Pale, pale hair, spiked hair, paler skin. A short black jacket bearing the word Corrupted.
Passed him as I walked to the spot that I had chosen.
He waited for the train a yard or two away. Waited behind me. Waited next to me again.
We walked toward the train when it came. I looked at his profile. His nose had a bump. Not as big of a bump as I remembered, but it was enough. We ended up next to each other, in the center, on either side of a pole, facing the same direction.
You remind me of someone I used to know, I say.
A couple seconds pass.
Where are you from? I ask.
Sweden, he says.
The train moves with us, and I look toward the window.
Was he a good person or a bad person? he asks.
Beat.
A good person.
Slight pause. He inclines his head toward me, leans closer. What?
A good person, I say louder, more distinctly.
Silence. I hook my arm around the pole, rest, one leg braced, the other bent, content, rocking forward and back. He holds on with one hand, above my elbow, below my head.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Tone poem
Blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue Flying Angels blue Flying blue blue blue Flying Angels blue blue blue blue
Flying Angels blue
blue Flying Angels blue spread wings blue blue blue blue
wings blue blue spread wings blue blue Flying Angels spread wiiiiiiiiings
blue blue blue blue
WINGS! blue blue blue they spread WINGS! blue blue blue blue
flying angels
blue wings fly fly fly (fly fly)
soar flying angels soar Soar flying angels soar Soar flying angels in the
flying angels in the
flying angels in the blue blue Blue blue blue blue Blue blue skyyyyy
COMFORT ME! flying angels in the Blue! blue blue blue
Flying! in the Blue!
Flying!
Flying loooooooow. Flying looooooooow. ww. w. wrrhrrrrrhrhrhrhrflyingHIGH! in the blue blue blue blue blueHIGH!flyingHIGH! COMFORT ME!
I miss you
miss you
flying angels
I
miss
You
flying angels
You flying angels in the blue flying angels in the blue
in the blue flying angels in the blue flying angels in the blue
flying. spread wiiiiiiiiingsssssssspreadwiiiiiiiiiingsssssssssspreadwiiiiiiiiiiiiingsssssssssssspreadwiiiiiiiiiiiiingssssssssspreadwiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiingssssssssssssssss
s
flyyyy y
Flying Angels blue
blue Flying Angels blue spread wings blue blue blue blue
wings blue blue spread wings blue blue Flying Angels spread wiiiiiiiiings
blue blue blue blue
WINGS! blue blue blue they spread WINGS! blue blue blue blue
flying angels
blue wings fly fly fly (fly fly)
soar flying angels soar Soar flying angels soar Soar flying angels in the
flying angels in the
flying angels in the blue blue Blue blue blue blue Blue blue skyyyyy
COMFORT ME! flying angels in the Blue! blue blue blue
Flying! in the Blue!
Flying!
Flying loooooooow. Flying looooooooow. ww. w. wrrhrrrrrhrhrhrhrflyingHIGH! in the blue blue blue blue blueHIGH!flyingHIGH! COMFORT ME!
I miss you
miss you
flying angels
I
miss
You
flying angels
You flying angels in the blue flying angels in the blue
in the blue flying angels in the blue flying angels in the blue
flying. spread wiiiiiiiiingsssssssspreadwiiiiiiiiiingsssssssssspreadwiiiiiiiiiiiiingsssssssssssspreadwiiiiiiiiiiiiingssssssssspreadwiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiingssssssssssssssss
s
flyyyy y
Monday, February 13, 2012
Plant Sex
Let me introduce you to the awesome Laura Beth Resnick, a farmer whom I have had the honor of knowing since 2003. She keeps a blog about farming, plants, and food at http://vegetarianadventure.wordpress.com/; her blog is a fun and insightful record of anecdotes, facts, and recipes that both provides a window into the life of a farmer and strengthens the reader's connection to what we consume on a daily basis.
