Musings

Disaster Infatuations

2012-01-22T01:11:00.000-08:00

So awhile back I had to write a bit about some huge event that affected me in a deeply personal, heartrending sort of way. I wrote about hurricane Irene.
The Perfect Storm
The days leading up to the hurricane I paid little attention to the news. There is always something happening, always something tragic, and always very far from where I am in both the literal and psychological sense. And if tragedy is not the theme of the evening news, it is something frivolous such as what my pillows say about my personality. Thank you Yahoo, I’m a “bohemian.” In fact so many of the times that I follow the news, it seems as if it were all a large-scale reality show. The world continues to premier disasters on a regular scheduled programming. So reading about Hurricane Irene and her “churning winds,” I was not impressed. In fact I regarded the whole event in a nonchalant manner as each member of my family called to tell me their respective views of the hurricane and what I should/would do about it.

The truth is, though, that I was secretly excited. I am a skeptical optimist. I say it won’t happen but secretly dream it will. And in my mind, I was finally part of the action. I was one of those poor souls in New York, preparing as Hurricane Irene “barreled North up the Eastern Seaboard.” Like in all my favorite disaster films, Dante’s Point and Day After Tomorrow, I was a character in something exciting. It is a horrible thought, but part of me craves these life-threatening scenarios. I am such a bored, cautious person, that I actually want disasters to make my life more interesting. This is often why I will spontaneously force myself to do stupid things like skateboarding down a hill. This is a stupid thing to do because I don’t know how to skateboard and I do these stupid things to remind myself that I am still alive, to remind myself what it feels like to be alive. This feeling is commonly known as an adrenaline rush but I ignore that finer scientific anecdote.

So this hurricane, in all its glorious bane, was on it’s way and I half dismissed it because I distrusted the news, and half anticipated it with a disturbing impatience. I knew I was nowhere in the evacuation zones, that the worst I’d get would be possible flooding, a loss of electricity, and according to the weather reports, winds rushing in at sixty-two miles per hour. But my roommate informed me that sixty-two mile per hour winds were strong enough to knock me over, and this was something to hesitantly look forward to. I wanted to brace myself against a force stronger than me, to get sopping wet and caught in a falling building. I would survive of course, but only after being rescued by some darling in a uniform. I wanted a storm, a real storm but I still retained my realistic notion of what would likely occur. Some lousy weather, and nothing too horrific. Nevertheless, my brother called me early Friday morning and asked what I was going to do. He too had fallen into the trap of the world news reality show.

“To prepare” he said. “Absolutely nothing.” I’d answer. “I’m not in the evacuation zone.”

My father called later that afternoon. He told me to board up my windows. “You don’t want the glass to blow in on you.” He also to me to fill bags with water and put them in the freezer. They would not only keep my fridge cool if I lost power, but I could drink from them if in the midst of flooding my pipes broke down. Shortly afterward, my mother called to tell me about the clever idea my father had come up with. “Sarah, your father had such a clever idea! Freeze bags of water.” My parents, like everyone outside of the hurricane-promised land were wondering what would happen next, wishing they could be a part of it all. This episode had its selected cast and everyone else was left to wonder what was happening behind the scenes, reading the news articles of a shows synopsis.

As Friday ended and Saturday began, I spent more time by the windows. I was a princess awaiting her prince, and a deranged lady impatient for her disaster. But there was sun and there were birds and I told myself that this was just the calm before the storm. That soon enough these little blue jays would get sucked into roiling black clouds and the sun would disappear into a black abyss. But the damn birds were obstinate and it seemed this storm would never come. Yet the news continued to flash its warnings. Like a preview for House, drama reigned in cyberspace as the hundreds of articles gave credence to exaggeration. The sun was shining and I was being told of an apocalypse. Thankfully, by Saturday night the winds had started to increase. Winds so powerful they knocked over my empty carton of crackers.

Around four in the morning I had the idea to go on the roof with hopes of maybe seeing some fifty-foot waves with sharks and torched oil spills. According to what I read online, this was not far-fetched. Instead there was just mist and I couldn’t see much farther then the extent of the building I stood on. As one can imagine, I was pissed. Here the news had promised me a hurricane, and my friend’s bleating belief further convinced me that perhaps it would happen but then this, this ridiculous lack thereof. There was more lightening and thunder during the rest of the year than this news-wide weather report and the branches littered on Eastern Parkway did little to appease me. Sunday too, which had promised the sixty-two mile per hour winds and came with worried phone calls from family and relatives was a disappointment. New York had not fallen into an “eerie silence” as one newspaper claimed and the only real issue was the dysfunctional subway system.

Perhaps I should have gone to Manhattan for the weekend, truly placed myself in a danger zone. There were enough photographs popping up of taxis driving through flooded streets to get me interested. Manhattan, so close to it all, and yet without a functioning subway, so very, very far from me. Like everything before it, I was nowhere near the danger. No winds or flooding or power outages, just large blocks of ice shaped like Ziploc bags and a staggering concretion that I was right all along. The news truly is just another reality show, scripted to fit but ultimately false.

All the Pages Turn, Turn, Turn...

2012-01-14T23:31:00.000-08:00

Since coming home December 25th, I've been on a reading rampage. Mostly junky stuff like the Jurassic Park series (yo mathematicians, you might like the mathematician character Ian Malcolm-just putting that out there-unless Chaos Theory pisses you off in which case never mind because there's a lot of useless ranting in that genre)and other made-for-movies books like the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy. Now I'm finishing up the strue story, 3,096 days in Captivity which is about some Swedish chick who got kidnapped at age 10 and managed to escape 8 years later. We're the same age which is kinda trippy, I'm used to authors being dead by the time I get to their stuff. I believe she currently has her own talk show.
After that particular morsel, I'm reading something my dad oh so gently nudged in my direction, A Conflict of Visions, Ideological Origins of Political Struggles. Sounds boring but it seems to be written well so I guess we'll see.
I suppose all this book-related talk should go in the book blog but the blog's so rarely used that I'm likely going to just delete it.
Now the point of all this book stuff is, I guess, to recommend all the aforementioned books, because they WERE good, but also to drift along a bit on the idea of getting out of a book. See when I read, a train can come crashing through my room and chances are I'll look up but not even realize what I'm seeing, shrug, and resume reading. In other words, I get absorbed. And I toddle along with the main characters and villains and other characters and get so lost in their world that my own life becomes more and more uneventful. Think of a sloth. Now give that sloth a book.
That's me.
So when I come out of a book it's like the whole Cave scenario Plato goes on about, getting out of the cave, seeing reality and going, "nah, that can't be right. Gawd it's bright out here." I have forgotten how to live, how to get up and do things because for the past week I've been sitting in one chair, smoking my mom's e-cig (which I like to compare to an opium pipe), and reading.
People love books, worship books like a tangible version of knowledge they so admire and that all very nice. But if getting lost in them means you're own life goes to shit, it's kinda sad...right? Maybe it's only sad if you read books like Jurassic Park.
Gosh I love raptors. Even if ol' Michael Crichton made up most of their behavioral tendencies.

"Songs of Exile, Songs of Chess"

2011-12-24T14:38:00.000-08:00

On christmas, Jews eat chinese food and play chess. Here's something I found online, supposedly written by Ibn Ezra:
I will sing a song of battle
Planned in days long past and over.
Men of skill and science set it
On a plain of eight divisions,
And designed in squares all chequered.
Two camps face each one the other,
And the kings stand by for battle,
And twixt these two is the fighting.
Bent on war the face of each is,
Ever moving or encamping,
Yet no swords are drawn in warfare,
For a war of thoughts their war is.
They are known by signs and tokens
Sealed and written on their bodies;
And a man who sees them thinketh,
Edomites and Ethiopians
Are these two that fight together.
And the Ethiopian forces
Overspread the field of battle,
And the Edomites pursue them.

First in battle the foot-soldier
Comes to fight upon the highway,
Ever marching straight before him,
But to capture moving sideways,
Straying not from off his pathway,
Neither do his steps go backwards;
He may leap at the beginning
Anywhere within three chequers.
Should he take his steps in battle
Far away unto the eighth row,
Then a Queen to all appearance
He becomes and fights as she does.
And the Queen directs her moving
As she will to any quarter.
Backs the elephant or advances,
Stands aside as 'twere an ambush;
As the Queen's way, so is his way,
But o'er him she hath advantage,
He stands only in the third rank.
Swift the horse is in the battle,
Moving on a crooked pathway;
Ways of his are ever crooked;
Mid the Squares, three form his limit.

Straight the Wind moves o'er the war-path
In the field across or lengthwise;
Ways of crookedness he seeks not,
But straight paths without perverseness.
Turning every way the King goes,
Giving aid unto his subjects;
In his actions he is cautious,
Whether fighting or encamping.
If his foe come to dismay him,
From his place he flees in terror,
Or the Wind can give him refuge.
Sometimes he must flee before him;
Multitudes at times support him;
And all slaughter each the other,
Wasting with great wrath each other.
Mighty men of both the sovereigns
Slaughtered fall, with yet no bloodshed.
Ethiopia sometimes triumphs,
Edom flees away before her;
Now victorious is Edom;
Ethiopia and her sovereign
Are destroyed in battle.

Should a king in the destruction
Fall within the foeman's power,
He is never granted mercy,
Neither refuge nor deliv'rance,
Nor a flight to refuge-city.
Judged by foes, and lacking rescue,
Though not slain he is checkmated.
Hosts about him all are slaughtered,
Giving life for his deliverance.
Quenched and vanished is their glory,
For they see their lord is smitten;
Yet they fight again this battle,
For in death is resurrection.
SOURCE
Merry Christmas Everyone

Oh Richard

2011-12-01T21:06:00.000-08:00

Cliche exit scene, hand on the doorknob with that straight faced serious look.
-Well Richard, it's been good.
"Richard" is still sitting on the sofa, not sure what just happened.
-What are you talking about? We didn't discuss anything. And my name's not Richard, it's Ed.
-Ed?
-Yes, Ed.
-Well, Ed, this is exactly what we've been talking about. This here is a perfect example. You can't be so negative all the time. It's simply uncouth. I mean...where would we be if all we talked about was how 2+2 can't equal 22?
-But it isn't 22...it's 4 (Ed, seems confused)
-No! No, see that's the fantastic part, 2+2 CAN equal 22! You need to see the potential of things.
-The potential...?
-Yes, precisely Richard. The potential.
-But 2+2=4 and I'm not Richard. I'm Ed.
Man standing by the door sighs and looks at him.
-Well I thought we had been making real progress but you are obviously disturbed.
-By asserting facts?
-By your lack of consideration to ideas outside of your own. You simply can't be so close-minded all the time (pause) you can't go through life like this!
-I really don't think I'm disturbed, Dr. Phil.
-Nonsense Richard. (Dr. Phil smiles kindly) Now you just march out there and tell Nancy to schedule you for another session.
-Her name's Jeanette.
Dr. Phil smiles again, this time obviously strained. It's almost a grimace.
-Alright Richard, alright. Her name's Jeanette. (He says this last part in a patronizing tone.)
Ed is exasperated, gets up and shuffles past Dr. Phil.
-Don't despair Richard, you're making great progress. Just think about what I told you and we'll talk next week.

Kinda Like a Light bulb

2011-12-01T10:15:00.000-08:00

Like a fluffy pink cloud with colorful pills and needles floating around, I've been having this bizarre and wonderful sense of elation. It's like I'm in love or on a high, neither of which being the case. I must be having some weird chemical imbalance because normally I don't wake up this happy.
Normally my alarm goes off and I start cursing. A somewhat different variation of "modeh ani." But yesterday...and today, that dreaded alarm hanging over my head started off with it's miserable jingle and then like a flash, turned into a light bulb that just turned on. (Now wouldn't it be cool to have a giant light bulb alarm clock? It shoots disco lights and plays "Staying Alive"?)But anyways, that dreaded sense of having to wake up and go about the day turned into an anticipation to get cracking on all the things I had to do, and have to do. I simply pulled out my planner and wrote a long list of writing this paper, and doing that assignment, and emailing this guy about volunteer work, and booking a flight home, and actually going to the gym again, and finally buying more groceries because literally I had just 4 eggs and some soy milk left in the fridge.
See the wonderful thing about a packed schedule is that you literally don't have time to putz around. And I'm a master procrastinator/space cadet. I will normally wake up and float around the apartment only to realize I need to leave in 10 minutes and I haven't even showered.
But now...now I just wake up and start doing things. It's not natural. I wonder how long it will last...

Anyways, short clip I have in my head:
2 men are trying to decorate their home and decide to go Oriental.
Man 1, let's call him John: I really think we should get a geisha, she would totally work with the scheme we're going with.
Man 2, let's call him Chaz: But we simply don't have room! Where will we put her? I mean really, let's be practical.
Geisha pops out of the closet, she was stuffed in there with haste so she kinda falls out with some brooms and other cleaning supplies. She looks up at them, uncertain. Chaz is shocked and looks at John who is suddenly looking very guilty.
Chaz: You got a geisha.
John: I...um.
Chaz: You got a geisha. (he's shaking his head in disbelief.)
John: Oh look at her, though. She would really add a nice touch to this place and she doesn't take up much room!
Geisha is standing up and wiping dust off her kimono, she's making a bit of a mess. John freaks out and runs to her.
John: Hey, what did I say? Go to your corner!
Geisha doesn't understand, she's upset.
John: Now don't give me that. Go to your corner geisha!
The geisha goes to a corner and settles down on the carpeting, obviously trying to make herself as small as possible. Chaz simply folds his arms and looks at John.
Chaz: I can't believe you imported a geisha. Do you realize how much responsibility this is? How much face powder she needs? I mean really, we can hardly afford the rent here.
John in response starts defending himself.
John: Oh Chaz I really thought you'd be happy. She's fairly little, we could keep her in the living room.
Chaz sighs and rubs his face.
Chaz: I don't know. No, no John we simply haven't the room. Where will the plants go if we have a geisha living here?
John thinks about this for a bit. He looks at the ground shaking his head.
John: I suppose you're right.
Chaz: You know I'm right.
John looks at the geisha and she looks back, still uncertain and smiles a little bit. Trying to redeem herself. John walks over to her and pats her arm.
John: I'm sorry, but we're going to have to send you back. We'll call immigration in the morning.
Chaz nods his head, asserting what John just said, understanding but firm.
John: You're right. What can I say, you're right.
Chaz smiles.
Chaz: Alright, enough of that. Let's go have some dinner.
They leave the living room and head for the kitchen, the geisha is left in the living room, a tiny jewel of a woman in a mess of dust and cleaning supplies.

