must also suffer my own defeats and blame no one but myself. I must take my disappointments in stride. My motto has never changed since I first adopted it, and I hold true: "The buck stops here." It does. Complaining about the selfishness of others or the misfortunes of the past do no one any good. Perhaps this is for the best.
"What happens to a dream deferred?" I do an about-face on it and take a detour, or I come up with other dreams, lesser dreams, or dreams that are strung up like a ladder, rung by rung, so that I can reach them one-by-one, a step at a time, instead of one big leap. Not all dreams are First Contact with the moon.
Oh, but all is well. It will just take some time. I have Germany, after all...It seems to me an injustice; it is the same injustice I see the world over, across all variety of human activity and interaction. By some whim, I don't even know whose, some lives are worth more than others, some deserve more pity, or less. Individuals are judged before they are met by a presumption. Don't assume a thing, I say, until we've talked it over. Do not judge.
So, Israel will have to wait, I believe, but hopefully not forever. Graduate school will have to wait. Friendships will have to wait. But Time does not wait and the ends holds no boundaries. I've already resumed my job search. Let's hope something comes to fruition. Or that a miracle happens.
Still, I think it's sad that miracles have to be wasted on money when I've seen them materialize into so much more: lives. I won't waste my miracles. The biggest one has already happened and thus, I have nothing more to ask. So, Israel can wait, a year, maybe two, maybe three. I'll survive with my head in work and books until then. I'll survive in dancing and wait for my partner to materialize out of thin air.
"This is new to me, angel," says the Little Girl. "I am not sad."
"Aah, yes," says Uriel. "You have truly, now, hardened your heart."
"I feel it but it's not killing me."
"No. You do not ask why life isn't fair. You have accepted the answer as Truth, as you have accepted me. Therefore, no time is wasted of your mortal life on the contemplation or mourning of that which cannot be. But I warn you, Little Girl, allow yourself to cry at least once, one tear, for you have finally accepted the gift of holy. Do not accept it completely."
"Will I be a Seraph, then?"
The angel laughs.
"No, Little Girl. You will be someone who is lost and who fits neither into the world of the living nor into the world of the dead."
"You really don't like emulation, do you?"
"No. But what would you expect to be? We angels are cursed to holy but we wouldn't trade it for a lifetime, merely a moment. Of course, we cannot have either. Human beings, I am sure, would mistakenly trade mortality for deification. That is your gift and your curse, Little Girl. In your quest to be of my kind, you would transcend me and become a goddess. The holiness of angels is bad enough. I do not wish to think of it in respect to a god."
"I'm only saying it feels different. I'm not looking to leave the earth."
"Good, then. Have I done my duty?""
"Yes, Uriel. I am comforted."
The angel bows its head.
The Little Girl goes back to the world.
June 17, 2009
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...
I suppose I am good at getting into schools and programs, and at beating out just about anyone. Then there's a brick wall because I can get in all I want but I am the opposite of the presumption: I am not rich. I am, quite literally, below the poverty line; and I am no magician. Gold coins do not come tumbling out of the air. But this is fair. I am a capitalist up to a point and thus must make my ow luck and my own fortune. I must also suffer my own defeats and blame no one but myself. I must take my disappointments in stride. My motto has never changed since I first adopted it, and I hold true: "The buck stops here." It does. Complaining about the selfishness of others or the misfortunes of the past do no one any good. Perhaps this is for the best.
"What happens to a dream deferred?" I do an about-face on it and take a detour, or I come up with other dreams, lesser dreams, or dreams that are strung up like a ladder, rung by rung, so that I can reach them one-by-one, a step at a time, instead of one big leap. Not all dreams are First Contact with the moon.
Oh, but all is well. It will just take some time. I have Germany, after all...It seems to me an injustice; it is the same injustice I see the world over, across all variety of human activity and interaction. By some whim, I don't even know whose, some lives are worth more than others, some deserve more pity, or less. Individuals are judged before they are met by a presumption. Don't assume a thing, I say, until we've talked it over. Do not judge.
So, Israel will have to wait, I believe, but hopefully not forever. Graduate school will have to wait. Friendships will have to wait. But Time does not wait and the ends holds no boundaries. I've already resumed my job search. Let's hope something comes to fruition. Or that a miracle happens.
Still, I think it's sad that miracles have to be wasted on money when I've seen them materialize into so much more: lives. I won't waste my miracles. The biggest one has already happened and thus, I have nothing more to ask. So, Israel can wait, a year, maybe two, maybe three. I'll survive with my head in work and books until then. I'll survive in dancing and wait for my partner to materialize out of thin air.
"This is new to me, angel," says the Little Girl. "I am not sad."
"Aah, yes," says Uriel. "You have truly, now, hardened your heart."
"I feel it but it's not killing me."
"No. You do not ask why life isn't fair. You have accepted the answer as Truth, as you have accepted me. Therefore, no time is wasted of your mortal life on the contemplation or mourning of that which cannot be. But I warn you, Little Girl, allow yourself to cry at least once, one tear, for you have finally accepted the gift of holy. Do not accept it completely."
"Will I be a Seraph, then?"
The angel laughs.
"No, Little Girl. You will be someone who is lost and who fits neither into the world of the living nor into the world of the dead."
"You really don't like emulation, do you?"
"No. But what would you expect to be? We angels are cursed to holy but we wouldn't trade it for a lifetime, merely a moment. Of course, we cannot have either. Human beings, I am sure, would mistakenly trade mortality for deification. That is your gift and your curse, Little Girl. In your quest to be of my kind, you would transcend me and become a goddess. The holiness of angels is bad enough. I do not wish to think of it in respect to a god."
"I'm only saying it feels different. I'm not looking to leave the earth."
"Good, then. Have I done my duty?""
"Yes, Uriel. I am comforted."
The angel bows its head.
The Little Girl goes back to the world.
June 17, 2009
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...
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Travel Log #4
June 6, 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.
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.