Most recently, Laura Beth has started writing about GMOs--Genetically Modified Organisms. A sequence of blog posts will take readers through various topics related to plants and how humans influence their growth and reproduction. And I am illustrating!
Read away!
Most recently, Laura Beth has started writing about GMOs--Genetically Modified Organisms. A sequence of blog posts will take readers through various topics related to plants and how humans influence their growth and reproduction. And I am illustrating!
Read away!
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Tu biShvat poem
The pitless pit
In softening skin
thick unfertile darkness
waits for something
some thing
In softening skin
thick unfertile darkness
waits for something
some thing
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Sunday night poem
I got out of the shower today.
Water beaded down my forehead.
I looked like a princess.
Water beaded down my forehead.
I looked like a princess.
Friday, February 3, 2012
A good read
http://religion.blogs.cnn.com/2012/01/28/my-faith-what-people-talk-about-before-they-die/?hpt=hp_c1
Thanks to Maytal for bringing my attention to this post.
Thanks to Maytal for bringing my attention to this post.
Monday, January 30, 2012
I stood by
I stood by.
My Jewish sisters gathered at the Western Wall, and I stood by.
Stood by and watched as they sang their prayers on Rosh Chodesh Av, praising God and defying the shouts they provoked. I had written about these women, described and extolled their fight, their desire to be unmarked, undivided, uninhibited in speaking to God as they wished, where they wished. I believed in their mission, was personally distraught over the crowdedness of the women’s side of the mechitza, over the restrictions I felt upon my chanting, my expression, my being. I supported their call for religious freedom. I had come to see them, to maybe add my voice to theirs. But I found, that day, that I could not stand with them.
I was uncomfortable, afraid, agitated. Prayers were protests; what was meant for God was directed instead against detractors. The Torah became something to possess, to display. Hallel became a freedom march, a production for video cameras. Judaism became a battleground on the first day of the month dedicated to remembering the dangers of turning against each other. I did not come for battle. I came for worship. And so I stood by, watched as others fought my battle for me. But I am ashamed to say there was another reason I stood by.
I did not respect them. I did not respect myself.
These women were united in their struggle but somehow I saw them as motley, mismatched. Many were not Israeli. Many were not Orthodox. I did not believe that others would consider their claims or their methods traditional, within the bounds of the system. I did not want to be on camera with them; I did not want other Jews seeing me with them; I did not want to associate with these women, to have my face next to theirs. I shied away from allying with the subversive, the rag-tag, the eternally outside voices of change.
I wanted to be normative.
All of the labels that I had managed to accrue over the years – female, pacifist, bisexual, idealist, tallit-donner, kippah-wearer, storyteller, song singer – all of these liberal, freeing things boxed me in, made me a ‘type,’ made me feel I needed to prove myself in order to be respected. I might be egalitarian, but I better not play guitar on Shabbat. I might consider laying tefillin, but I better do so in my own bedroom. I might lead Neilah, but I better not make a fuss if a man is always chosen to lead Kiddush in my own home. I might feel the call to learn and counsel and teach and, gosh knows, even prophesy, but I better not become a Rabbi. I could not be a hippie, I could not be loud, I could not be joyful, I could not be defiant. I could not cut my hair. I could not be one of ‘those women.’ I needed to make myself generic, not cause a stir, not isolate myself. Of course, even in my most restricted moments, I was far from being a conformist. But I did not always broadcast the ways in which I did not quite fit in.
Only in that way would I be taken seriously. Only by operating within law and custom, only by dressing smartly, behaving modestly, studying sources earnestly, would I encourage others to respect me.
Only then, I reasoned, would my views ‘count.’
I reflect on that day, and I remember another time, a very different time, the first time I met with the Wall, about six months earlier. I had thought of wearing a skirt. Instead I approached the Wall as myself, in jeans and hiking boots. I walked closer, looked up, considered the division between light stone and dark sky, walked closer, closer. This is me, I declared. And I brought my ancestors with me, all of those who had not been privileged to reach the spot themselves. They did not mind my jeans, my boots. They did not mind my queerness, my silliness, my feminism, my doubts. They also did not care about my observance of Shabbat, my resolve not to show cleavage during services, my refusal to listen to music for three weeks out of the year. All that mattered was that I was finally bringing them to the Wall. I was their descendant, their passionate, devoted, intelligent, proud, questioning, fiery girl-child.