Sorry, You Lost Me. Could You Say That Again?

2011-11-09T21:24:00.000-08:00

The 2 train is pulling in and I'm adjusting the backpack that is forever slipping from my left shoulder. Never the right shoulder. And to the frustration of my constant strap adjusting. It doesn't matter though because as soon as those doors open, I'll slide in and drop the backpack to my side and forget about it. Not in the bomb-threat-I'm-leaving-my-backpack-on-the-subway-now-watch-me-walk-away-laughing-maniacally-kind-of-way. Not like that at all. The doors open and I slide onto a seat, my backpack dropping down next to me and I view the usual suspects. The token man yelling about something and smelling urine. The "gangsta." The tired faces and regular subway users. In front of me, to my right is a girl with unwashed hair, picking at her hands with nail clippers and thumbing through a book. She looks like me when I was 12. Her familiar round wire-frame glasses, uncut hair, baggy black shirt paired with men's black jeans. The only difference being that the pants I borrowed from my brother were khaki and the sneakers, bright red. But the look is familiar, it's the look of someone who reads to much and forgets about reality. Lost in a world where your only responsibility is waking up and potentially getting dressed. I vaguely wonder what she's reading. Probably fantasy. That was my drug of choice. She seems to be doing well though, using nail clippers to pick at her hands. She's not clipping her nails though, just her hands. Which are actually quite beautiful but that's not the point.
As the car moves out I focus in on her dotted socks. Thinking about the coffee I'll brew. The tomato soup I'll have when I get home. I do love me some tomato soup. From the container no less and christianed with crackers. As the car slows down at the next station my OCD kicks in and I suddenly need to know the time. I check the screen knowing already that it won't have the time up, just the station we've arrived at. I know this. But I check every time.
Without warning however, my object of fascination, this girl with the unwashed hair, becomes more interesting. She jumps up and starts doing chin-ups. I'm gawking. So is the guy next to me. The passengers flooding out and the passengers flooding in manage to walk past her flailing legs, quivering cheeks, and focused bulging eyes with absolute disinterest.
But I'm fascinated. I can't look away. She does three or four of these chin-ups, each time showing off her aged white Hanes underwear pulled up to her belly button. I couldn't do chin-ups when I was 12. Or 23 for that matter. After four chin-ups she sits back down, refolds her legs and goes back to her reading. Pausing occasionally to look at her hands and maybe roll her shoulders. Everyone ignores her, and she too takes no self-conscious glances.
At the next stop she does it again, jumping up with her flailing legs and bulging eyes, and she does this at all the stations until we reach President where I get off.

Oh the Irony

2011-11-01T21:24:00.000-07:00

This was originally a FB status (I do those sometimes) but it was too long so I'm just gonna put it here.
Thoughts on irony:
Do people really know what "irony" means when they say they mean or do something ironically?
Why is wearing a G.I. Joe t-shirt from Target only cool when you're wearing it ironically? I love G.I. Joe. I'm not being ironic. I wear my t-shirt in earnest.
Maybe people are secretly being earnest when they say they love something but cover it up by saying they love that thing ironically. You know, to be cool.
Can irony be used ironically?
Since being ironic is now the cool thing, and every one's doing it, maybe being earnest can be the new cool.
I already know that the earnest fad won't last.
That's all.

What a Wonderful World Mr. Armstrong.

2011-10-06T17:30:00.001-07:00

So it begins. I will be without internet for about a week so here I am in the college library drinking in my last minutes of the cyber-webs before the school closes for the holiday. Here's the problem: There's not that much I use the internet for. Sure, there's Gmail, and Yahoo, and Blogger, and Facebook, and work-related things like scanning and emailing images but right now at this very moment? Nothing. No unread emails, no new posts to catch up on, and I've already informed the illustration peeps that I'm outta cyberspace for the week.
So perhaps I'll just go home now. Read a book. Go to Trader Joe's. Talk to people in person. It's all very depressing. What's the point of talking to people if you can't say "lol" or "like" their comments. I've survived off of emoticons for so long that I can no longer construct my face into appropriate emotional responses. (Actually I hate emoticons. Also I wonder if the use of internet increases cases of aspergers. Joke. No but seriously. Nah, I'm just kidding. Ok then.)
Anyhoo it's been swell. Ciao babycakes.
Btw, on my other blog, the book blog, I'm unable to leave comments.

Subway Maps

2011-09-22T10:37:00.001-07:00

In English class we look at subway maps from different decades and write about the differences, the pros and cons of each. The class is called English Comp, Visions of New York.
So we look at subway maps.
Now we have a written assignment re. the subway maps.
We have to write about the subway maps from the perspective of a subway user, a tourist, and a design artist.
Why is this class required to graduate? Further, why must one have an MFA to teach people how to paint?
I can teach people how to paint. I shouldn't have to write about subway maps to do that.
While on the topic, putting an exclamation mark on the margins of my paper doesn't tell me anything. I don't know what "!" means in the context of grading a paper.
I wouldn't be so bitter if I thought the tuition was worth it.
That's all, rant is over.
On a bright note, the subway map of 1948 is very pretty. All it needs is a banner across Jamaica Bay saying "Here there be Monsters!" and one over Crown Heights saying "Here there be Penguins!"

Some Things are Just

2011-08-31T22:16:00.000-07:00

Magical.

Playing with Sharp Objects

2011-08-14T20:35:00.000-07:00

SO some old bloggers are moving outta the ol' building so them neighbors are recollecting their old things, borrowed and loaned. Lamps, and books, and cups of milk, and of course some kitchenware.
So this here blogger's roommates was off there collecting her old kitchen knives. Fleishig kitchen knives.
Very sharp, fleishig kitchen knives.
And she toddles down the stairs to her own abode when she passes a band of men wearing colorful masks.
They look at her, she looks at them, and deciding to pretend she wasn't scared tossed an indifferent, "Oh, hello."
They stared at her warily, and the sharp knives bunched in her hands, and replied with a muttering, "...hello."
She nodded and tried to casually open her door, barely making it inside before she gasped in relief.
Some moment after there's a scuttle of footsteps, as the men beat up some boy upstairs, and more scuttling when they flee, the victim chasing after them.
So now we know that it's safe to hang out in the ghetto, so long as your hands are full of blades.
UPDATE: The roommates response to hearing this post, "c'mon you made me sound like a pansy! I was so much more butch than that!" referring to the barely making it inside before she gasped in relief.

Classroom Musings #2

2011-08-10T19:26:00.000-07:00

TODAY professor silberstein told a very familiar story. Einstein was being driven around by a German chauffeur to various universities where he gave his lectures. The German chauffeur told Einstein he could give the very same lectures so Einstein said, "Alright. They don't know what I look like anyways. YOU give the lectures."
And the German chauffeur did. But then a student raises his hand and begins to ask a technical question. The German chauffeur laughs and goes, "Chacha (as opposed to 'haha,' this guy has a thick accent), and I thought you Americans were sooo clever, my chauffeur could answer such a question!"
Now remember that old heimish story you've heard since you were a kid? About the rabbi traveling with his driver who complains bitterly about never getting any respect? So he and the Rabbi switch places before going to the next village. In this village the people ask the driver all these halachic questions to which the driver responds, "Ah, the answers are so obvious my driver (the rabbi) could answer them!"
Funny how this happens. Almost like the A Capella songs that are to the tune of Kelly Clarkson's greatest hits.
*Happy 200th post*

Classroom Musings

2011-08-09T23:41:00.000-07:00

Whenever someone brings up the beit hamikdash the first visions of my mind are of the offerings. How R. Paltiel happily described the enormous sound of heavy flesh being slapped on a fire and R. Erenberg telling us seminary girls that we had skewed visions of holiness.
"Clean, white rooms with marble pillars?"
Soft light, muted footsteps, high ceilings that reached the heavens. Yeah, that seemed like holiness to us.
"That's just the crap Hollywood likes to feed you. Envision sweaty men, blood everywhere, smoke, loud animals being tugged around. This is holy. Doesn't seem so pretty, eh?"
So when Professor Silberstein directed a question at me regarding the Beit Hamikdash, this immediately came to mind. First he confirmed that my name was due to a Jewish affiliation, and then he asked me where the most important part of the holy temple was.
Completely shocked, I asked if he was talking about the alter where the offerings were brought. (See what happens when your immediate thoughts are of those loud, messy offerings the teachers keep talking about?) But immediately I knew this was wrong.
"No, no the kodesh hakedoshim. Um, Holy of holies."
Why the hell is this being brought up in a chemistry class? A moment ago he was talking about the seers of ancient Greece and how they used to sniff the fumes issuing from a crack in the earth, and would then foresee futures for the thousands who went to them for advice. According to him, what they were sniffing though made them high. And I had cracked up, thinking it was all pretty funny. Getting serious advice from someone high as a kite.
So I'm thinking of like trying to take over this country and pillaging homes and raping a bunch of women.
Whoah, like yeah man! Wow, Zeus has got some seriously awesome sandals. Look at those things! But uh, yeah like follow your dreams, you know?
But now he's talking about Yom Kippur and I know where this is going. He's talking about the High Priest entering on Yom kippur and getting "wasted". Wasted on the fumes from the incense.
This is different from the seminary version. In this version there was a rope tied around his foot. Because if he wasn't the great man he was garbed to be, he would die. And it had nothing to do with the incense.
The teacher goes on talking about Indiana Jones, a point of reference for the rest of the class. Not really one I can relate to, I saw it when I was maybe ten and barely made the biblical connection. I barely made any connections as my hands were stretched over my eyes in terror. But back to the classroom.
Now I knew the teacher was Jewish the moment he started talking. I was fairly certain from his name and it became more obvious from his mannerisms and his strong accent. He has the accent kids use when they want to imitate a New Yorker.
After that he started using random Hebrew words, maspik? with an expectant look. So when he started talking about the origin of the snake being wrapped around a staff as a symbol of medicine I was sure he would mention the old story of Moshe making a copper snake to wrap around a pole and using it to heal the folks who gazed upon it. I mean that's just obvious right? But no, he says something about Egyptians looking at snakes as a symbol of healing because they shed their skins, blah blah blah. Truth is, it's snakes are a popular reference also seen with Greek mythology, Hermes and Asclepius had staffs intertwined with snakes, along with a few other references but I'll let you wiki those on your own time.
I just really thought he'd keep up with the Jew-streak and mention it. I mean I've already been called upon to talk about the Dead Sea, I was half-expecting him to ask if I was fasting.
But no, he just wants me to talk about intermolecular forces. Which is honestly just fine with me.
*Sorry about the lousy editing.

Book Blog

2011-07-29T15:38:00.000-07:00

New blog I've started for the endless books I keep reading. Here's a link:
http://sarabonne-bookmusings.blogspot.com

A Mother's Love

2011-07-25T08:17:00.000-07:00

"The differences between men and women are also emotional and psychological. Without woman's innate maternal instinct, the human race would have died out centuries ago....The overriding psychological need of a woman is to love something alive. A baby fulfills this need in the lives of most women. If a baby is not available to fill that need, women search for a baby-substitute. This is the reason why women have traditionally gone into teaching and nursing careers. They are doing what comes naturally to the female psyche. The schoolchild or the patient of any age provides an outlet for a woman to express her natural maternal need. ...The Positive Woman finds somebody on whom she can lavish her maternal love so that it doesn't well up inside her and cause psychological frustrations. Surely no woman is so isolated by geography or insulated by spirit that she cannot find someone worthy of her maternal love...."
Power of the Positive Woman, Phyllis Schlafly

Recently, yesterday in fact, a friend of mine told me the following story. There was a girl, let's call her Lucy who had a pet snake. She absolutely adored this creature and would do everything with it, she even kept it in her bed so they could sleep together during the night. Now gradually, very gradually the snake got into what appeared to be a very sickly state. It refused to eat and became etremely thin. An anorexic state. So Lucy did what a good pet-owner would do, she brought the snake to the vet.
AS it turns out, the snake was starving itself so it could eat her.
Go figure.

My OCD

2011-07-23T19:13:00.000-07:00

I hate dead blogs. Blogs that take up urls and then keep them unused. Like the following; allmywords.blogspot.com. I typed that in just to see what would come up. There is so much crap online it's obscene and because I get bored I will sometimes browse idly. Well this url, allmywords.blogspot.com was taken by some blogger to make one post that didn't say much at all. And it's going to be floating in cyberspace for years. It's like having an email in your inbox, unchecked. Just sitting there. And I can't relax until it's marked as read.
But for blogs like these, and the thousands of others out there, I can't do a damn thing about them. I'm not going to email the user, that would be too much. I'm just going to sit here, passively fuming about cyber-trash that will never get picked up. And then get distracted and forget all about it.

She's Such A Hipster.