Travel Log #3
May 31, 2009
Before I leave on my adventures beyond U.S. borders, for however long, I need to leave my space in the United States as sparse and as orderly as possible. This involves a great deal of purging. Before I left Worcester, I purged. That was five gigantic bags of clothing, linens, random objects that I'd accumulated over the years. I gave it all to the Salvation Army. I sold off almost all of my furniture. The Worcester purge left me with three suitcases of clothing, fifteen boxes of books, and three of "miscellaneous".
That was only four years. Today's purge goes back to the Savannah days and before--to Brooklyn. I found hair ties from 1990 that I wore when I was three. Remember the big clips with shoelace decorations? The bauble ties? Polly Pocket, Shmushies, trolls, pictures from camp, jewelry I got for my Bat Mitzvah that I hated at the age of twelve but like now. I found old Silly Putty (still preserved), old stuffed animals, the letters I've been saving since I was four. Yes, I have saved every letter and card I've ever gotten since I was four. And, of course, books. I have so many books, I can't even comprehend it. When I'm finally ready to get an apartment or house, or some kind of permanent living space, I should just rent out an empty library. I twill be filled in about three seconds and I'll have to start thinking about building an additional wing. Books are the one variety of item that I never purge. And the collection keeps growing. As it should.
Anyhow, I got rid of fifteen years of clothing and miscellaneous junk. Well, put it downstairs on the bed after I stripped it (sorry Iquo). Noah helped me drag it all down there. Sam helped me go through items, like the rediscovery of my calendars, years 2000 through 2003. I collect calendars, for those of you who don't know.
The sun is almost set now, at almost 9:30pm. Fireflies are skipping on the air outside my window. When I was a little kid in New York City, I used to catch them and watch them light up in jars. Now, the bugs catch me instead. The mosquitoes here are literally the size of my face. A couple night ago I nearly had a total breakdown over the stupid monster flying cockroaches flying in my face. And that one was only a baby.
I don't really mind bugs, except for cockroaches. Things that make other people scream in horror make me laugh. I've had my array of stray pets: lizards, huge procreating black spiders from the backyard, baby doves that fell out of the tree in the front yard.
Actually, speaking of the doves I adopted: one died and one flew away. But before that happened, the entire nation of doves came and protested my helping them by setting up camp in our front yard in Savannah. Pretty amazing sight.
Yesterday, I went swimming with Lindsay in her pool and had the most fun I've had in a long time. On top of it, I managed not to get burned! Yay full body suit. Swimming is, once again, my sport because it's too expensive to dance right now.
Speaking of money, I applied for another scholarship for OTZMA. I should be hearing this week whether I get in or not. Hopefully it's "yes" and then I really have to hope for the rest of the money to drop out of the sky and i also really, really have to step on the Student Loan deferral nonsense. Clark told me that I can definitely get them deferred because it's a year of service. As for Pardes, I calculated that I would need to take out another $20,000 in loans or so--so: ABSOLUTELY NOT. They didn't mention the whole part about having to take care of housing on our own and everything else. It's absolutely ridiculous.
Anyway, time for some reading and guitaring...
June 3, 2009
One of the things you never forget about the South once you leave it is the unrelenting heat. The other is the humidity. The combination of the two makes for a slow and oppressive atmosphere, where people spend long days hunched over, burning in the sun in silence or collectively singing hymns, and a refreshing hiatus in the water, pool, lake, stream, or otherwise. Or, if we live in suburbia, long days of summer camp, hoses in the front yard, gardening, trips to the air conditioned bookshops. Sometimes we go to parks. The rest of the time, we just deal with the heat.
Last week wasn't this bad. Now, the heat has set in, with its humidity. I used to complain, but the climate shifted to drought and nothing felt right without the daily thunder storm and the buckets of rain. The air was all wrong last year when I visited and I could attribute the adjective "arid" to it and one-third of the state was on standby for the call to immediately evacuate to nowhere in particular and for an indefinite amount of time due to lack of water.
The fans are on high and the roaches are out like crazy. Flying ones that feel comfortable on your face. Mosquitoes are out, too. They're literally the size of my face. Daddy-Long-Legs have taken over the downstairs bathroom and won't stay away. But this is what we get for trying to impose on the wilderness. It could be worse. The bugs could be the size of horses instead of the size of my face.
I get in the car and drive. Ordered my foreign currency. It's in already. still waiting on word from OTZMA. My patience, which is generally infinite, is dwindling. But I will know soon. I drove farther--visited my amazing friend, Cher. I came home with a new guitar. Martin has a sibling now: Therem. A beautiful, sweet-toned Yamaha, with exactly the sound I was looking for. I also got my one-and-only cucumber sandwiches and fantastic sweet tea. And, of course, Cher's company.
I'm about to go swimming. I'll start writing again later.
Later, 6:19pm
Back from the pool. I used to be an amazing, hardcore swimmer, always in the pool, had an Olympic Medalist for a coach; I was a GCAT member. I won medals. Now, I'm not in swimming shape at all, but in dancing shape. I start Zumba on Monday. Closest thing to dancing I can get, and it's free. Also, Spinning, Yoga, and another dance-esque class. I went from twelve hours of dance a week during competition season to zero. Time to get back up to speed. If only I could find a reliable partner who knows what he's doing...
Anyhow, nothing's interesting except the Southern heat and the ensuing wildlife that has made its way into the house. More when craziness happens--or some good inspiration. Write back to me. I miss all of you.
Before I leave on my adventures beyond U.S. borders, for however long, I need to leave my space in the United States as sparse and as orderly as possible. This involves a great deal of purging. Before I left Worcester, I purged. That was five gigantic bags of clothing, linens, random objects that I'd accumulated over the years. I gave it all to the Salvation Army. I sold off almost all of my furniture. The Worcester purge left me with three suitcases of clothing, fifteen boxes of books, and three of "miscellaneous".
That was only four years. Today's purge goes back to the Savannah days and before--to Brooklyn. I found hair ties from 1990 that I wore when I was three. Remember the big clips with shoelace decorations? The bauble ties? Polly Pocket, Shmushies, trolls, pictures from camp, jewelry I got for my Bat Mitzvah that I hated at the age of twelve but like now. I found old Silly Putty (still preserved), old stuffed animals, the letters I've been saving since I was four. Yes, I have saved every letter and card I've ever gotten since I was four. And, of course, books. I have so many books, I can't even comprehend it. When I'm finally ready to get an apartment or house, or some kind of permanent living space, I should just rent out an empty library. I twill be filled in about three seconds and I'll have to start thinking about building an additional wing. Books are the one variety of item that I never purge. And the collection keeps growing. As it should.