I think back on this earlier meeting between God, the Wall, my ancestors, and me, and I am suddenly tired of the struggle to be seen as authentic, to ally myself with those who are seen as authentic. I do not know what to make of my own dismissal of my kin that day in July. In my fear of ostracizing myself, I had ostracized them.
There are many ways in which I need to grow, many things I need to learn, many decisions I need to make. But I now know that I already have a place among those who matter. Maybe it is with the Women of the Wall. Maybe it is not.
But I will not stand by again.
I will simply stand.
My Jewish sisters gathered at the Western Wall, and I stood by.
Stood by and watched as they sang their prayers on Rosh Chodesh Av, praising God and defying the shouts they provoked. I had written about these women, described and extolled their fight, their desire to be unmarked, undivided, uninhibited in speaking to God as they wished, where they wished. I believed in their mission, was personally distraught over the crowdedness of the women’s side of the mechitza, over the restrictions I felt upon my chanting, my expression, my being. I supported their call for religious freedom. I had come to see them, to maybe add my voice to theirs. But I found, that day, that I could not stand with them.
I was uncomfortable, afraid, agitated. Prayers were protests; what was meant for God was directed instead against detractors. The Torah became something to possess, to display. Hallel became a freedom march, a production for video cameras. Judaism became a battleground on the first day of the month dedicated to remembering the dangers of turning against each other. I did not come for battle. I came for worship. And so I stood by, watched as others fought my battle for me. But I am ashamed to say there was another reason I stood by.
I did not respect them. I did not respect myself.
These women were united in their struggle but somehow I saw them as motley, mismatched. Many were not Israeli. Many were not Orthodox. I did not believe that others would consider their claims or their methods traditional, within the bounds of the system. I did not want to be on camera with them; I did not want other Jews seeing me with them; I did not want to associate with these women, to have my face next to theirs. I shied away from allying with the subversive, the rag-tag, the eternally outside voices of change.
I wanted to be normative.
All of the labels that I had managed to accrue over the years – female, pacifist, bisexual, idealist, tallit-donner, kippah-wearer, storyteller, song singer – all of these liberal, freeing things boxed me in, made me a ‘type,’ made me feel I needed to prove myself in order to be respected. I might be egalitarian, but I better not play guitar on Shabbat. I might consider laying tefillin, but I better do so in my own bedroom. I might lead Neilah, but I better not make a fuss if a man is always chosen to lead Kiddush in my own home. I might feel the call to learn and counsel and teach and, gosh knows, even prophesy, but I better not become a Rabbi. I could not be a hippie, I could not be loud, I could not be joyful, I could not be defiant. I could not cut my hair. I could not be one of ‘those women.’ I needed to make myself generic, not cause a stir, not isolate myself. Of course, even in my most restricted moments, I was far from being a conformist. But I did not always broadcast the ways in which I did not quite fit in.
Only in that way would I be taken seriously. Only by operating within law and custom, only by dressing smartly, behaving modestly, studying sources earnestly, would I encourage others to respect me.
Only then, I reasoned, would my views ‘count.’
I reflect on that day, and I remember another time, a very different time, the first time I met with the Wall, about six months earlier. I had thought of wearing a skirt. Instead I approached the Wall as myself, in jeans and hiking boots. I walked closer, looked up, considered the division between light stone and dark sky, walked closer, closer. This is me, I declared. And I brought my ancestors with me, all of those who had not been privileged to reach the spot themselves. They did not mind my jeans, my boots. They did not mind my queerness, my silliness, my feminism, my doubts. They also did not care about my observance of Shabbat, my resolve not to show cleavage during services, my refusal to listen to music for three weeks out of the year. All that mattered was that I was finally bringing them to the Wall. I was their descendant, their passionate, devoted, intelligent, proud, questioning, fiery girl-child.