2011-07-15T14:20:00.000-07:00

So awhile back this chick was talking about a concert and a musician and Jewish music versus non-Jewish music, all that jazz. I remember her saying "Jewish music isn't me. I listen to (insert musician here), and (insert another musician). Not (insert Jewish musician here-wow it's like blogger mad libs!). It's not me."
It's comforting to put yourself in a mold, and of course argue that you're your own person and all that jazz, but many people do identify themselves with trends, and music genres, and movies, and types of humor and personalities. The angry genius, sappy liberal (haha, liberal), elusive hipster, etc. Within the realm of being frum or not, these are just "types" and for the most part people group together according to these bands of similar interests. And this post really is a brain fart, but I have noticed that people identify with trends that exist in the world. This makes sense, it's how people work. There are old school rock 'n roll musicians who make fun of Kelly Clarkson and Republicans who make fun of Liberals and Libertarians who laugh at everyone. These are genres of people in a way. I know for myself, that I put people in boxes as a cognitive shortcut in a way.
However, when someone says that the religious lifestyle is confining, with it's regulations and laws and stringencies and fences, whatever thesaurus input you'd like to insert here, they are right. It IS confining to not work on Saturday, and it is a pain to fast, etc. And in this stream, the secular lifestyle is certainly freeing. But reversely, if one defines them self based on exterior things like the music they like, the clothing they wear, and the books they read, they are defining who they are as a person on, well relatively stupid things. That's REALLY shutting the door on oneself. Then hell, you're nothing more than a t-shirt in a sense. That's far more restricting than any fast day.
So to say a person IS something, they are. But not just that. This is probably an optimistic notion, to say people are more than just these classifications. But I think this, that people are more than the kind of music they listen to or the political agenda they associate themselves with, because of the idea of change. So much of a persons life is transient, so to base one's identity on those things is fine, but it's also a bit restricting, no? Why define oneself on something that can change? It's just with the idea of something being constraining, to say the religious lifestyle is restricting is true, but then so is saying one is nothing more than a music genre.

None of this is really directed at anyone, I don't think the few readers I have are going through identity crises, or if they were, would do so with question of music preference in mind, I just haven't blogged in awhile and my story about the old lady obsessed with Good 'n Plentys isn't coming along as well as I would have liked.
On that note, I really like this song.

My Own Kind of Spam

2011-06-26T20:46:00.000-07:00

Every Move You Make

2011-05-27T11:54:00.000-07:00

Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I'll be watching you

Every single day
Every word you say
Every game you play
Every night you stay
I'll be watching you-The Police (A Band, not the NYPD)

"If you were there, they would know? You used to be able to get lost in the crowd, but not anymore. Double click on any area in the picture to bring the person closer. Or, just click the mouse and use the mouse wheel to bring them closer.
The picture was taken with a robotic 1474 megapixel camera (295 times the standard 5 megapixel camera).Every one attending could be scanned after the event, should something have gone wrong during it."
Click on:
http://gigapan.org/viewGigapanFullscreen.php?auth=033ef14483ee899496648c2b4b06233c

And then the main site is: http://gigapan.org

My dad was able to find Waldo in that first one, and in one of the city scenes on the main site there's a dinasour and the same woman showing up in various locations throughout the shot. Kinda cool in that creepy being watched kind of way....

Goats in the City

2011-05-16T21:20:00.000-07:00

The old roommate, the one who lies a lot, has been demanding a blog post. She's getting hitched soon (guess who helped!) so this blog is in her honor.
Here is a small excerpt from this evening's conversation, which has nothing to do with her demanding me to blog:
S "So how are you going to have goats and live in the city?"
R "Oh, we'll have a summer house."
S "And during the winter....?"
R "Oh, they'll die."
We get along wonderfully well. You should know, we're skyping as I type this. Yeah, we live in the same neigborhood and still skype each other.
In other news, a weed grows in Brooklyn. A great big weed between the cracks of a cement wall in my ghetto alleyway and this tough plant is stretching it's parasitic leaves towards my window and I couldn't be more delighted. Our basil plant is safe from it's greedy roots so we don't need to worry about nutrients-competition or anything of that sort. No, our basil plant needs to worry about the current roommate and I plucking it's little leaves for our spaghetti dishes. But back to the weed, it's massive and growing like a young tree and I'll pull the hippy card and try to keep management from chopping it down. For really, if there's no trees around, let the weeds grow in Brooklyn.
Now I need to read A Gay Manifesto by Carl Wittman. Groovy.

Games and Such

2011-04-17T00:18:00.000-07:00

Wow, so Pesach huh? Hows about that? Oh joy, the poisonous fumes of Fantastic do so much for one's lucidity.
Mmmmm, poisonous fumes....
Anyhoo, to the point of this post. Seems we're all going to be doing quite a bit of bonding time, respectively of course, with one's families, spouses, and pets/plants. And my uncle has introduced a game to my particular family.
But let me take a moment to say that my uncle is very fashionable, very with "it" in the dress of the modern New York dandy. He's got those suspenders, loafers, old-man glasses and elbow patches that all the cool cats are wearing but he's so cool he didn't even realize he was following the modern trend. And as you know, nonchalance is the key to cool. And yeah, he also smokes a tobacco pipe. He's the one who got me to dabble in it back in the high school days.
Back again to the point of this post, here's the rules for a very simple game that is easily absorbing. The point is to come up with a phrase where a specific type of character meets a somewhat negative fate or state of mind or what-have-you where the "state of being" has to do with that type of character. I think some examples would make this more clear.
"The magician was disillusioned." <=a magician deals with illusions.
"The sorcerer was disenchanted."
"The arsonist was delighted." <=ok, delighted ain't a negative thing but it works so well.
"The soldier was debunked."
"The painter was discolored."
"The secretary was defiled." (Cute story about that one, my uncle told the mom about this game when they were little kids and my uncle kept coming up with new ones whereas my mom was stuck. Finally at 3 in the morning she stormed into his room and cried this line out. The end.)
And that's the gist of it. I've got tons more but I don't want to ruin it for y'all.
There's another game called "Ghost" where folks sit in a row or circle and each person says a letter, the letter they say is in addition to the letters previously said, in order, and must be in the formation of a word. However, one cannot finish the word or else they get a "G", the second time it happens they get an "H". Once they've received each letter of the word "ghost" they are out of the game.
Again I'll give an example.
Person 1 says: C
Person 2: O
Person 3: L
Person 4: O (he cannot have said "D" because then he would have spelled "cold" but he must also have a word in mind. In this case let's say his word was "colonial."
Person 5: Is screwed, because he can't say "N" as "colon" is a word. So he must come up with something or receive his sentence of the letter "g/h/o/s/t."
Now one also has the option of calling a bluff on the dude or gal preceding them. If they weren't bluffing and had a legitimate word in mind, the accuser receives a "g/h/o/s/t" letter. I think there was another part to it but folks, I'm a bit tired so I'll have to get back to you on that. And that's all.

Your Mom

2011-04-08T15:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm Jewish.
Your mom's Jewish.
No, I'm a ger.

Look, I made brownies!
Your mom makes brownies.
My mom is allergic to wheat.

I got a kitten.
Your mom got a kitten.
My mom's also allergic to kittens.

Oh how I love the smell of flowers in the spring!
Your mom loves the smell of flowers in the spring.
My mom's-
Allergic, right.

It's a hairy situation.
Your mom's a hairy situation.
I thought we agreed not to talk about that.

I-
Your mom.
Actually I have no mom. I'm the product of my father's immaculate conception.
But h-
I hatched from an egg. I think I'll start a religion...

And this is why "your mom" jokes are dumb.

"Your face" jokes however, are very witty, clever, and take a sharp mind to truly appreciate. For example:

Look, I made brownies!
Your face makes brownies.

See? Wonderfully clever.

I'm Sorry, The Phone Number You're Trying To Reach Cannot Be Completed As Dialed.

2011-04-03T21:31:00.001-07:00

LOL

2011-03-26T17:33:00.000-07:00

Let's just take a moment to raise our glasses to the hearty laugh, you know the real loud, tear-filled laugh that just wipes your worries away. This ain't no chuckle, and no ordinary chortle, this is a real laugh that gets your abdominal muscles aching. And if you have yet to experience such a laugh, forget raising your glass but rather down it instead. And then maybe another two. This booming, startling burst of noise might get all the cool cats snorting but forget them. Because until you've laughed the heartfelt laugh, you ain't really living. Speaking of which, it makes the living so much better.
And yeah, here's to drinking (if necessary) as a means to such an end. Happy post Purim.
(I don't condone the mindless drinking as a means of avoiding problems or whatever, so don't bother with that.)

From a Grandaddy to a Youngin'

2011-03-17T22:39:00.000-07:00

You see kid, there used to be a time.
When two people would be far, far away.
From each other.
And they'd look at the moon, kid.
And think, that other one,
out there somewhere,
is looking at the same moon.
But those times are gone, kid.
And there's too much smog.
So sit at your computer.
And I'll sit at mine.
And we'll share this moment on a screen.
And though I'm here,
and you're out there,
we'll share this IM.

Sarabonne's Life Lesson #1

2011-03-13T20:13:00.001-07:00

So you're walking along and you come across some vagabonds and you begin a discussion on philosophy, piety, music, hard sciences vs. soft sciences and the fun Hume has pointing out the problems of inductive reasoning. (And I should point out here that I was perfectly content just telling stories about my cats* but the vagabonds were persistent.)
Anyhoo, the problem with these discussions is that you're trying to make a point, you recall all sorts of sources to support your arguments, but the memories are somewhat hazy and the names of such and such argument Socrates has sounds awfully similar to the word urethra (and no, I won't be linking that term) so you end up using that...when in fact the proper title is Euthyphro. Anyways, the vagabond with a fancy phone links just what urethra means, (once again, I will not be linking the term) and you realize you sound like a misinformed fool. So there isn't much point in going through college and learning all sorts of fancy things if when it boils down to it, you can't even source them properly. Of course, had I been able to see the word in writing I would have known whether it was the correct term or not but alas, such is the woe of a visual learner. And for the most part, when conversing, one must play it by ear.
So the lesson for tonight is: Study your lecture notes before leaving the house every evening or be stubborn about discussing your cats* lest you spend the post-conversation googling just who that musician was that wrote the witty song-it was Haydn.
One may also choose to discuss methods of exterminating pigeons but this doesn't go over so well with some animal lovers. Tch.
*I still don't have a pet cat but there are two at the home base.

Drawings of Paper Bags

2011-03-07T18:00:00.000-08:00

I need to research the places I apply to. I really just pick out a name that fits the practical aspects of what I'm looking for (hours/pay/tuition/etc.) and apply. So when I applied for a position as an intern for a studio, it was the "paid/part-time" caption that caught my eye. I emailed the place to see if it was still available, lo and behold I have an interview tomorrow. Hours are flexible, pay is close to nil but hey, most internships pay nothing and this one covers transportation fees, so really it sounds great, right?
Ah...but then I go on their site and I see an empty room with a box and I think, oh god, what have I done? Further investigation reveals monkeys and painted bronze plants, silicon people and drawings of paper bags. It's that kind of art. That kind which I have yet to study, to possibly appreciate, and as of yet, have mostly disdained.
And my imagination conjures conversations that might possibly take place, about life, the universe, and everything because I have read this mans bio, and he's philosophical. Philosophical in a very modern way and frankly, I don't speak that language.
But then I shouldn't worry, my experience is like their pay, close to nothing. So while I know how to tap away at a computer happily enough, I may not be the intern they're looking for. Then again, it might just be babysitting a box.
This post was not meant to offend any contemporary hipsters out there. I like William Kentridge and the Piano Man very much.

Nuts and Screws

2011-02-28T21:42:00.000-08:00

In general I am a pretty relaxed person, laissez-faire and all that jazz. But there are certain areas of my life in which I am completely obsessive. One example of this are my dishes, I have a very specific set of dishes that I use and don't generally let anyone else use them. They basically consist of one mug, one plate, and one bowl. And yeah, I've been given the selfish speech but the whole point of these dishes is to keep myself from becoming passive-aggressively pissed at not having any dishes to use. If my mug is dirty, it's my own fault. And in return, if some other mug has been sitting on the counter, growing colonies of mysterious things, there isn't much question over who's responsible. And this small bit of selfishness generally makes for long-term sholom bayis. At least after the young grasshopper roommate gets used to the notion. But don't worry, I'm equally sensitive to whatever screwy requests they might make in turn. Everyone has something.
I'm also nutty about potential sculpture breakage, I get very nervous around animated people. I've even had several nightmares of my old residence flooding and finding poor Connie's arms washing through the halls and thinking in my sleep how I need to get ahold of plaster and save the damn thing. Don't worry, Connie's nose already broke on the car ride home so she's kosher in that charming incomplete way kosher sculptures are. (But seriously, you spend 6 months carving and building and sculpting something, and then spending a crap load of money to get it all cast, you'd be just as nutty.) I'm similarly crazy about my canvases but as I spend less time on them than my sculptures, it is not to such a severe degree. Although there was one roommate who would always fiddle with the twine hanging off the back of one canvas that was stored behind the couch. Or absent-mindedly touch some of the ones hanging. So I would bite my lip but then I got accusations of death-stares so you can guess how that went.
And lastly, there's my inbox. Both Gmail and Yahoo accounts cannot have an unopened message for long. Even if I know what it says, I have to open it if only to turn the tab from unread-white to read-gray. This becomes increasingly difficult when I subscribe to a popular blog post or am sent a mass Facebook message. To elaborate, I still get email notifications. And while I can block these, sometimes I like receiving them via mail just so I know to check the Facebook account and turn the red notification icon off. But back to the mass Facebook messages, the moment I receive one I feel a deep sense of dread. I feel this dread because it means I have to check my email and Facebook continuously until everyone has finished saying every bloody thing they need to say and the notification icons and emails will come to a silent rest. This obsession also comes with street signs, if I begin reading it, I absolutely must finish reading it. Thank G-d they're usually short. Less fortunate though is the necessity to check every blog I am a follower of, every time they make a post. This particular breed of obsession is a problem with blogs that post several times a day, such as the photography blog I have linked in the past. They post a lot. And little do they know, I am driven crazy by it.
So I suppose the whole relaxed demeanor is just a facade. Or I've been disillusioned in thinking I give off a relaxed impression. The latter is probably more likely. Really though, this is partially why losing my internet is a problem. There are all those messages just waiting to be switched to "read." But at least I get more time to guard my sculptures and wash my dishes.