Anyhow, I got rid of fifteen years of clothing and miscellaneous junk. Well, put it downstairs on the bed after I stripped it (sorry Iquo). Noah helped me drag it all down there. Sam helped me go through items, like the rediscovery of my calendars, years 2000 through 2003. I collect calendars, for those of you who don't know.
The sun is almost set now, at almost 9:30pm. Fireflies are skipping on the air outside my window. When I was a little kid in New York City, I used to catch them and watch them light up in jars. Now, the bugs catch me instead. The mosquitoes here are literally the size of my face. A couple night ago I nearly had a total breakdown over the stupid monster flying cockroaches flying in my face. And that one was only a baby.
I don't really mind bugs, except for cockroaches. Things that make other people scream in horror make me laugh. I've had my array of stray pets: lizards, huge procreating black spiders from the backyard, baby doves that fell out of the tree in the front yard.
Actually, speaking of the doves I adopted: one died and one flew away. But before that happened, the entire nation of doves came and protested my helping them by setting up camp in our front yard in Savannah. Pretty amazing sight.
Yesterday, I went swimming with Lindsay in her pool and had the most fun I've had in a long time. On top of it, I managed not to get burned! Yay full body suit. Swimming is, once again, my sport because it's too expensive to dance right now.
Speaking of money, I applied for another scholarship for OTZMA. I should be hearing this week whether I get in or not. Hopefully it's "yes" and then I really have to hope for the rest of the money to drop out of the sky and i also really, really have to step on the Student Loan deferral nonsense. Clark told me that I can definitely get them deferred because it's a year of service. As for Pardes, I calculated that I would need to take out another $20,000 in loans or so--so: ABSOLUTELY NOT. They didn't mention the whole part about having to take care of housing on our own and everything else. It's absolutely ridiculous.
Anyway, time for some reading and guitaring...
June 3, 2009
One of the things you never forget about the South once you leave it is the unrelenting heat. The other is the humidity. The combination of the two makes for a slow and oppressive atmosphere, where people spend long days hunched over, burning in the sun in silence or collectively singing hymns, and a refreshing hiatus in the water, pool, lake, stream, or otherwise. Or, if we live in suburbia, long days of summer camp, hoses in the front yard, gardening, trips to the air conditioned bookshops. Sometimes we go to parks. The rest of the time, we just deal with the heat.
Last week wasn't this bad. Now, the heat has set in, with its humidity. I used to complain, but the climate shifted to drought and nothing felt right without the daily thunder storm and the buckets of rain. The air was all wrong last year when I visited and I could attribute the adjective "arid" to it and one-third of the state was on standby for the call to immediately evacuate to nowhere in particular and for an indefinite amount of time due to lack of water.
The fans are on high and the roaches are out like crazy. Flying ones that feel comfortable on your face. Mosquitoes are out, too. They're literally the size of my face. Daddy-Long-Legs have taken over the downstairs bathroom and won't stay away. But this is what we get for trying to impose on the wilderness. It could be worse. The bugs could be the size of horses instead of the size of my face.
I get in the car and drive. Ordered my foreign currency. It's in already. still waiting on word from OTZMA. My patience, which is generally infinite, is dwindling. But I will know soon. I drove farther--visited my amazing friend, Cher. I came home with a new guitar. Martin has a sibling now: Therem. A beautiful, sweet-toned Yamaha, with exactly the sound I was looking for. I also got my one-and-only cucumber sandwiches and fantastic sweet tea. And, of course, Cher's company.
I'm about to go swimming. I'll start writing again later.
Later, 6:19pm
Back from the pool. I used to be an amazing, hardcore swimmer, always in the pool, had an Olympic Medalist for a coach; I was a GCAT member. I won medals. Now, I'm not in swimming shape at all, but in dancing shape. I start Zumba on Monday. Closest thing to dancing I can get, and it's free. Also, Spinning, Yoga, and another dance-esque class. I went from twelve hours of dance a week during competition season to zero. Time to get back up to speed. If only I could find a reliable partner who knows what he's doing...
Anyhow, nothing's interesting except the Southern heat and the ensuing wildlife that has made its way into the house. More when craziness happens--or some good inspiration. Write back to me. I miss all of you.
Travel Log #2
Two days in one:
May 26, 2009
On MARTA heading back to Marietta now. I went into the city of Atlanta for one of my background interviews with OTZMA, the Israel program I most want to attend. My last interview is tomorrow. Psycho-social. It went very well today and my interviewers told me that Tali was "very enthusiastic" about my candidacy. Let's hope the psychologist is, too. As long as no one else dies in the next year, one after the other, I should theoretically remain sane.
The sky was pretty ominous when I showed up at the Jewish Federation. I signed in, coughed my brains out, noticed I was forty-five minutes early, and the power died. Everywhere. Sachs Effect in action. As usual. Another twenty minutes go by. I settle in on a bench and resume reading *The Graveyard Book*. I make small-talk with the security guard, Brenda. Reminds me slightly of Teresa from the Clark Bookstore. The power comes back. People walk back-and-forth and ignore me. Then, Ebony comes out to get me. We have the interview. I do my thing. I tell the truth.
When it's over. I get directions back to MARTA. I didn't use them. I remembered my own way back. I walk under a black sky and watch a potential funnel descending over the city. Instinct tells me to run for it like everybody else on the street. I remind myself that running will be the
death of me with the 40% lung capacity. Plus, I'm out of shape at the moment. I need to hit a dance floor soon. And an Olympic-sized pool.
LATER 8:57pm
I got to my stop. Went to the rabbis to get my letter "proving" that I'm Jewish because they've known me for ages and ages. One of the keys to getting my visa. Of course, I commented on the fact that people have tricked many an agency over this kind of thing. This Russian family at the Jewish Day School, for instance. Elementary School in Savannah, GA. Gleb. I don't remember the other kids' names. But woe be the day I forget his.