I think back on this earlier meeting between God, the Wall, my ancestors, and me, and I am suddenly tired of the struggle to be seen as authentic, to ally myself with those who are seen as authentic. I do not know what to make of my own dismissal of my kin that day in July. In my fear of ostracizing myself, I had ostracized them.
There are many ways in which I need to grow, many things I need to learn, many decisions I need to make. But I now know that I already have a place among those who matter. Maybe it is with the Women of the Wall. Maybe it is not.
But I will not stand by again.
I will simply stand.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
I think I'm glad
I was riding the express train back up north. The 1 train started off going slightly faster than us, and I watched the people in the other car as they passed us by. Then their train slowed down to make a station stop, and we seemed to go faster and faster, and the people passed by me in the opposite direction, and I could see the outlines of the train cars, could see how strange it was that we were in these massive mechanical train cars, and I could also see bits of the station through three sets of windows, and then the people were gone and we were hurtling through the near darkness alone again.
We were already past 72nd Street. At one point I stumbled, caught myself, looked up at the man standing closest to me, hoped I hadn't run into him. Our coats were poofy enough that I might not have noticed. But he was not paying any mind.
He started singing ever so quietly. Humming, perhaps. Wordless, but I knew it.
Some...times in our lives...we all have pain...we all have sorrow....
Ever so quietly. I felt the need to connect, to acknowledge, to put myself into his awareness, his singing. If he had been playing the song on a saxophone in the middle of a train station, I would have stood there a bit and sung along, harmonized. It would have been fine. It would have been fun. As it was, I wasn't sure what to do. Things were too quiet, too personal.
But...if we are wise...we know that there's...always tomorrow....
I went ahead and harmonized. So, so softly. I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted him to notice. He did not, and I think I'm glad. But what would have been the issue?
We got to our stop. He hesitated in front of me, and I asked him if he was getting off there. He smiled faintly and said he was, and then he left the train, and I followed. I became happier with the smile, calmer, more comfortable.
I had been thinking about saying, "Good song." Just some sort of recognition. Some sort of bond. But for whose sake? I didn't say anything. We went up the stairs. One person was between us by the time we got to the turnstiles.
I had started singing again, melody this time, louder than before. With words. Why not, I figured. What was I afraid of? But he never heard, and I think I'm glad.
The song stayed in my head for a while. Maybe I'll pass it off to someone tomorrow.
We were already past 72nd Street. At one point I stumbled, caught myself, looked up at the man standing closest to me, hoped I hadn't run into him. Our coats were poofy enough that I might not have noticed. But he was not paying any mind.
He started singing ever so quietly. Humming, perhaps. Wordless, but I knew it.
Some...times in our lives...we all have pain...we all have sorrow....
Ever so quietly. I felt the need to connect, to acknowledge, to put myself into his awareness, his singing. If he had been playing the song on a saxophone in the middle of a train station, I would have stood there a bit and sung along, harmonized. It would have been fine. It would have been fun. As it was, I wasn't sure what to do. Things were too quiet, too personal.
But...if we are wise...we know that there's...always tomorrow....
I went ahead and harmonized. So, so softly. I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted him to notice. He did not, and I think I'm glad. But what would have been the issue?
We got to our stop. He hesitated in front of me, and I asked him if he was getting off there. He smiled faintly and said he was, and then he left the train, and I followed. I became happier with the smile, calmer, more comfortable.
I had been thinking about saying, "Good song." Just some sort of recognition. Some sort of bond. But for whose sake? I didn't say anything. We went up the stairs. One person was between us by the time we got to the turnstiles.
I had started singing again, melody this time, louder than before. With words. Why not, I figured. What was I afraid of? But he never heard, and I think I'm glad.
The song stayed in my head for a while. Maybe I'll pass it off to someone tomorrow.
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