So my Type

2011-02-12T23:50:00.000-08:00

So the roommate was talking to her friend "Mushkie" who was talking about Enneagrams which is some sort of psychometric personality test. Think Myer Briggs but different. The Myer Briggs test is a letter code that separates your personality as extroverted vs. introverted/sensing vs. intuitive/thinking vs. feeling/judgement vs. perception. The Enneagram test uses number types to create a personality profile. The numbers run 1 through 9 and the roommate insists that it runs based on how cool someone is. She's a 9 of course. And I keep getting 5. If you're interested, you can take a pseudo-not-yet-perfected version of the test here. You answer simple questions from a range of very inaccurate to very accurate. Most of the lines are simple things like, "I am very organized" or "I am assertive" but then you'll be surprised with very intense lines like "my life is defined by loneliness" or "I am very wounded at the core" and "I relate to broken and discarded things."
In either case, I thought I'd share that with you.

Now and Then Again

2011-02-07T21:41:00.000-08:00

You have a chocolate chip cookie and you're not sure if it's pareve or milchig or whatever but no matter what, you'd like it more if it were a crispy chocolate chip cookie. In such an instance, it is perfectly acceptable to use a lit birthday candle to toast it.

If you see a cockroach, screw the boric acid, 409 works much better.

In a basement, windows run small. By getting long curtains, one may have the illusion of full length windows closed off for the night. And this is a pleasant illusion in a small basement where full length windows are impossible as the dirt outside is level with your shoulders.

Then again, if the world underground is interesting, it may be worthwhile to get full length glass windows so that one may observe the ants at work. This interest is especially popular amongst 4th grade science classes. Maybe...

It takes about 2 weeks for a Dasani water bottle to grow light mold around the cap. If you have a bad habit of reusing a bottle for more than 2 weeks (or less, it's debatable) break it. Don't bother cleaning the mold off the cap either, that's just weird. And nasty.

Huge puffy snowboots with faux fur lining are not dorky when everyone else is sinking into the snowy depths and you step lightly above it all. (I could make a Yoshka joke here about walking on water but I'll refrain.) This exception can only be made when snow boots are a solid black color. Otherwise, it's the snowy depths for you.

It's permissible to write on your roommate's Facebook wall despite being 10 feet apart because it makes you look popular. It's all about appearances, never mind your interpersonal relationship. Taking this to an excessive level may prove counterproductive however. If such a case arises, start commenting on photos, it's more subtle.

Don't get offended when Crazy-Eyes also asks that roommate for a shidduch. He'll come back to you. He always does.

It is permissible to stack stools atop dressers for the purpose of holding more books. Most especially when said books begin blocking any exit from one's bed in the morning.

One can never be too OCD about the preservation of their art. Never mind comments about your "evil eye." When the OCD starts causing nightmares of sculpture apocalypses...consider getting out of the house more.

The smell of bleach may be considered abhorrent. If such is the case, forgive the other roommate when she cleans her chef coat. The peach tart, chocolate bread pudding, and apple pies of her labor shall appease you. As will the cinnamon rolls, rye bread, French toast...

Use the above example to instill confidence in the other roommate's novel idea of a "compost" tupperware.

It is a tricky thing to own a cat as a frum single where one's future spouse may not be open to the furry loaf, despite fabulous potential names such as Gilgul, Lady Pompadour, or Manny. And that's just lousy.

That's all for now.

My Encounter with Crazy Eyes

2011-01-25T18:36:00.000-08:00

For some time now I've lived in the basement of a man my roommates and I call "Crazy-Eyes." On Friday afternoons he smokes outside our windows, filling the room with the delightful scent and in the wee hours of the night, asks his mother the time...and if he can take a bath. Judging by the water we hear rushing through the overhead pipes, I would guess she mumbles her consent.
Today I left the basement in pursuit of Spring Semester notebooks and when I realized I left my phone at home, I returned to the front door. I got there just as Crazy-Eyes was leaving and so I quickly nodded (which I find to be that happy medium between feigned ignorance and over-enthusiastic greetings.) Well he smiled hugely in return and says,
"Tell me, can ask you something?" I'm so surprised by this first actual communication that I mumble, "Sure?"
"What's your name?"
"Um, Sarah" at this point I try to get around him and down the stairs to my safe basement with locked doors. But alas, before I can he says,
"Do you know what time it is?" ***
"No, I don't have a watch. Sorry."
"Ah, well tell me," he pauses and looks at me directly in the eyes, "are you in shidduchim?"
And then I almost have a heart attack. Panic stricken "OMGs" are racing through my mind and I quickly respond,
"No. No I'm not dating. Not at all." I also shake my head.
"Well I thought some of your friends...?"
"They're married. All of them. And I'm not dating. Nor are my roommates."
"How old are your friends?"
"Oh they're...they're 25?"
"Your age?"
"No, no I'm younger. And not dating."
"How old do you think I am?"
"Um..."
"I'm 36."
"Oh...well ok if I know anyone I'll keep you in mind..." I'm trying very hard to get away at this point.
"Just kidding, I'm a drop older, I'm 37. So your friends are 25?" He's smiling very big now. Holy cow, is he flirting with me?
"I uh, yeah. They're married, but I'll keep you mind if I hear anything, I'll let you know..." I trail on and quickly dodge inside, locking the door, and trying very hard to subside the shrill, nervous laughter.
Now, hours later and after suggesting him to one roommate, (oddly, she said no) the other roommate and I are sorting through the various 770 ladies we know. But if you have any ideas...?
***I almost laughed out loud here, I heard him ask this question every single day for the past 2 years, it only makes sense that I should be subject to it at one point.

Half-Full or Half-Empty, It Still Means I'm No Longer Thirsty

2011-01-13T21:20:00.000-08:00

Everyone is going through that 20-something crisis, you know, the "what the heck am I gonna do with my life and will it make me happy?" crisis. Alright, I'm sure not everyone but it seems like a common complaint. I guess if you're doing the yeshiva thing and planning on a shlichus career, this impending sense of doom is held at bay. Or if you're just a. author of 7 Habits of Highly Effective People ( I had to read the teen version as a kid) b. Tracht gut vet zein gut c. Too stoned to really notice you're 34, living in your mom's basement, wearing you little sister's pink princess socks and singing Handel's Halleluja (written by an anti-semite no less! The author, not the composer. Handel was the composer. He might have also been an anti-semite but we don't really know. Guess who's taking a music course?) d. The life of a vagabond always seemed romantic.
Now that I've described the crisis and some possible exceptions, some of which are mutually exclusive, I will not be providing an answer. I mean it would be lovely to say "follow your heart" but frankly that palpating ball of flesh (too graphic?) is pretty fickle. "Do what you love" is also nice but kinda similar to "follow[ing] your heart". I mean, admittedly I know I like art and it makes me happy, but hey, I'm easy to please. I guess that's a bracha right there, that I know what I like. Though I'm not sure how I feel about hot dogs these days. What about them folks who don't really know? Or more so, don't want to spend 8 hours a day behind a desk so sometimes they can go to the beach or sometimes paint a picture? Sheesh, that sounds lousy. Sheesh, that's what most people do. Maybe I'll become Canadian.
My roommate wisely pointed out that Canada won't solve my problems-but Oregon will! Let's not get into the suicide rates there...

The Anonymous Song

2011-01-12T16:01:00.000-08:00

I found this song here but can't figure out who the artist is. The singer sounds Jewish but the lyrics aren't, at least not obviously. Another one of life's mysteries. I guess I could just ask the blogger who has it on her site...
Since it's one of those videos that plays unpromted I'll probably take it down after awhile.
And now it's gone.

Photography

2011-01-01T19:24:00.000-08:00

I dunno much about it but I found this guy here and really liked his work, especially the creative wit he incorporates to make things interesting.

Philippe Halsman was a Latvian-born American portrait photographer. Born to a Jewish family of Morduch (Max) Halsman, a dentist, and Ita Grintuch, a grammar school principal, in Riga, Halsman studied electrical engineering in Dresden.
In September 1928, Halsman went on a hiking tour in the Austrian Alps with his father, Morduch. During this tour, Morduch died from severe head injuries. The circumstances were never completely clarified and Halsman was sentenced to four years' imprisonment for patricide. The case provoked anti-Jewish propaganda and thus gained international publicity, and Albert Einstein and Thomas Mann wrote in support of Halsman. Halsman was released in 1931, under the condition that he leave Austria for good, never to return.
Halsman consequently left Austria for France. He began contributing to fashion magazines such as Vogue and soon gained a reputation as one of the best portrait photographers in France, renowned for his sharp, dark images that shunned the old soft focus look. When France was invaded, Halsman fled to Marseille and he eventually managed to obtain a U.S. visa, aided by family friend Albert Einstein.
Halsman had his first success in America when the cosmetics firm Elizabeth Arden used his image of model Constance Ford against the American flag in an advertising campaign for "Victory Red" lipstick. A year later in 1942 he found work with Life, photographing hat designs, one of which, a portrait of a model in a Lilly Daché hat, was his first of the many covers he would do for Life.

How Crazy-Eyes Saved my Life

2010-12-27T00:25:00.000-08:00

Or just from a miserable night. At precisely 2:15 in the AM the roommate and I decided to go for a stroll.
"The city is ours to protect, 'Roommate'" I told her.
"That's right-now put your hands on your hips, it makes you feel cool."
And so we trudged through the snow with our hands on our hips, leaping into the occasional snow drift and scheming of pouring a ketchup trail leading to a car's trunk. (In the end we decided to just keep the ketchup safe at home because no one could appreciate our ingenuity.) After contests of the usual sort-who could run longest without falling, and playing out dramatic scenes "I'm coming Ryan! I won't let you die, just grab my hand!" we slowly made our way up the main streets and back again.
At roughly 3:17 in the AM we realized we were locked out. The key was unlocking the door, but it still wouldn't open. I nervously brushed the snow off the doorbells but didn't have the heart. We knocked and knocked and then with great relief the Roommate cried,
"Shh, I hear him!" and so it was. A few minutes later the mother of our beloved Crazy-Eyes toddled down the stairs and opened it for us.
"He said he heard you..." She said.
"We were locked out...yes, so sorry. Erm"
She nodded and toddled back up and as a relieved Roommate and I went down our stairs I said as casually as I could, "That farbrengan was excellent."
Regardless, our deep appreciation for Crazy-Eyes' keen sense of hearing will forever hold a grateful valve of our hearts. The soup we had after was pretty swell as well.

Watch Out Pigeons, We're Recruiting

2010-12-19T22:56:00.000-08:00

The Plan:

A Prospective Recruit:
(Photo credit: Dima Chatrov)

Cyclops and Norman Rockwell

2010-12-16T21:45:00.000-08:00

What I wrote to my teacher:
Hi, I'm in your classics course and had a question for the final essay: Did you want us to analyze the passage and write two separate essays on the provided topic, or to analyze the passage with one essay combining the two topics, or one big essay that analyzes the passage and discusses the two topics all together?
Please let me know,
"Sarabonne"

What he responds:
Good thinking, discriminating:
promises well for the essays.
Best a five 'W's page on the warm up passage
Then separate essays for your topics of choice.
That will keep everything neatly penned apart,
like the lambs in the Cyclops' cave,
& the fresh cheeses & the whey.

I'm beginning to hate humanities.
In other news my roommate told me about the Norman Rockwell exhibition currently going on at the Brooklyn Museum, I went and it's very good so I would recommend checking it out. Norman Rockwell( February 3, 1894 – November 8, 1978) was an American illustrator who did a lot of work for the Saturday Evening Post, high school drop-out (maybe even middle school), he took classes at the Arts Students League and the National Academy School of Fine Arts and by 18 was already doing commissioned pieces. His stuff is realistic incorporating common-place characters with fantastic facial expressions. He would take up to 100 photographs to prepare for a painting, draw it out in charcoal, do color studies and make the piece. The best part is that he seemed like a really nice guy, not really something artists are known for. (artist cliche: scotch, cigarettes, yelling recluse covered in paint stains)
"During the First World War, he tried to enlist into the U.S. Navy but was refused entry because, at 6 feet (1.83 m) tall and 140 pounds (64 kg), he was eight pounds underweight. To compensate, he spent one night gorging himself on bananas, liquids and doughnuts, and weighed enough to enlist the next day. However, he was given the role of a military artist and did not see any action during his tour of duty."-Wiki
Here are some examples of his work, I love how he "caricaturizes" everyone...
The Tattoo Artist

A Day in the Life of a Boy

The Art Critic

Chess Lies

2010-11-14T21:19:00.001-08:00

This is another post dedicated to the same roommate mentioned in the potential "Conversations with Mordechai" bygone blog post. This chick loves chess, she can't get enough of it. Everyday she asks the other roommate and I to play with her and everyday we look up from our books/laptops/ant collection and shake our heads. (Now I feel guilty but rest assured, it will pass.) Anyhoo, when she does get someone to play chess with her she tells them that she was the chess champion in high school. This is in fact not true. She says she tells them this lie in order to intimidate them and scare them into throwing caution to the wind and play clumsily. Unfortunately, this tactic usually proves fruitless. Tonight she asked me if I would play chess with her on her birthday, I asked her when it was. She says, "Adar." I then ask, "Are you telling the truth?" To which she wants to know why I would ask such a question but the fact remains that when chess is involved, the woman cannot be trusted. In either case, I agreed to play chess with her on her birthday.
Update: Actually these lies aren't necessarily chess-induced, a few nights ago we were walking around the neighborhood at the wee hours of the night and we passed the crazy guy from upstairs (Crazy Eyes) when my roommate poked me and said, "Don't turn around, I think he's following us..." So naturally I got all nervous like and we kept walking and she kept saying, "Yeah he's definitely following us, oh my gosh, don't turn around..."
Then I caught on and lo and behold, Crazy Eyes was back where we'd left him.
Another time she was baking challas with some friends when she pulled out some sugar cubes and asked the girls to add them to the mix, when asked why she sneakily whispered, "Because they're laced with LSD."
(Even now when I ask her why she really wanted to add the sugar cubes she says, "What do you mean? Because of the LSD."
"No really, where'd you get them?"
"The drug dealer, duh."
"I know you're lying!"
She sighs, "From the pidyon haben, remember?"