He was one of the ones who made my life a living hell. I snapped at the age of nine on the ledge of a pool. Kicked him in. Out-of-body experience. If I had been any older, things would not have been good for this kid. Afterwards, he avoided me for three months. I watched myself from a distance before coming back. The point is, we later discovered that his entire family had lied, forged documentation, etc., and used the American Jewish Federation by claiming they were Jewish to get out of Russia in the post-USSR days--mid-nineties. They jumped ship, of course, when all of that was discovered and hit it off to Ohio or somewhere and were never heard from
again.
I guess it's just as well. According to genetics, going back an infinite number of generations, I'm Jewish, and now I have a letter "proving" it. I think the whole thing is ridiculous. But that's just me.
My eyes feel like they're about to explode. Sinus pressure. I ignore it. I registered my international Student ID card and found the international phone I might get.
I think I'm being called for dinner. It's 9:10 pm and the sun has finally disappeared. Down the street at the pool we ran into traffic earlier today. Two firetrucks and a moron in the middle of the road with a policeman who did nothing. And a woman who fell down the steps at the swimming tournament and broke her leg--bone through skin. Considering the weather, they would have postponed anyway.
May 27, 2009
It smells like summer, which means a good mix of blossoms and decay. The flowers I got for graduation sit on the dining room table, in their last throes of life. Beautiful, but beauty is ephemeral, like most good things. Perhaps this is why we must work harder to attain joy--desperation grows, an unyielding weed that takes root and flourishes, chokes the beautiful, the pleasant, the joyful, like the invasive kudzu vines that suffocate the region's natural vegetation. If we concentrate on achieving joy, eventually, we attain it. So, the memory lasts forever although the reality does not. We gain satisfaction because we know we spawned a creation, no matter how fleeting.
My voice is coming back, and my lung capacity. I went to my final interview for OTZMA today. Tomorrow, I call them to see if they can expedite their decision--yes or no--on whether I get in or not.
I suppose today was hard. I had to talk about last year. Psycho-social interview. The questions began with Eve, and almost ended with her, too: "How are you holding up?" But what do I say to a thing like that? I survive by not dwelling on it. But I see her anyway when the question is asked and the siren-screaming begins anew and says: "No reason! Only madness. There is no greater order to the world." I tell the psychologist I am dealing as well as possible. I don't obsess. Either way, I lose, I think. If I forget, it's condemnable; if I don't, I resign myself to madness.
So I dance. And I sing. And I look towards better things. But March 5, 2008 is branded onto my inner eye and behind the mask of the world, it's all I see.
Someone told me last week that the next time I got to college, I should remember to get a degree in smiling because it's something I never learned how to do. I smile all the time, but I guess my eyes aren't in it and people can tell. I concentrate on the absurd because it makes me laugh. But, like blossoms, laughter is beautiful, and everything beautiful fades.
I resign myself to a perpetual race, weighing laughter against sorrow, even though I know quite well that Time always wins. Life has no meaning, no reason, except for what we make of it for our own individual selves.
Yesterday, I finally took out Martin. I played Fouad's song. Couldn't sing except in my head: I get this feeling I am captured/ at the end of the line./ Got caught up in nostalgic rapture/ by the rage of innocence. It feels good to play. My calluses are whittling down to nothing because I'm
still getting over being sick. But I am young and resilient.
When I walked into my interview today, there was a woman in the waiting room rambling on in her deep Southern drawl. But she says she hates Georgia. First things she says to me is: "You're a youngun' aintcha?"
I looked at her through the corner of my eyes and filled out a form at the receptionist's window.
"Yes. I'm young," I said.
"Mmm," she said and leaned on her walker. She must have been in her sixties, but obviously not well.
"By the time you're my age," she said, "I'm gonna be day-yed."
"Hopefully not," I answered.
"Hell! I'll be way there up in mah nine-ties. And I've got the dia-bee-tees, so I'm gonna be day-yed bah then."
I went and sat down after handing the form to the receptionist and took out The Graveyard Book, hoping she'd get the hint.
"Do you bee-*leeve* there's a woman what one-hundred-and-six years old!"
She obviously didn't get the hint.
"Uh-huh," I said.
"You heard of Obama?"
"Yes."
"You heard of this woman whatsa one-hundred-and-six years old and she done vo-ted for Obama! Can you bee-leeve that! Do you believe anyone could get that old? I knew this man what whas one-hundred-and-seventeen and he shined my shoes for me. Can you be-leeve someone could get that old? Could you?"
"Yes. I believe it," I said and thought she should get death off her mind and concentrate on living.
"I don't wanna live that long, would you?" she said.
I shrugged. "Depends on how things are going."
"Mmm," she said and stayed quiet for a bit. I went back to my book, with relief. But--
"You know how to work them flipper phone?"
I looked up from my book and over at her. A woman walked in with a child, gave the woman a once-over and gave me a look of pity. I checked the time.
"Yes," I said. "Cell phone?" and waved mine at her.
"You know, them don' work if you overcharge 'em. I've got me one just for 9-1-1 emergencies and it don't work nothing if it get overcharged."
"That's weird. I've never heard of that. What does it look like?"
"It's brown. Hell, I should've brought so I coulda showed you."
"Sorry," I said.
"You got Alzheimer's?" she asked me. "No, you're too young. Well, my doctor she gave me pills for Alzheimer's but I don't think I got it, I just gets confused sometimes. You ever get confused? Like I think it's nighttime when it's daytime? I'm going to die soon. You just watch."
I didn't answer and I got called in for my interview.
On the way home, I took a wrong turn and got lost, called home for help and made it back. Take that last bit however you like. In the end, either way, I was back where I needed to be.
May 26, 2009
On MARTA heading back to Marietta now. I went into the city of Atlanta for one of my background interviews with OTZMA, the Israel program I most want to attend. My last interview is tomorrow. Psycho-social. It went very well today and my interviewers told me that Tali was "very enthusiastic" about my candidacy. Let's hope the psychologist is, too. As long as no one else dies in the next year, one after the other, I should theoretically remain sane.
The sky was pretty ominous when I showed up at the Jewish Federation. I signed in, coughed my brains out, noticed I was forty-five minutes early, and the power died. Everywhere. Sachs Effect in action. As usual. Another twenty minutes go by. I settle in on a bench and resume reading *The Graveyard Book*. I make small-talk with the security guard, Brenda. Reminds me slightly of Teresa from the Clark Bookstore. The power comes back. People walk back-and-forth and ignore me. Then, Ebony comes out to get me. We have the interview. I do my thing. I tell the truth.
When it's over. I get directions back to MARTA. I didn't use them. I remembered my own way back. I walk under a black sky and watch a potential funnel descending over the city. Instinct tells me to run for it like everybody else on the street. I remind myself that running will be the
death of me with the 40% lung capacity. Plus, I'm out of shape at the moment. I need to hit a dance floor soon. And an Olympic-sized pool.
LATER 8:57pm
I got to my stop. Went to the rabbis to get my letter "proving" that I'm Jewish because they've known me for ages and ages. One of the keys to getting my visa. Of course, I commented on the fact that people have tricked many an agency over this kind of thing. This Russian family at the Jewish Day School, for instance. Elementary School in Savannah, GA. Gleb. I don't remember the other kids' names. But woe be the day I forget his.
He was one of the ones who made my life a living hell. I snapped at the age of nine on the ledge of a pool. Kicked him in. Out-of-body experience. If I had been any older, things would not have been good for this kid. Afterwards, he avoided me for three months. I watched myself from a distance before coming back. The point is, we later discovered that his entire family had lied, forged documentation, etc., and used the American Jewish Federation by claiming they were Jewish to get out of Russia in the post-USSR days--mid-nineties. They jumped ship, of course, when all of that was discovered and hit it off to Ohio or somewhere and were never heard from
again.
I guess it's just as well. According to genetics, going back an infinite number of generations, I'm Jewish, and now I have a letter "proving" it. I think the whole thing is ridiculous. But that's just me.
My eyes feel like they're about to explode. Sinus pressure. I ignore it. I registered my international Student ID card and found the international phone I might get.
I think I'm being called for dinner. It's 9:10 pm and the sun has finally disappeared. Down the street at the pool we ran into traffic earlier today. Two firetrucks and a moron in the middle of the road with a policeman who did nothing. And a woman who fell down the steps at the swimming tournament and broke her leg--bone through skin. Considering the weather, they would have postponed anyway.
May 27, 2009
It smells like summer, which means a good mix of blossoms and decay. The flowers I got for graduation sit on the dining room table, in their last throes of life. Beautiful, but beauty is ephemeral, like most good things. Perhaps this is why we must work harder to attain joy--desperation grows, an unyielding weed that takes root and flourishes, chokes the beautiful, the pleasant, the joyful, like the invasive kudzu vines that suffocate the region's natural vegetation. If we concentrate on achieving joy, eventually, we attain it. So, the memory lasts forever although the reality does not. We gain satisfaction because we know we spawned a creation, no matter how fleeting.
My voice is coming back, and my lung capacity. I went to my final interview for OTZMA today. Tomorrow, I call them to see if they can expedite their decision--yes or no--on whether I get in or not.
I suppose today was hard. I had to talk about last year. Psycho-social interview. The questions began with Eve, and almost ended with her, too: "How are you holding up?" But what do I say to a thing like that? I survive by not dwelling on it. But I see her anyway when the question is asked and the siren-screaming begins anew and says: "No reason! Only madness. There is no greater order to the world." I tell the psychologist I am dealing as well as possible. I don't obsess. Either way, I lose, I think. If I forget, it's condemnable; if I don't, I resign myself to madness.
So I dance. And I sing. And I look towards better things. But March 5, 2008 is branded onto my inner eye and behind the mask of the world, it's all I see.
Someone told me last week that the next time I got to college, I should remember to get a degree in smiling because it's something I never learned how to do. I smile all the time, but I guess my eyes aren't in it and people can tell. I concentrate on the absurd because it makes me laugh. But, like blossoms, laughter is beautiful, and everything beautiful fades.
I resign myself to a perpetual race, weighing laughter against sorrow, even though I know quite well that Time always wins. Life has no meaning, no reason, except for what we make of it for our own individual selves.
Yesterday, I finally took out Martin. I played Fouad's song. Couldn't sing except in my head: I get this feeling I am captured/ at the end of the line./ Got caught up in nostalgic rapture/ by the rage of innocence. It feels good to play. My calluses are whittling down to nothing because I'm
still getting over being sick. But I am young and resilient.
When I walked into my interview today, there was a woman in the waiting room rambling on in her deep Southern drawl. But she says she hates Georgia. First things she says to me is: "You're a youngun' aintcha?"
I looked at her through the corner of my eyes and filled out a form at the receptionist's window.
"Yes. I'm young," I said.
"Mmm," she said and leaned on her walker. She must have been in her sixties, but obviously not well.
"By the time you're my age," she said, "I'm gonna be day-yed."
"Hopefully not," I answered.
"Hell! I'll be way there up in mah nine-ties. And I've got the dia-bee-tees, so I'm gonna be day-yed bah then."
I went and sat down after handing the form to the receptionist and took out The Graveyard Book, hoping she'd get the hint.
"Do you bee-*leeve* there's a woman what one-hundred-and-six years old!"
She obviously didn't get the hint.
"Uh-huh," I said.
"You heard of Obama?"
"Yes."
"You heard of this woman whatsa one-hundred-and-six years old and she done vo-ted for Obama! Can you bee-leeve that! Do you believe anyone could get that old? I knew this man what whas one-hundred-and-seventeen and he shined my shoes for me. Can you be-leeve someone could get that old? Could you?"
"Yes. I believe it," I said and thought she should get death off her mind and concentrate on living.
"I don't wanna live that long, would you?" she said.
I shrugged. "Depends on how things are going."
"Mmm," she said and stayed quiet for a bit. I went back to my book, with relief. But--
"You know how to work them flipper phone?"
I looked up from my book and over at her. A woman walked in with a child, gave the woman a once-over and gave me a look of pity. I checked the time.