One Cold Evening in November

2010-11-08T21:12:00.000-08:00

To do a dance, and walk in a circle, to say screw that and play air guitar. To hold hands with kids as they blatantly pick their nose and wipe the creeping sweat from your brow. To knot the hair that gets in the way, doing the Charleston...or at least your personal interpretation of it. Stamping in heels and cringing on blisters, switching to flats,
"Oh thank G-d, that's much better."
Singing with the music pulsing in your ears, stopping for a White Russian and maybe an eclair. Making faces and posing for cameras, checking your jewelry to make sure it's all there. Now step here, leave the scarf over on the chair, drink some water, damn it's that bloody Sprite. I mean really, why is it always Sprite? Nevermind, there's a tap.
Make the bride happy, help her with the veil, avoid the skirt now because last time someone fell. Switch from flats to socks and slide across the room, because really this floor was made for it. It has to be made for it. Why else would 22 year olds revert to their young selves? Or right...immaturity. Smile politely when the yentes make their way, praying privately they didn't notice that last escapade. It's the last song now, and your jumping wildly because that bass just calls for it and your breathe is short but you go valiantly on and on and on. Until it's finished.
Hey Charlie Buttons, mazel tov.
Dang, I hadn't meant for this to be so poem-like. Meaning, I really didn't want to write a poem-like post but the sentences just kept popping out that way. Maybe I have a disease. What an odd disease that would be, where you just keep writing pansy-like...not that only pansies write poetry, you know, this is America. Writing poem-like stuff is an accessible activity to be shared by anyone. I just don't like doing it. Not that it matters anyway, I'm no dude and thus free of any pansy accusations. Of course, being a pansy is not something to be accused of, harsh word, "accusation," I suppose "possible conclusions of sexual orientation regarding men and other men situations" is better. I'm going to just stop writing now.

Conversations with Mordechai

2010-10-28T17:18:00.000-07:00

So I want to set my roomy up with a fellow. Let's call him Mordechai. Recently I got a hold of his number as a reference for the scandalous type of thing that Lubavitchers get numbers for. I doubt I'll make use of it...
But my roommate might. See she does fundraising, and what a perfect way to get a shidduch started than by asking the fellow to give you money? Of course this makes for a very nervous and giggly demeanor on her part and every night I come up with various ways that "the conversation" might go. One conjecture after another, I jokingly plan my roommate's future and we have decided to call these hypothetical events, "Conversations with Mordechai."
"Hi I'm ****** and I'm collecting money for Israel"
"I love Israel! I just came back from there..."
"Oh I know, I mean um, that you love it, um so anyways we're collecting money and"
"What did you say your name is?"
"Oh, ******"
"Beautiful name, wanna date?"
and so forth. (This conversation is actually much funnier but I have to censor a lot for the sake of this silly thing called privacy.)
Now unfortunately, she won't call him unless I'm out of the house lest she break into a frenzy of laughter, which personally I don't think would be a bad thing but hey, you can't win them all. Oh the things I do to get people hitched, I'll keep y'all updated on how it finally pans out.

The White Room

2010-10-25T17:47:00.000-07:00

Once upon a present time there was a room on Kingston. It was a white room, long with a somewhat less long white table within it's shelved walls. Running along this somewhat less long table were chairs, all set nicely side by side. This room faced a large window that opened up to the Kingston street so that all the passerby might peer curiously inside and observe it's long white walls and long white table and the chairs running along it. Right before the window, somewhat obscuring the pleasant view was a video screen so that not only might the passerby view the room but the screen set in front of it.
Some days the screen would be empty, a dark thing with nary a faint glow and on other days it would be set to a screen saver setting, an unnerving underwater image with slow ripples. There were also those occasional times when it projected the head of the table, with some chairs set behind it. On special days however, on special days it would display a rabbi sitting between his pupils. The rabbi speaks well, the student to his right self consciously glances at the screen then looks solemnly at his book. The lad to the rabbi's left however seems unaware of the camera, in fact he seems unaware of anything as he plays with his eraser and looks off into the distance. A shame really for all the passerby see this fellow and think "No, this shall not be the boy that marries my daughter. For he is not a good learner and unless he has video evidence of an improved learning habit, my daughter shall never be his!"

All in all, I find the entire situation very creepy.

William Kentridge

2010-10-17T22:30:00.000-07:00

William Kentridge is a South African artist perhaps best known for his animated films. These are constructed by filming a drawing, making erasures and changes, and filming it again. He continues this process meticulously, giving each change to the drawing a quarter of a second to two seconds' screen time. A single drawing will be altered and filmed this way until the end of a scene. These drawings are later displayed along with the films as finished pieces of art.[1]

Kentridge was born in Johannesburg in 1955.Educated at King Edward VII School in Houghton, Johannesburg. He earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Politics and African Studies at the University of the Witwatersrand and then a diploma in Fine Arts from the Johannesburg Art Foundation. At the beginning of the 1980s, he studied mime and theatre at the L'École Internationale de Théâtre Jacques Lecoq in Paris. He had hoped to become an actor, but he reflected later: "I was fortunate to discover at a theatre school that I was so bad an actor [... that] I was reduced to an artist, and I made my peace with it."[2]. Between 1975 and 1991, he was acting and directing in Johannesburg's Junction Avenue Theatre Company. In the 1980s, he worked on television films and series as art director. -Wikepedia, for more click here

Monument

Felix in Exile

Excerpts

2010-10-05T20:55:00.000-07:00

from my textbook Introduction to Philosophy, Classical and Contemporary Readings
"...Not only is p true but S believes it, but if it were true he would believe it. Compare: Not only was the photon emitted and did it go to the left, but (it was true that): if it were emitted it would go to the left. The truth of antecedent and consequent is not alone sufficient for the truth of the subjunctive...(If, as is likely, these explanations do not help, please use your own intuitive understanding of the subjunctive 3 and 4)" (Excerpt from Philisophical Explanations, Robert Nozick)

"As you might have expected, this account of knowledge as tracking requires some refinements and epicycles. Readers who find themselves (or me) bogged down in these refinements should move on directly to this essay's second part, on skepticism, where the pace picks up." (Excerpt from Philisophical Explanations, Robert Nozick)

"We who live in an age of scientific empiricism can accept with perfect equanamity the fact that the quest for certainty is futile; indeed our thanks go to Hume for helping to destroy false hopes for certainty in science." (The Problem of Induction, W.C. Salmon)

You really gotta love the underlying cynicism here, especially that Hume fellow, he's just knocking everyone down...

Great Expectations

2010-09-21T23:01:00.000-07:00

Woe is me for a social life is not to be mine
Alas, alas! Afford, I cannot afford the various excursions
of fine dining, taxis and wine.
These friends so dear,
they tarry not to tally the totals
of a stomach's delight
leaving me bereft and counting coins
to catch up and join the luxuries
of Buncho's
and Cucumber's
and Empire Grill,
trips in the city
and fanciful flights of fancy.
This pain of gratification,
such costs I doth abhor
not to mention the drain on my credit score.
So happy am I when the day doth arrive
of home cooked meals, easy and outdoor,
'neath stars and cascading leaves
a happy intersection of stingy ways
with a spendthrift's craze
friends singing, smiling, and all that jazz,
galore.

I probably broke every rule of poetry here but meh. Meh is also not a word. Unless you're looking in the Urban Dictionary in which case it is a word of indifference.

Happy Sukkos folks.

Murphy's Laws

2010-09-12T11:00:00.000-07:00

Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
Friends come and go, but enemies accumulate.

When a broken appliance is demonstrated for the repairman, it will work perfectly.

The repairman will never have seen a model quite like yours before.

If you try to please everybody, nobody will like it.

You will remember that you forgot to take out the trash when the garbage truck is two doors away.

If it jams-force it. If it breaks, it needed replacing anyways.

Everyone has a scheme for getting rich that will not work.

You will always find something in the last place you look.

The other line always moves faster.

Build a system that only a fool can use, and only a fool will use it.

No matter how long or hard you look for an item, after you've bought it, it will be on sale somewhere cheaper.

Interchangeable parts-won't.

A short cut is the longest distance between two parts.

In order to get a loan, you must first prove you don't need it.

The chance of a piece of bread falling with the buttered side down is directly proportional to the price of the carpet.

If it seems to good to be true,it probably is.

The one minute you get interested in someone is the minute they find someone else.

Anything you try to fix will take longer and cost more than you thought.

If you fool around with a thing for very long you will screw it up.

Any tool dropped while repairing a car will roll underneath to the exact centre.

Nothing is as easy as it looks.

Everything takes longer than you think.

If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the one that goes wrong. Corollary: If there is a worse time for something to go wrong, it will happen then.

All warranties expire upon payment of invoice.

It is impossible to make anything foolproof because fools are so ingenious.

Whenever you set out to do something, something else must be done first. (No kidding)

Every solution breeds new problems.

There is always one more bug.

Anything good in life is either illegal, immoral, or fattening.

If more than one person is responsible for a miscalculation, no one will be at fault.

Beauty is only skin deep but ugly goes to the bone.

In case of doubt, make it sound convincing.

If you perceive that there are 4 possible ways in which a procedure can go wrong, and circumvent these, than a 5th way, unprepared for, will develop.

Left to themselves, things tend to go from bad to worse.

If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something.

Mother nature is a bitch.

A bird in the hand is better than one overhead.

Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.

There's never time to do it right. but there's always time to do it over.

Have an easy fast folks.

Animation Films

2010-08-09T00:17:00.000-07:00

This video is the story of my life...

For one I personally love but can't embed, click HERE.

Anxiety Baby, It's Like a Drug

2010-08-05T23:59:00.001-07:00

I am a fretter. I give people something to worry about, I grow anxiety like some people grow tomatoes. You think life is so easy? Don't you worry, you've got it wrong. I distribute fear into the hearts of the masses like that disgusting fume on 59th street. Sure, walk along with that easy gait, such a simple minded smile, oho to be so clueless.
There are myriads of problems to dwell in, multitudes of unforseen issues to net your mind. Sure it's all for the best.
But that doesn't make it easier.
I'm a fretter, a worrier, and an anxiety freeloader. Heck, I even worry about worrying. No one can lay awake in a cold sweat like I can, so you can rest assured, because I've got it covered.

Melting Minds

2010-07-25T22:28:00.000-07:00

Salvador Dali, Melting Clocks

I really think I'm nuts.
Oh do you? Interesting, I was about to draw the same conclusion.
How quaint, well I used to howl at the moon.
Oh really? How's that, did you learn anything?
I learned the gentle art of making enemies.
Ah, nice book. About Whistler right?
That's the fellow.

Everyone seems to be struggling with their own minds these days. Methinks we were struggling during the days of last year as well. Perhaps nuts is the norm then? And nitpicking is perfectly acceptable as is speaking in tangents. One more thing, a dozen people have told me they're anti-social.
I really don't think it's such a terrible thing. A person should speak when there's something to be said, when it serves a purpose. Vacuous, excessive chit-chat becomes painful and we all know it. For those who like talking, let them talk. For those who don't, why force it? People all have their ticks and oddities, there are so many of us, can one really say there's a normal way of doing something?
He complains.
She can't stop cleaning.
He has got a really weird beard and doesn't seem to notice.
She takes hours to get ready.
Could we move on? Hours are spent analyzing our own minds (maybe this is more a feminine trait, I wouldn't know)that we forget to live our lives.
Screw the oddities, I say. Sure, take that cheshbon ha'nefesh and DO something if necessary but dwelling is a different category. A useless, attractive one at that. This could lead into a whole new topic of pursuing happiness but that would be a tangent, it's 2:15am and that alarm will be singing at 7:15am.
Isn't reality delightful? If only we'd get out of our heads to see it.

I should note that some folks really are a bit off, serial killers for example, but most of the time it's just a paranoid way of feeling unique. Here's a thought, most crazy people don't actually think they're crazy, do they? So perhaps paranoid thoughts of one's mentality proves they are not, in fact crazy. Hmmm, I'll think on it.

Midlife Crisis

2010-07-20T21:44:00.001-07:00

Lordy, lord it has been awhile hasn't it? There comes a point in every blogger's life when they begin to wonder, "what's the point?"
Of waking up in the morning? Well there's that too, but I'm referring to blogging.
Oh.
Yes, so anyways there's all these options of WHAT to blog. Ideas, B"H, are not lacking. It's more the nagging thought of which ideas are actually worth writing about. I mean really, I could write some short silly stories about a fellow named Chad and his pet iguana, or do a little dialogue between the cynic and the optimist who seem to sit politely on my shoulders, maybe put up some comics from the Sock Series, and then write a short piece of what goes through people's minds when they see someone laughing to themselves on the subway, including the laugher. And then do something to ease my guilt of how little Jewish content there is up here.
I could.
After writing these ideas I feel I should.
But then there's always the option of not, and saying I did. Not that I could prove it...
So perhaps sometime soon I will. I do have a vacation coming up after all.

Accapella

2010-07-04T15:51:00.000-07:00

The Quadruple Farbrengan

2010-06-23T22:49:00.000-07:00

So 10:30 this evening a friend IMed me demanding to know why another girl had written "mazel tov Sarah...." as her Facebook status. Befuddled, I told her I did not know. And then the light dawned and I quickly replied, "Aha, it must be my birthday." After confirming the date with the IM buddy I realized I was in a bit of a predicament. Afterall, I suddenly had a farbrengan obligation to uphold. It was then that the old Roommate called, inviting me to a farbrengan organized by Sef on the Go. Said Sef was making a farbrengan so that her friend Luba bas Ruth should have a refuah shelaima from a recent car accident.(Tehillim muttering insert here)
Bizras Hashem, she should have a complete recovery.
So now there is a double farbrengan. I step inside the holy domain and there sits a girl saying she too is farbrenging as she has survived a near-death experience. So this farbrengan, started originally for Luba bas Ruth now includes, or divided into segments, praise to the One Above for sparing the chick's life, and conveniently fulfills my own farby obligation.
Now last but most certainly not least, it became a quadruple farbrengan to honor of Yud Beis Tammuz. Now how's that for a party?
Anyhoo, since I've got magical abilities for the next 24 hours, I bless everyone to have clarity in their life and the strength and confidence to follow through with their decisions and actions. To continue to grow b'ruchnius and b'gashmius, have health, parnasseh, and continued success in their various endeavors. If anyone needs/wants to get hitched, it should be in the right time, with a clear mind, and little stress. If someone is hitched, they should have a binyan adei ad (hope that's spelled correctly), sholom bayis, lots of jolly fun, and cute babies that'll bring much nachas. Cheers.

For Gimmul Tammuz

2010-06-14T20:16:00.000-07:00

Skip the first 45 seconds.

Pre-Wedding Storms

2010-06-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

The night before a wedding, friends and family gather into the basement for the last minute necessities. This is when eyebrows are shaped, hair is dyed, and cutsie little pins are glued unto hair clips and rhinestones sewn back into place. The Canadian Hairdresser is back, if only for awhile, and the Texan Hairstylist takes a break from debating political infidels online to style a sheitel. We pack boxes with seforim, and cry a little bit about which clothes are needs vs. wants...only to conclude that bringing the whole laundry bag might be a feasible solution. At two in the morning coffee is brewed and vegetables enter the frying pan for a late night dinner. Or early morning breakfast.
The sister of the bride shows me the various nightgowns loaned out for the occasion, and the frilly yellow piece with the laced cuffs is a real hit. Right up with the pink pillowed robe. And that black one with the Victorian collar. Shocked yelling was brief and shortly followed with hysterical laughter.
After 4am showers are taken, lights are put out one by one and gradually the basement falls silent for the night. Evidence of chaos is left for the morning, hair rollers, paper towels, water bottles, boxes, and bags are strewn across all surfaces, not to mention the havdala candle, hydrogen peroxide and Fantastik heavy duty cleaner. All can be put away another day, as long as the kalla is in the hall on time. Eventually, after the early stages of nostalgia have taken place and tearful goodnights are said, we all drift off to sleep.
And now it's morning and I smell coffee.
Mazel tov to the roommate who taught me how to Crab dance.
Disclaimer: Those Christian Dior nightgowns were/and are not for actual use...but still available for rent!

Environmentalism as Religion

2010-05-26T12:05:00.000-07:00

By PAUL H. RUBIN
Many observers have made the point that environmentalism is eerily close to a religious belief system, since it includes creation stories and ideas of original sin. But there is another sense in which environmentalism is becoming more and more like a religion: It provides its adherents with an identity.

Scientists are understandably uninterested in religious stories because they do not meet the basic criterion for science: They cannot be tested. God may or may not have created the world—there is no way of knowing, although we do know that the biblical creation story is scientifically incorrect. Since we cannot prove or disprove the existence of God, science can't help us answer questions about the truth of religion as a method of understanding the world.

But scientists, particularly evolutionary psychologists, have identified another function of religion in addition to its function of explaining the world. Religion often supplements or replaces the tribalism that is an innate part of our evolved nature.

Original religions were tribal rather than universal. Each tribe had its own god or gods, and the success of the tribe was evidence that their god was stronger than others.

But modern religions have largely replaced tribal gods with universal gods and allowed unrelated individuals from outside the tribe to join. Identification with a religion has replaced identification with a tribe. While many decry religious wars, modern religion has probably net reduced human conflict because there are fewer tribal wars. (Anthropologists have shown that tribal wars are even more lethal per capita than modern wars.)

It is this identity-creating function that environmentalism provides. As the world becomes less religious, people can define themselves as being Green rather than being Christian or Jewish.

Consider some of the ways in which environmental behaviors echo religious behaviors and thus provide meaningful rituals for Greens:

• There is a holy day—Earth Day.

• There are food taboos. Instead of eating fish on Friday, or avoiding pork, Greens now eat organic foods and many are moving towards eating only locally grown foods.

• There is no prayer, but there are self-sacrificing rituals that are not particularly useful, such as recycling. Recycling paper to save trees, for example, makes no sense since the effect will be to reduce the number of trees planted in the long run.

• Belief systems are embraced with no logical basis. For example, environmentalists almost universally believe in the dangers of global warming but also reject the best solution to the problem, which is nuclear power. These two beliefs co-exist based on faith, not reason.

• There are no temples, but there are sacred structures. As I walk around the Emory campus, I am continually confronted with recycling bins, and instead of one trash can I am faced with several for different sorts of trash. Universities are centers of the environmental religion, and such structures are increasingly common. While people have worshipped many things, we may be the first to build shrines to garbage.

• Environmentalism is a proselytizing religion. Skeptics are not merely people unconvinced by the evidence: They are treated as evil sinners. I probably would not write this article if I did not have tenure.

Some conservatives spend their time criticizing the way Darwin is taught in schools. This is pointless and probably counterproductive. These same efforts should be spent on making sure that the schools only teach those aspects of environmentalism that pass rigorous scientific testing. By making the point that Greenism is a religion, perhaps we environmental skeptics can enlist the First Amendment on our side.

Mr. Rubin is a professor of economics at Emory University. He is the author of "Darwinian Politics: The Evolutionary Origin of Freedom" (Rutgers University Press, 2002).
http://online.wsj.com/article_email/SB10001424052702304510004575186343555831322-lMyQjAxMTAwMDIwMjEyNDIyWj.html

Minnie the Moocher

2010-05-15T19:36:00.000-07:00

They smile so much...

A Really, Really Incredible Story

2010-05-07T13:55:00.000-07:00

I'm sick of superfluous words like "amazing" or "beautiful" when in truth the subject is somewhat better than average but certainly not "incredible." I happily admit to using these words as a habit of exaggeration for sake of humor but when I hear it seriously, I think it sometimes degrades what "amazing" really is. Or maybe I'm just craving variety because I always hear about an "amazing woman" or listen to "a truly inspiring story."
I don't feel inspired...I think it's a nice story and am glad to have heard it but what's more inspiring about it than say, that other story we heard a few moments earlier?
Ah, both are equally inspiring stories about a beautiful, amazing person that realizes such and such after years of whatever was happening in their head before. The story shortly following is also incredibly inspiring, wait until you hear the life lesson!
I've always enjoyed hearing stories and while I prefer at times to learn something concrete, I think they are important. But why can't a story just be a story? Once again, it could simply be that I crave a variety in the lingo. Descriptive words that give distinction. Because if every story is an amazing story, making amazing average, than what is above average?
(I'm hung up on stories specifically here because they seem to dominate most farbrengans and lectures.)
I spoke to a friend about it and she just said that English is the second spoken language, (Yiddish being the first) and that I shouldn't expect these things. I am complaining here, and really, how important is wording as long as the tale gets across, but I make this complaint anyway.
If a story is told well, it can produce a stronger effect. Which is not to imply that should be a crux of belief, a story is still a story. But if something is truly stupendous, shouldn't it remain outside the realm of cliches?
Besides, "incredible" literally means something lacking credence.
On the other hand, when wording is too flowery, I begin to distrust it. So really I'm just ranting.
Now I'll stop being a snob, good shabbas and don't forget to count the omer.

21 and Running

2010-05-05T20:34:00.000-07:00

Enough already! I'm writing. I'll be 22 in a bit more than a month and dreading it-which is a first. 21 is close to 20, which is close to 19. And 19 is still in the fun, dumb years. 22 however is close to 23 and 23 (let's just skip 24) is close to 25. 25 years is a quarter of 100 years, and that's old. You reach 25 and you might as well raise your hands to the heavens and say, "Well, there went 1/4th of my life. What have I got to say for myself?" Unless we're going by the "May you live to 120" status in which case the calculation is somewhat different.
In our youth, everything seems to happen much faster. And then time piles up like a heap of broken screws, gradually slowing down and running on less and less fuel. Here's an abstract thought, if the people we meet leave a mark on us, perhaps this is why older folk have so many wrinkles? Right, such is not actually the case, it's somewhat more medical than that. For example, hermits don't meet too many people and they still have wrinkles...
Now for a tangent based on a tangent, one of the benefits of working with clay is that you can model some one's face...and age them. A few lines here, a bit of sag there, voila. Recently I've been working on a piece and decided to make her old. I was really getting into it when my classmate saw the piece and threw a fit. He liked her much better when she looked like a "wood nymph." Oh. And being that my teacher agreed, I had to smooth her face back into shape. However, he did promise to teach me the wily ways of the wrinkles, so that's something to look forward to.
In other news, the tides are rising, both in the basement sink, and the bathtub. What was once just a pleasant Amazon-esque running stream is now a full fledged waterfall. Every time I go to take a shower, I get cold feet. (Get it? Cold feet? Because of the water chillin' in the tub?) Right...
Now here's something I'm wondering about, you notice how samples are provided for labeling a blog post? The words are "scooter, vacation, fall..."
Well first I was going to complain that no one uses words like "scooter" for a label but then, I use words like "goats."
My second thought however, was what such a slew of words might imply. Does this mean some pink faced man went on a vacation with his bottle blond wife, only to ride a scooter and have a great fall? How terribly morbid. Not that I complain, but normally those cutsie little examples are...well cute.
Unless the slew of words imply that some young man went to pick up his darling on a hot pink scooter to ride off into the sunset...sometime in late Fall. And while I don't think pink scooters are cute, I would expect it more than some tragedy.
Unless pink scooters are in themselves a tragedy...oh gosh.
Update: New poll.

Try Out Today!

2010-04-19T22:10:00.001-07:00

Found it...
(I removed the video because it starts playing automatically. If you want it, click here.)
Credit to my friend Menucha.
Don't forget to count the Omer.
And there's a new poll.

Contemporary Art

2010-04-14T20:50:00.001-07:00

I am trying to be open-minded, trying to understand contemporary art. I figure it's a bit silly to dislike it otherwise. But how is it art? Which brings up that tedious question folks are always prone to asking, "What is Art?" Great.
I went to MoMa today with my advisor to see the Kentridge show, and despite my ignorance of how it's art, I enjoyed it. The artist does these animated films with charcoal drawings, very witty stuff, oddly poignant and a bit violent at times. This was on the second floor.
On the sixth floor was performance art by Marina Abramovic. This basically means there were naked people standing on the bare floor, facing each other for visitors to walk through. (Great for shidduch dates!) And while I read about tension vs. release and the human condition on the large white walls, I'm still nonplussed.
My peers talk about this kind of stuff, the theories and philosophies, and sometimes it's very interesting. But it's like air, you can't grasp it, you can't own it, you can't frame it, so what is it? Is this art? Is it advanced work or decadent psycho-babble?
My advisor tells me that in my school I learn from the masters, Da Vinci, Goya, Rembrandt, Monet, Cezanne, Sargent, etc. But in their times they were considered "cutting edge" and would be doing the same thing contemporary artists are doing now, were they presently living. Which is cute because had they not done what they did in their time, we wouldn't be doing what we're doing in our time....
So what is that we're doing exactly?
I understand composition, I understand mixing colors, I see the importance in knowing perspective and studying underlying bones, but these are just means to an end...which is?
A painting? A theory? Is the point communication or a visual experience? To record, preach, or simply hang as a charming work of aesthetics?
So that's it, that's my musing on the wacky wonders of the modern age. Obviously discombobulated and certainly without conclusion.
For my own self...there is just something very satisfying about painting a large red streak across a pristine white canvas. But that's hardly intelligent.
HERE is a link for more on the subject. I saw it only after writing this, go figure. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aesthetics
Now go count the Omer. (I really ought to wonder about more important things.)

Silence of the Lambs

2010-04-03T22:45:00.001-07:00

So I'm home for Pesach and so far it's been rather nice as the soup is more of a broth and without tedious matzoh balls to make things scandalous. The potatoes taste nice and crunchy when cooked with the chicken smothered in onions and I really do like the taste of grape juice at this point.
Fantastic.
Seeing family members has been a rather charming experience in itself, what with the odd talk of National Geographic atrocities, Jewish artists, and strange videos on YouTube. Very nice indeed. The "walks" that go for two and a half hours up a mountain are surprising but quite pleasant. The newly discovered architecture is worth taking note as well. (No, really. It's friggin awesome.)
There is but one small qualm I find myself objecting to. That is the small fact that I don't really know anyone here. Not anymore. Friends seem to be in every state but my own and being that everyone is sick to death of my chattering...it's becoming a problem. It has come to the point that while waiting in line to purchase goods at the local groceria, joking around with my sister, and noticing the woman ahead laughing to herself, I am somewhat tempted to ask if she'd like to come over and just "hang out." Which under normal circumstances I wouldn't even think to do. I mean really, can you imagine?

"So...you're buying potatoes."
"Yes." Suspicious side glance.
"Um...you wanna hang out, I have matza?"
"Um...no."
"Right, yes, of course. Haha, bit odd I bet, my asking a stranger to just...hang out."
Polite smile. "Erm, right."
"It's just...you know. I'm coming from New York, getting a bit bored. You know..."
"Ah. Well, you seem nice and all but..well tonight I usually wash my hair."
"Right, of course. So sorry."