"Yes," I said. "Cell phone?" and waved mine at her.
"You know, them don' work if you overcharge 'em. I've got me one just for 9-1-1 emergencies and it don't work nothing if it get overcharged."
"That's weird. I've never heard of that. What does it look like?"
"It's brown. Hell, I should've brought so I coulda showed you."
"Sorry," I said.
"You got Alzheimer's?" she asked me. "No, you're too young. Well, my doctor she gave me pills for Alzheimer's but I don't think I got it, I just gets confused sometimes. You ever get confused? Like I think it's nighttime when it's daytime? I'm going to die soon. You just watch."
I didn't answer and I got called in for my interview.
On the way home, I took a wrong turn and got lost, called home for help and made it back. Take that last bit however you like. In the end, either way, I was back where I needed to be.
Travel Log #1
May 25, 2009
Yesterday, I went up to north Georgia with my father to drop off a friend at camp--as in the sleep-away camp I attended my entire life. For those of you who don't know, I was a hardcore camper between the ages of ten (beginning on my tenth birthday--the camp's first day of second session ever!) and seventeen, my last year. I haven't been up there in four years. We stayed for a few hours before returning home. (Oh, yes, I am over that crazy bug. No more fever, just asthma which will hopefully subside as soon as possible.)
Anyhow, on the way back down to Atlanta we hit the best storm I've seen in three years. I'd say there was maybe about 15% visibility out the windows, lightning everywhere, exploding right above us, and thunder, like the giants really bowling up above us in the sky.
If you've never experienced it, there's nothing like a real Southern thunderstorm. I've been waiting for a while to get back to them and for the climate to get back to normal--if possible. For the past fifteen years or more we've been in one of the most severe droughts since, probably, the Dust Bowl in the South East. Of course, instead of doing something intelligent or practical about it, we get the governor saying prayers on the steps of the state capital building instead of actual water restrictions when we need them. But maybe the gods do listen, what do I know? It has, indeed, begun to rain. Not just rain, but it rains like crazy, on time, everyday, in the afternoon. The gears of the clock are back on schedule. If only it continues to rain over Lake Lanier, the reservoir, we won't have to worry about the human population running out of water for the sake of the endangered freshwater mussel species down in Florida.
Yes, we (the state of Georgia) have been in a legal battle for over twenty years regarding our water supply being sucked away by Tennessee, parts of Alabama and Florida, and all complicated by the poor mussels' fate. It's still behind the scenes for the most part, but the battle exists. The moral of the story? Something most people don't dare to think about: North America going dry. Forget about oil, we're running out of water.
Anyway, the rain seems to be falling steadily and in the right places lately, so maybe all we'll have to worry about are the tornadoes soon enough. So--back those storms.
In high school, the world seemed dead around me, so when no one was looking, I'd take off and run out in the middle of those storms, take shelter inside the roots of trees down in the ravine below my house, and stick myself right in the middle of the charged atmosphere just to feel what living was like. The whole time I was fully aware of the danger in this, but that was the point. I could drown, I could get struck by lightning, but I could also survive and cheat death...and so, appreciate the minute beauties of life that make it worth living for.
Eventually, the storms would stop, the clouds would lift and it would be sun on a billion raindrops shining through the leaves. Sometimes, this happens in the middle of the storm. The cells crack open and reveal the sun and clear blue sky. It's still chaos on the ground. Nature doesn't give a damn about us, in other words, and we all think we're so important. I say, take a peek at a storm like that, or an ocean, or a desert, or the vastness of space and tell me otherwise.
Moving on--
Went to a music store today: Ken Stanton over by the Big Chicken. Bought the much-needed strings for Martin and got them light. Mediums are too stressful, especially with that lovely crack down the center of his face. According to many instrumental professionals, at least. I also investigated a lighter, less expensive case for traveling with him. I'll get it. $64. The old case is just about dead anyway. It's been all over the world with me and Martin, and duct tape just isn't holding it together anymore. The new case will travel, too, but I'll be less worried now that I'm not dealing with disintegrating wood and a dying hand from carrying heavy instruments in heavier cases all over the place.
This is all there is for now. I have four weeks to get funding, a visa, housing, and a phone for Israel. Let the stress begin again. At least I won't be bored. I 'm going to go read--Neil Gaiman. Now that school is over (for a month) I have time to read for once because I'm not too busy reading.
Hope all is well. Now, we're back on the schedule. Sorry again for the double email today. They'll be more spaced out from now on.
Yesterday, I went up to north Georgia with my father to drop off a friend at camp--as in the sleep-away camp I attended my entire life. For those of you who don't know, I was a hardcore camper between the ages of ten (beginning on my tenth birthday--the camp's first day of second session ever!) and seventeen, my last year. I haven't been up there in four years. We stayed for a few hours before returning home. (Oh, yes, I am over that crazy bug. No more fever, just asthma which will hopefully subside as soon as possible.)
Anyhow, on the way back down to Atlanta we hit the best storm I've seen in three years. I'd say there was maybe about 15% visibility out the windows, lightning everywhere, exploding right above us, and thunder, like the giants really bowling up above us in the sky.
If you've never experienced it, there's nothing like a real Southern thunderstorm. I've been waiting for a while to get back to them and for the climate to get back to normal--if possible. For the past fifteen years or more we've been in one of the most severe droughts since, probably, the Dust Bowl in the South East. Of course, instead of doing something intelligent or practical about it, we get the governor saying prayers on the steps of the state capital building instead of actual water restrictions when we need them. But maybe the gods do listen, what do I know? It has, indeed, begun to rain. Not just rain, but it rains like crazy, on time, everyday, in the afternoon. The gears of the clock are back on schedule. If only it continues to rain over Lake Lanier, the reservoir, we won't have to worry about the human population running out of water for the sake of the endangered freshwater mussel species down in Florida.
Yes, we (the state of Georgia) have been in a legal battle for over twenty years regarding our water supply being sucked away by Tennessee, parts of Alabama and Florida, and all complicated by the poor mussels' fate. It's still behind the scenes for the most part, but the battle exists. The moral of the story? Something most people don't dare to think about: North America going dry. Forget about oil, we're running out of water.