I'll end there before things become awkwardly painful. And it's not that I need constant company, I am very happy with a good book and long hours of silence. (No snorting.) But after more than a week, books become just bound papers that I've read too many times before. My own thoughts begin taking disjointed turns with rather abstract forms that leave me surprised and befuddled when the father kindly asks, "What's up?" So I mutter a reply, all resume quiet reading time, and I gradually slip into the strange abyss once more.
I suppose this is when people start talking to themselves. Or to plants.

Ps. If Oregon is a place without company and talking to plants becomes a possible result, perhaps this is why Oregon is so full of tree-huggers?
Now go count the Omer!

Ode To Chometz

2010-03-28T19:26:00.000-07:00

Goodbye scone,
farewell ice cream cone,
goodbye bread,
aur revoir peanut spread,
goodbye soup,
tata delicious goop,
goodbye lollipop,
audios croutons on top,
goodbye cereal,
nos vemos barley ale,
goodbye Almond Breeze,
ciao fried chicken grease,
goodbye pizza with corn,
toodles candy we mourn,
goodbye all this chometz
I must now sell,
all in all, it has been swell.

A Room with a Window...Well, Actually it's a Sliding Glass Door

2010-03-22T20:03:00.000-07:00

In my room there is my old baseball from the tomboy days, to my immediate left is a guitar with broken strings my mom wanted to mosaic. Directly ahead is a canvas painted over and bought from Goodwill, sitting on my desk is a sun hat from Israel and a pile of books purchased from dying libraries. It's odd to be surrounded by so much...stuff. I'm used to confined spaces and a somewhat minimalist lifestyle. I'm used to laundromats and store-bought frozen dinners. I feel like my house is a mansion, with it's backyard and a real living room filled with books, collections, and squishy eclectic chairs. There is room on my walls for framed prints and x-mas lights. There is also an obscene amount of cat hair which I never really noticed before. When did I get a Rubik's cube? And I have a hookah? Oh, my brother left it there.
Paintings from summers and a raccoon hat from the parents, an old saddle seat behind the bed and one pillow with a very suspicious smell.
I have all these...things. Objects, possessions, and things. I don't know what to do with them, being home is sleeping in a nostalgia-induced storage unit. But while the old and familiar throw me off kilter, it's worth it to be with my family. Not to mention how super-fantastic it smells outside, much better than the subway tunnels.
The scary part about it all though, outside of the weird dream of my uncle turning into a vampire and plotting to eat everyone with the local shliach, is that I cleaned out a ton during this past summer. Maybe I'll have a yard sale when I'm through Pesach cleaning...

One Conversation

2010-03-20T19:32:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I spent my Purim seuda seated next to a grandmother. Apparently she doesn't talk to people anymore so our conversation came as a surprise to her family members. Here are the results of said conversation.
1. American education is terrible. Really.
2. If one studies mathematics and chemistry in their youth, 70 years later they might be able to recall some of those formulas. This particular woman could.
3. Getting married at 19 is stupid.
4. They don't make men, let alone husbands, like they used to.
5. After 12 years since said husbands pass away, they are forever missed and...
6. at night one does not sleep for more than a few hours, the night is spent just lying there...and remembering.
7. The Lubavitcher Rebbe was a miracle worker.
8. I'm a good girl. (This was accompanied by a pat on the arm.)
9. If one's stomach is hurting, they should drink tea.
"Do you believe me?" she asks
"Yes, I believe you."
She laughs and says "You're a good girl." (see 8)
10. Chicken soup is better than tea for when one is sick.
11. Studying art is a good pursuit. (Nice to hear, actually.)
12. Gone with the Wind was a nice film. (That remark came as a surprise.) They also don't make films like they used to.
13. Butter Pecan milkshakes are tasty. Actually I just learned that now from Sef on the Go, who gave me the rest of hers.

Two Poems

2010-03-14T11:38:00.000-07:00

When the Fat Bochur Sings
An adaptation from When the Fat Lady Sings

When the fat bochur sings
in his folly and youth,
when the fat bochur sings,
his cheeks flushed and smooth,
when the fat bochur sings,
his pudgy fingers in his pockets,
when the fat bochur sings
I think
"Ach, these youngins cause such a racket!"

Oh, Delilah
As told from the perspective of a boy.

Oh, Delilah, you think you've corrupt me?
My hair is short, true
but I've got my Fedora,
talking to girls...well yes, it's not quite right
but hear me Delilah,
they still give me such a fright!
Now listen Delilah,
and wipe off that smirk,
I'm not corrupt yet!
Just going through a quirk...

One book recommendation: All Quiet on the Western Front
and one book I'm currently reading but enjoying, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

She Who Sleeps in the Other Bed

2010-03-10T21:30:00.000-08:00

The thing with roommates is that they've always got something about them. One's a history junkie, another a clean freak (in a good way), some were JAPs (Jewish American Princesses) and others would cry every time a moth flew in the window. People from Ukraine, Sweden, Venezuela, and New Jersey, I've lived with an assortment of different folk. Even a Canadian! And by forging a relationship with these girls, one learns a thing or two. For example, I now know how to make a mean teriyaki chicken, both tasty and tender and actually cooked! I have learned to clean and organize, and have thoroughly mastered the art of procrastination.
Most recently I had a hairdresser share my dilapidated basement. After some idle threats, my eyebrows have now been shaped and hair cut. It's rather convenient to live with a beautician, and good fun, especially when she's cutting someones sheital and needs me to wear it for her to make the final trim. Sure there's enough hair on the floor to make a cat, or stuff a pillow, or whatever it is one does with hair, but now I know just how much hairspray it takes to make a Mohawk. Incidentally I write this post even now because I have, quite unconsciously, painted my nails purple, an activity I rarely do seeing as how turpenoid usually washes it off. The latter is the result of my other roommate, a makeup artist.
I've got books of inside jokes culminating itself into it's very own language, a language with words like "Snarkleaf"* and random phrases from Monty Python. Crab dances and ritual greetings in atrocious accents fill our humble abode with broken down doors and running taps. Often time I will start singing to myself only to find that the girl who sleeps across from me has leaped up to join in a duet. In all honesty, I pity the neighbors for we are having far too much fun.
But now, so as not to end off on a far too cheery note which is unacceptable for many reasons, I conclude that one roommate has moved back to the country she came from and now it's time to find someone new.

*"Snarkleaf" was a word I mentioned casually in the midst of a very serious, deeply intense conversation that later took root and became it's very own culture. It is not a topic to be taken lightly, as Snarkleaves are no laughing matter despite their uncanny sense of humor.

Now, for some art:
This is Monica, the painting is somewhat of a rush job as I only had 5 days as opposed to 8 to complete it. Our studio is lit up from a giant glass roof but the snow made it rather hard to see for some of that time.

This here is a sculpture I made and fired last year but only painted bronze a week ago. Being that I have forgotten the models name, we shall come him Sparky or perhaps Howard VII. (The annoying part of course, is that I see all these mistakes and can't do anything to fix them.)

And this is titled teriyaki chicken. It is, I suppose, what one might call mixed media.

Sargent

2010-03-05T12:21:00.000-08:00

Why it's sunny out! To much warmth and light normally makes me nervous but this...why, this is rather pleasant. I walked back from the library after returning its long-overdue Virginia-Woolf stream of consciousness (A Room of One's Own from the assignment section, if you must know) and blasted my ears with soul-crippling classical music. (This last sentence has been corrected by the editor, see comments for details.)
I would like to take this opportunity to culture your mind in the ways of one of my personal favorite artists, John Singer Sargent (1856-1925.) His style of painting is one I aspire towards.

Spanish Dancer

Claude Monet Painting by the Edge of a Wood

The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit

Setting Out to Fish

Portrait of Carolus-Duran (I really just like the mustache curl)

I would post many more but Shabbas is coming and the basement needs cleaning.

Happy Purim!

2010-02-27T17:45:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1ehMrK3itM
(I can't embed it so y'all just have to click on the link)

A Shochet's Tale

2010-02-26T08:14:00.000-08:00

Pawel in the Warsaw synagogue. A former truck driver and neo-Nazi skinhead, Pawel, 33, has since become an Orthodox Jew, covering his shaved head with a yarmulke and shedding his fascist ideology for the Torah.
By DAN BILEFSKY
Published: February 24, 2010

WARSAW — When Pawel looks into the mirror, he can still sometimes see a neo-Nazi skinhead staring back, the man he once was before he covered his shaved head with a yarmulke, shed his fascist ideology for the Torah and renounced violence and hatred in favor of God.
Adam Lach for The New York Times
“I still struggle every day to discard my past ideas,” said Pawel, a 33-year-old ultra-Orthodox Jew and former truck driver, noting with little irony that he had to stop hating Jews in order to become one.

“When I look at an old picture of myself as a skinhead, I feel ashamed. Every day I try and do teshuvah,” he said, using the Hebrew word for repentance. “Every minute of every day. There is a lot to make up for.”

Pawel, who also uses his Hebrew name Pinchas, asked not to use his last name for fear that his old neo-Nazi friends could target him or his family.

Pawel is perhaps the most unlikely example of a Jewish revival under way in Poland in which hundreds of Poles, a majority of them raised as Catholics, are either converting to Judaism or discovering Jewish roots submerged for decades in the aftermath of World War II.

Before 1939, Poland was home to more than three million Jews; over 90 percent of them were killed by the Nazis during the Holocaust. A majority of those who survived emigrated. Of the fewer than 50,000 who remained in Poland, many either abandoned or hid their Judaism during decades of Communist oppression in which political pogroms against Jews persisted.

But Rabbi Michael Schudrich, the chief rabbi of Poland, noted that 20 years after the fall of Communism, a historical reckoning was finally taking place. He said Pawel’s metamorphosis illustrated just how far the country had come.

“Before 1989 there was a feeling that it was not safe to say ‘I am a Jew,”’ he said. “But today, there is a growing feeling that Jews are a missing limb in Poland.”

Five years ago, the rabbi noted, there were about 250 families in the Jewish community in Warsaw; today there are 600. During that period, the number of rabbis serving the country has grown from one to eight. The cafes and bars of the old Jewish quarter in Krakow brim with young Jewish converts listening to Israeli hip hop music. Even several priests have decided to become Jewish.

Pawel’s transformation from baptized Catholic skinhead to Jew began in a bleak neighborhood of concrete tower blocks in Warsaw in the 1980s. Pawel said he and his friends reacted to the gnawing uniformity of socialism by embracing anti-Semitism and an extreme right-wing ideology. They shaved their heads, carried knives, and greeted each other with the raised right arm gesture of the Nazi salute.

“Oi Vey, I hate to admit it, but we would beat up local Jewish and Arab kids and homeless people,” Pawel said on a recent day in the Nozyk Synagogue here. “We sang about stupid stuff like Satan and killing people. We believed that Poland should only be for Poles.”

One day, he recalled, he and his friends skipped school and took a train to Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp, near Krakow. “We made jokes that we wished the exhibition had been bigger and that the Nazis had killed even more Jews,” he said.

He says his staunch Catholic parents, a teacher and a businessman, suspected he was a skinhead, but hoped it was just a phase.

“I never got caught for what I did or got arrested, so my parents didn’t realize things were so bad,” he said. “But they would get stressed out when I would come home in the morning wounded and covered in blood.”

Even as Pawel embraced the life of a neo-Nazi, he said, he had pangs that his identity was built on a lie. His churchgoing father seemed overly fond of quoting the Old Testament. His grandfather hinted about past family secrets.

“One time when I told my grandfather that Jews were bad, he exploded and screamed at me, ‘If I ever hear you say such a thing again under my roof, you will never come back!”’

Pawel joined the army and married a fellow skinhead at age 18. But his sense of self changed irrevocably at the age of 22, when his wife, Paulina, suspecting she had Jewish roots, went to a genealogical institute and discovered Pawel’s maternal grandparents on a register of Warsaw Jews, along with her own grandparents.

When Pawel confronted his parents, he said, they broke down and told him the truth: that his maternal grandmother was Jewish and had survived the war by being hidden in a monastery by a group of nuns. His paternal grandfather, also a Jew, had seven brother and sisters, most of whom had perished in the Holocaust.

“I went to my parents and said, ‘What the hell?’ Imagine, I was a neo-Nazi and heard this news. I couldn’t look in the mirror for weeks. It was a shock and it still is a shock to me,” he said. “My parents were the typical offspring of Jewish survivors of the war, who decided to conceal their Jewish identity to try and protect their family.”

Shaken by the knowledge of his Jewish roots, Pawel said he decided to go see Rabbi Schudrich, who gave him a copy of the Hebrew Bible.

“I spent weeks cloistered like a turtle, questioning everything I had believed. I had a feeling deep inside of me that was so strong, that I had to do it, that I had to become Jewish. When I asked a rabbi, ‘Why do I feel this way?’ he replied, ‘The sleeping souls of your ancestors are calling out to you.”’

Pawel said his transformation was arduous, akin to being reborn. He said he forced himself to reread “Mein Kampf” but couldn’t get to the end because he felt physically repulsed.

At the age of 24, he was circumcised. Two years later, he decided to become an Orthodox Jew. His wife began to wear a sheitel, the wig Orthodox women wear to show modesty.

Today, they have two children, whom they are raising in a Jewish home. Pawel is also studying to become a shochet, a person charged with killing animals according to Jewish dietary laws. “I am good with knives,” he explained.

Pawel said he relished the meaning and discipline that ultra-Orthodox Judaism brought to his life. He acknowledged he was drawn to extremes.

“When I do anything, I don’t go halfway,” he said. “I still struggle to wake up to pray every morning. I have to remind myself that if I eat meat, I can’t have milk with my coffee because it is not kosher. I have to think before I can do anything.”

His parents did not embrace their Judaism, but he said his mother sometimes visited his home on Fridays and lit the Sabbath candles.

When his father died last year, Pawel went to the Catholic cemetery and said kaddish, the Jewish prayer of mourning, over his grave.