Anyway, the rain seems to be falling steadily and in the right places lately, so maybe all we'll have to worry about are the tornadoes soon enough. So--back those storms.
In high school, the world seemed dead around me, so when no one was looking, I'd take off and run out in the middle of those storms, take shelter inside the roots of trees down in the ravine below my house, and stick myself right in the middle of the charged atmosphere just to feel what living was like. The whole time I was fully aware of the danger in this, but that was the point. I could drown, I could get struck by lightning, but I could also survive and cheat death...and so, appreciate the minute beauties of life that make it worth living for.
Eventually, the storms would stop, the clouds would lift and it would be sun on a billion raindrops shining through the leaves. Sometimes, this happens in the middle of the storm. The cells crack open and reveal the sun and clear blue sky. It's still chaos on the ground. Nature doesn't give a damn about us, in other words, and we all think we're so important. I say, take a peek at a storm like that, or an ocean, or a desert, or the vastness of space and tell me otherwise.
Moving on--
Went to a music store today: Ken Stanton over by the Big Chicken. Bought the much-needed strings for Martin and got them light. Mediums are too stressful, especially with that lovely crack down the center of his face. According to many instrumental professionals, at least. I also investigated a lighter, less expensive case for traveling with him. I'll get it. $64. The old case is just about dead anyway. It's been all over the world with me and Martin, and duct tape just isn't holding it together anymore. The new case will travel, too, but I'll be less worried now that I'm not dealing with disintegrating wood and a dying hand from carrying heavy instruments in heavier cases all over the place.
This is all there is for now. I have four weeks to get funding, a visa, housing, and a phone for Israel. Let the stress begin again. At least I won't be bored. I 'm going to go read--Neil Gaiman. Now that school is over (for a month) I have time to read for once because I'm not too busy reading.
Hope all is well. Now, we're back on the schedule. Sorry again for the double email today. They'll be more spaced out from now on.
Travel Log 2009-Welcome
May 20, 2009
For many of you this is a welcome back, so you already know what you're in for because you've been on this list before. For others of you, welcome, for the first time.
In case you don't know what I'm talking about, I keep a travel log/newsletter when I travel. Although it will be a little bit over a month until I'm on roads and planes and trains again, but I figured I would start out early. Also, if you are receiving this, it means that you are an important person in my life and I would like to keep in touch with you. In other words, please write back. Even though this is a mass mailing, if you write back, I'll answer you personally. Also, if this is not the email address that you would prefer me to be sending this to, please let me know and I'll switch it.
I just arrived back in Georgia yesterday. I took a ride share with a random Craig's List person. Yeah, I know. Sounds sketchy, but it worked out really well and it was the cheapest way possible to get four years of my life (after selling all of my furniture, including the bed I'm obsessed with) from Worcester, Mass back to Marietta, Georgia. 1,079 miles from doorstep to doorstep. The trip was good. The only problem is that I got sick this morning and am running a fever of over 103. Don't ask me how I'm alive and coherent right now. I don't understand it either.
Just to preface you, the traveling I will be doing begins on July 1. I fly to England to visit my family there, then to Germany for a Jewish Studies program ten days later, and then to Luxembourg for about ten days at the end of August; and then, if all goes well and visas go through, Israel for the year for one program or other. I will keep you posted on that.
Anyhow, I wrote on the way home while in the car yesterday. It's appropriate for this log. Just as a warning, these newsletters/logs/updates are anything from extremely factual to emotional reactions to whatever craziness happens in life.
May 19, 2009
On the road again. I-85 South. 1.5 states away from what I finally consider home base. It figures. I spent my whole life running away from the South. Four years of Worcester, Massachusetts teaches its lessons. I may love the cold, but with the cold comes the unrelenting ice. I got buried this year. Too much. Time to move on.
The South is green and clean and perfect strangers say hello and smile. Southern hospitality may be a show but we are what we pretend to be, at least in part.
The window is open and the wind is in my face--just the way I like it. Ahead of me, the open road and a destination. On this trip I've learned a few things: don't worry, four years of accumulation (and then some) will fit in the back of a stranger's pick-up truck; thee is a road code among truckers, a whole language of which I never was aware until ten hours ago; tractor-trailer piggy-backs and their illegality in most places in the Northeast, but get to Texas and the rest of the West and piggy-backs, double, triple, rule the road. It's good knowledge for Early Silver.
This road cuts through the twin cities: Raleigh/Durham and Chapel Hill is on the signs. I still think of Eve.
Tonight, or this afternoon--it's 11:06am--I'll be home. I was so excited at the prospect of that yesterday, that I went through everything and changed my permanent address back to Georgia. Farewell Worcester.
When I drive, I count license plates and keep a tally of how many and from where. Ohio, Indiana, etc. One Ontario. In Luxembourg two years ago, there was a car with plates from Cobb County, Georgia, like me. I guess some people do drive across the ocean. West Virginia. The miles slip by quickly. Like people.
My life is a series of episodes, like anyone's: hellos, goodbyes, and an acceptance of transience, impermanence. I love it. I find people everywhere. I love them. I keep them if they keep me, or I let them go.
This ride was taking a risk. One-thousand-and-seventy-nine miles of driving in a car with someone I've never met before. It's been good. The flowers on the side of the road are beautiful, red, pink, white, orange, purple. In the back, resting on Martin's case is a baby pit bull, "Caesar the Pleaser," with about an eight of terrier in him. Nicest dog ever. Another bit of knowledge: pit bulls have weak immune systems, apparently. One tick bite could finish them off before anyone figures out what hit them. Mike's tips (my driver) Lived all along the East Coast. By the accent, a pure-bred Bostonian.
God, I haven't seen a Food Lion in ages. I don't think Atlanta has them. But NC, Raleigh/Durham does.
The road stretches. Greensboro. Elon University. I ignored their attempts to recruit me. I needed to blast past Mason-Dixon. Clark was the right choice. Better than that: the perfect choice. The only choice. Not even on my radar until Dad dragged me to a college fair. (Thank you.)
Charlotte, NC. Charlotte, the street I just moved away from. We check the GPS. It wants to reroute us again. A nasty and annoying habit it has. Takes us around in unnecessary loops. Mike and I discuss how it's a conspiracy of petroleum companies in league with the Tom-Tom company. Do a little round-about, what do we know? Blow a couple hundred miles, more gas needed, profit gained, we go bankrupt. Perfect plan. I trust human intuition and road signs more than the program anyway. We defy it. It adjusts to us.
322 miles to go.
196.3 miles to go. South Carolina. So close to the Georgia border. They've been digging up the ground here and red clay is everywhere. When i was younger, I used to dig it up and mush it around in my hands. The land stretches out here. No clutter. Breathing room. Trailer parks. Little matchbox houses line the highways. Water tower shaped like a peach. yes, in Gaffiney, South Carolina. Don't be fooled by the myth. Georgia is the peanut state, it just doesn't look good on a license plate. Prison inmates everywhere--doing roadside clean-up. Shearing the meadows.
Ahead of us, mountains. The Appalachian Trail runs through here. I'm almost home.
For many of you this is a welcome back, so you already know what you're in for because you've been on this list before. For others of you, welcome, for the first time.
In case you don't know what I'm talking about, I keep a travel log/newsletter when I travel. Although it will be a little bit over a month until I'm on roads and planes and trains again, but I figured I would start out early. Also, if you are receiving this, it means that you are an important person in my life and I would like to keep in touch with you. In other words, please write back. Even though this is a mass mailing, if you write back, I'll answer you personally. Also, if this is not the email address that you would prefer me to be sending this to, please let me know and I'll switch it.
I just arrived back in Georgia yesterday. I took a ride share with a random Craig's List person. Yeah, I know. Sounds sketchy, but it worked out really well and it was the cheapest way possible to get four years of my life (after selling all of my furniture, including the bed I'm obsessed with) from Worcester, Mass back to Marietta, Georgia. 1,079 miles from doorstep to doorstep. The trip was good. The only problem is that I got sick this morning and am running a fever of over 103. Don't ask me how I'm alive and coherent right now. I don't understand it either.
Just to preface you, the traveling I will be doing begins on July 1. I fly to England to visit my family there, then to Germany for a Jewish Studies program ten days later, and then to Luxembourg for about ten days at the end of August; and then, if all goes well and visas go through, Israel for the year for one program or other. I will keep you posted on that.
Anyhow, I wrote on the way home while in the car yesterday. It's appropriate for this log. Just as a warning, these newsletters/logs/updates are anything from extremely factual to emotional reactions to whatever craziness happens in life.
May 19, 2009
On the road again. I-85 South. 1.5 states away from what I finally consider home base. It figures. I spent my whole life running away from the South. Four years of Worcester, Massachusetts teaches its lessons. I may love the cold, but with the cold comes the unrelenting ice. I got buried this year. Too much. Time to move on.
The South is green and clean and perfect strangers say hello and smile. Southern hospitality may be a show but we are what we pretend to be, at least in part.
The window is open and the wind is in my face--just the way I like it. Ahead of me, the open road and a destination. On this trip I've learned a few things: don't worry, four years of accumulation (and then some) will fit in the back of a stranger's pick-up truck; thee is a road code among truckers, a whole language of which I never was aware until ten hours ago; tractor-trailer piggy-backs and their illegality in most places in the Northeast, but get to Texas and the rest of the West and piggy-backs, double, triple, rule the road. It's good knowledge for Early Silver.
This road cuts through the twin cities: Raleigh/Durham and Chapel Hill is on the signs. I still think of Eve.
Tonight, or this afternoon--it's 11:06am--I'll be home. I was so excited at the prospect of that yesterday, that I went through everything and changed my permanent address back to Georgia. Farewell Worcester.
When I drive, I count license plates and keep a tally of how many and from where. Ohio, Indiana, etc. One Ontario. In Luxembourg two years ago, there was a car with plates from Cobb County, Georgia, like me. I guess some people do drive across the ocean. West Virginia. The miles slip by quickly. Like people.
My life is a series of episodes, like anyone's: hellos, goodbyes, and an acceptance of transience, impermanence. I love it. I find people everywhere. I love them. I keep them if they keep me, or I let them go.
This ride was taking a risk. One-thousand-and-seventy-nine miles of driving in a car with someone I've never met before. It's been good. The flowers on the side of the road are beautiful, red, pink, white, orange, purple. In the back, resting on Martin's case is a baby pit bull, "Caesar the Pleaser," with about an eight of terrier in him. Nicest dog ever. Another bit of knowledge: pit bulls have weak immune systems, apparently. One tick bite could finish them off before anyone figures out what hit them. Mike's tips (my driver) Lived all along the East Coast. By the accent, a pure-bred Bostonian.
God, I haven't seen a Food Lion in ages. I don't think Atlanta has them. But NC, Raleigh/Durham does.
The road stretches. Greensboro. Elon University. I ignored their attempts to recruit me. I needed to blast past Mason-Dixon. Clark was the right choice. Better than that: the perfect choice. The only choice. Not even on my radar until Dad dragged me to a college fair. (Thank you.)
Charlotte, NC. Charlotte, the street I just moved away from. We check the GPS. It wants to reroute us again. A nasty and annoying habit it has. Takes us around in unnecessary loops. Mike and I discuss how it's a conspiracy of petroleum companies in league with the Tom-Tom company. Do a little round-about, what do we know? Blow a couple hundred miles, more gas needed, profit gained, we go bankrupt. Perfect plan. I trust human intuition and road signs more than the program anyway. We defy it. It adjusts to us.
322 miles to go.
196.3 miles to go. South Carolina. So close to the Georgia border. They've been digging up the ground here and red clay is everywhere. When i was younger, I used to dig it up and mush it around in my hands. The land stretches out here. No clutter. Breathing room. Trailer parks. Little matchbox houses line the highways. Water tower shaped like a peach. yes, in Gaffiney, South Carolina. Don't be fooled by the myth. Georgia is the peanut state, it just doesn't look good on a license plate. Prison inmates everywhere--doing roadside clean-up. Shearing the meadows.
Ahead of us, mountains. The Appalachian Trail runs through here. I'm almost home.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)