While Poland has sought to overcome a history of anti-Semitism, cultivating strong ties with Israel, embracing Klezmer music and Yiddish writers as national treasures, and apologizing for past transgressions, Pawel noted that he was still targeted by the same anti-Semites who once counted him among their ranks.

He lauded a new general receptivity toward Judaism among the younger generation of Poles, but said that some had nevertheless internalized the hatred of their parents.

“When younger people see me on the street with my top hat and side curls they sometimes laugh at me. But it is the old ladies who are the meanest,” he said. “Sometimes, they use the language I used when I was a skinhead and say, ‘Get out and go back to your country’ or ‘Jew go home!’ Others feel the hole left in Poland by all the Jews that were killed and come over and say, ‘shalom.”’

Whatever the challenges, Rabbi Schudrich said Pawel’s transformation offered a decidedly Jewish morality tale about the possibility of change.

“The lesson of Pawel’s story is that one should never lose hope,” he said. “The impossible just takes a little longer.”

Joanna Berendt contributed reporting.

If only

2010-02-25T17:22:00.000-08:00

Here I was, ready to make some outrageous retort to the va'ad letter when the evil bloggers fessed up. Here is a small clip of it:
There has been recent concern over issues such as tznius, boys talking to girls and women being the source of all blogging, I mean Internet, I meal evil. Women are the root of all evil. Which is why they must remain indoors lest their evil nature corrupt that of man. So I have concluded I must be frank, direct, and not that soft, squishy way of speaking.
I am really a man.
My name is Pierre and I live near the Hudson river. I collect cats, particularly tabbies. I have roommates with various odd quirks like putting their index finger into a hook when speaking of important matters. As they always speak to me of important matters, I see that hook a lot. I started this blog as a hobby, for attention, and as I know women get a lot of attention, I made myself up as one. Sometime I do it in reality as well. I prefer Prada heels but I find Calvin Klein to be more comfortable, let alone practical. And when I don those magnificent wigs, I just feel uplifted...

Unto more exciting things then. Here is an awesome site my friend linked me. It's a compilation of various design photographs with captions reminiscent to the good ol' Far Side comics.
http://unhappyhipsters.com/

I Do Say!

2010-02-22T06:39:00.001-08:00

It doth appear that some folks out there have reason to be somewhat peeved these past few days, weeks, whatever, and to that, I say this:
G-d willing, 54 years from now you will be an old person wearing a pink terry cloth bathrobe and yelling at your dozens of grandchildren milling around because SOMEONE left a rubber chicken in your bed and sleeping on it gave you a back ache. G-d willing, such should be the extent of your problems. Unless of course, you are hyper-allergic to pink terry cloth in which case I offer up my most sincere apologies.

Speaking of chickens, rubber or otherwise, here's an interesting video my roommate found for me.

It cracks me up every time (get it? Cracks? Fine, too corny.)

So Fine

2010-02-15T15:57:00.000-08:00

It feels good to start a new sculpture. It feels good to move on from the old one, where hours were spent just carving muscles and smoothing them out again. It is invigorating to tear apart an armature and unwind its wires for new use and just so satisfying to loop them into a fresh frame.
I like when I cut out clean clay from the bag and slap it on, taking wood blocks to smash it into my own design. When I can be loose and carefree, before the careful work ensues, this is when I am having fun. Here is the beginning when I measure a face, twist a neck, and carve out eyes.
Damn it feels fine.

All These Women...

2010-02-11T16:35:00.000-08:00

(click on images to enlarge)

Of Boxes and Other Things

2010-02-06T17:43:00.000-08:00

Tonights a night for writing. I might dilly-dally in the realm of laundromat infatuations or brief escapades with a runaway moose. Alright, the moose is a tale not to be told. Mostly because I haven't heard it yet.
Speaking of runaways, I lost a roommate this week. She just...left us. With boxes and all. But now we have an extra spot of wall space which shall be labeled as our very own "loitering wall."
It's very exciting.
Now if only we could fill the room space...

Artists these days are forgiving people. My sculpting teacher tells me horror stories of his time as a student when having one's piece amputated for reasons like "bad anatomy" was not uncommon. These days, everyone seems to have it easy. Each painting, every drawing, and all sculptures have something "special" about them. It's an interesting thing, but I find the more I learn of something, the pickier I become. Actually that makes perfect sense. (Though with knowledge also comes a fresh appreciation for certain things.)

The models have it easier as well. Wednesday evening found my class struggling to draw the portrait of a man whose face kept slipping...slowly...downward. When he started snoring my teacher got fed up. Rather then telling the man to do his job however, she offered for someone to get him coffee...which is nice of her, but he is getting paid.

Now enough on the topic of bitty rants, a fun fact for the evening:
If your laptop is hot enough, it can iron your sheets.

And lastly one exhilarating video. Get out your dancing shoes...

Update: Very good news, the cockroach-inhabited microwave has finally been rid of. Unfortunately this now means one has no way of knowing the time on shabbas. (No, we don't have watches.) The result: We wait until Jews walk past the basement to find out if the good Sabbath hath reacheth its' conclusion. On this fine evening we found out it certainly had...perhaps 45 minutes earlier. So now some even better news, we're going to get a clock!

Note: When I write "us" or "we", I am not referring to schizophrenic tendnencies but rather the roommate who is usually with me.

Dreams for a Kleptomaniac

2010-01-25T21:03:00.000-08:00

I could have stolen a car today. I saw keys lying on the pavement on 5th avenue. 5th avenue where all the shiny people walk their dogs. (Did you know some people eat dogs? Tasty.) I could have casually nabbed these charming keys and found the car by merely clicking the "lock/unlock" button and hearing the beep. I could have taken this car to an obscure location, painted the license plate just enough to throw off authority for a wee bit of time and road-trip to Nevada where I would likely meet some fellow ruffians to help me take over the world. Perhaps not Nevada, but somewhere charming.
Instead, I looked ahead and saw the man bent over his spilled coins and informed him that small change was the least of his losses. Shame, a car would be nice.

Less than an hour later I'm sitting in Starbucks which is of course, the root of all evil but I will save that for another post. Or not. The worried looking woman to my right is having troubling connecting to the Internet and continuously seeks help of the aproned staff. At one point she asks me to kindly watch her laptop so she could fetch the young whipper snapper who had helped her a moment earlier. I said sure.
I could have taken that laptop. Though it would have probably been a more difficult task but all one needs is a distraction, like flooding a toilet.
Instead I made my phone calls and nodded politely when she returned.

Ah, life.

Lost Earphones

2010-01-20T15:16:00.000-08:00

Today's sightings:
1. Earphones dangling from the beams between subway cars.
2. Cankles. (Really thick ankles.)
3. A man whose hair was cut in such a way as to display the word "Mak" on one side of his head and a drawing of flames on the other.
4. A refrigerator door with a "Moshiach is on his way!" sticker stuck on its' upper left corner. (This door was sitting on the street and I was rather tempted to take it home but I don't really have room and my refrigerator already has a door.)
5. Reflections of clouds floating on a building's surface.
6. This old man that I really wanted to paint/draw, his wrinkles were interesting and features very defined.
7. My landlord. He needed to check the boiler.

Now I would like to introduce a game. This game is called "Awkward Conversation" and it's point is to have the most awkward conversation possible. Different variables such as long silences and nonplussed facial expressions have free rein in this delightful lark and the only rule is that players are not allowed to laugh or crack a smile. The game was founded two years ago in Machon Chana dormitories and has since spread across the country as the latest fad since the "Cliche Conversation" game.
Here is an example of one such conversation.
Girl A: So...you're Rachel.
Girl B: Yes.
(Pause)
Girl A: Rachel...huh. (Pause) Well...where are you from?
Girl B: LA.
Girl A: (Nonplussed expression)Oh.
(Long silence.)
Girl B: What's your name?
Girl A: Mushkie. (She's hardcore and changed her name from Susan.)
(Pause)
Girl A: Um...do you like plants Rachel?
Girl B: I like my plants dead.
Girl A: (Horrified expression.) Ah.
(Very long silence except for various grunts and noises sounding like "yup" or "hmm" coming from Girl A.)
Girl B: Do you like plants?

I think you all get the idea.

Anyways, here's a sketch of a man.

An experimental painting I did during the summer. I was trying to paint a group of people amongst some trees, playing with color and texture...still a work in progress it seems.

Well That's Cute

2010-01-17T17:55:00.000-08:00

Roommates and Electrical Appliances

2010-01-14T16:46:00.000-08:00

I am one of those people who will listen to a courtesy call that lasts 6 minutes and 39 seconds simply because the woman has a Southern accent and I'm not sure if she's a telemarketer or not. If I knew she were in fact a telemarketer, I would have pulled some sort of prank.

A completely separate topic than the above courtesy call, I have been blessed with Roommate II. She entered my basement door with a gust of wind and exclaimed,
"It's cold out there!"
"Cold like my soul." I answered.
To this she reached into her bag and pulled out a frozen fish.
"Oh, I've got cold sole."
I see the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
She gets phone calls from various shady characters who call her Yo, Mr. Mac and ask for...um...a refrigerator...and two tables, (wink, wink). Maybe if I grew up in Chicago people would get my number mixed up and life would be as interesting, but it seems I will have to settle with courtesy calls from Vorizen. Along with a dish rack and some fun new utensils (including kitchen knives) she brought a coffee machine. As you can very well imagine, this is an exciting new feature in my life. What awaits now are the coffee beans. Perhaps we will wear black berets and recite bad poetry with the first cups...but I think such erratic behavior is only permissible with black coffee. And I like mine with chocolate soy.

Now to jump to a completely different subject, my Internet has finally redeemed me of a world with productivity and hours well spent. As the original 6 days of withdrawal slowly stretched into 2 weeks, I had gradually lost all hope of it's return. First the "magic box" (router and modem) was shipped and then signed for by upstairs tenants who forgot to tell us of it's arrival, soon following the router was screwy, after which the account was screwy, then tech-support got confused by such screwiness, and then my mind went screwy. But a magic man came and made it better, and all is well. Baruch Hashem. Except for that one moment of panic when we temporarily lost it again but I won't go into THAT nightmarish account.
Now all I need is a new alarm clock.

The Sick Poem

2010-01-06T18:04:00.000-08:00

Little cotton balls in my ears,
my head is underwater.
Back pain like road-kill armadillo
and mosquito bit eyes that itch.
Nose run off with pathetic sniffles
and mighty roaring sneezes,
that crash like the ocean waves....

would you pass me a tissue?

FYI: Still without internet because G-d works in mysterious ways. So far I've read 4 books and made two paintings. Funny how that works out...

Prepare Yourself....

2009-12-29T17:16:00.000-08:00

It seems Miss Bon that you are an addict.

Oh? Hows that?

Well you spend excessive amounts of time poured over a little screen that is gradually bleaching your skin a bluish tinge of pale white. Perhaps with a bit of cadmium red and raw sienna but one cannot be sure.

Oh.

So we're pulling the plug.

How do you mean?

We're taking your Internet. For the next 6 days. It's been swell.

(And now the withdrawal symptoms begin.)

And Now...

2009-12-26T23:16:00.000-08:00

(With credit to Le7 who I believe posted these a long time ago. The conductor fellow looks vaguely familiar.)
Easy fast...

Dancing Black Coats

2009-12-24T11:03:00.000-08:00

A Bit Like A Tomato

2009-12-22T20:32:00.000-08:00

Now it's quiet. The closet is missing a significant number of clothes and half the walls are blank. The plastic fern is gone too (the roommate likes her plants dead.) So I'm sitting here, mildly putzing around and vaguely wondering what to do because it's awfully quiet, especially in contrast with the wedding, and chaos of getting numerous belonging to the hall, and then the sheva brachot...

A few weeks ago my class watched a video called Koyaanisqatsi. There are no specific characters and no dialogue. Just music and recording of life played at various speeds. It's interesting how similar a city is to a microchip, and how the rush of hot dogs in a factory conveyor belt are reminiscent to blood cells. Weird comparison, but interesting. (That particular scene is unfortunately not in the following clip.) The camera work is unusual as well, there are times when it seems the camera is moving and others when it's the world that keeps pacing. The tempo of the music increases at times to a point of near exhaustion and then breaks silent like a gun shot. Completely silent, and the screen is floating far above the hum of a city.
There are some nice scenes of things blowing up and captured moments of human nature. I believe the entire film can be found on youtube.
Here, however is just a clip. (Warning: some of the music is A Capella style, this means scary women voices, but always as a group and never individual.)

I think a Jewish version of this should be done. Recordings of our life with a soundtrack of niggunim and various melodies. Lastly, anyone who sees what any of this has to do with a tomato will receive 10 points.

Devastating Demolition

2009-12-16T20:18:00.000-08:00

I've been having a rampage of wreckage. Quite accidental actually. It began with my "Productive Destruction" bottle project*, during which I tore holes in my negal vasser basin in the pursuit of breaking glass. Not long after it was discovered that a can of wood varnish had leaked all over my Hagadda. I scraped most of it off with a spoon, several actually, but wonder if it's still kosher. What are the ingredients of wood varnish? Even though it's unedible, should I go the extra length and be stringent? The AriZal had a lot to say about extra stringency on Pesach. Should people rid their floors of varnish upon the holiday of Pesach? I used to drive my halacha teacher insane. At least until he let me draw diagrams on the board.
Whilst washing dishes I shook a plate to rid it of the little droplets, and in these vigorous swings I hit my roommates mug and chipped it. It's still quite usable, thank you very much and the crack adds a touch of vintage authenticity in a superficial world...right.
This past Shabbas I tried on the roommate's hairband, a piece I never wear but for some reason felt inclined to do so. Snap! Threads are loose, beads are everywhere, lovely beads that match the color and tone of the plastic tiles perfectly, and I'm scrambling to find them. Motzei Shabbas finds me licking said thread and attempting to fix the contraption, but to no avail. These beads have weird holes.
When a local blogger friend joined me for a cup of cocoa, I knocked the coffee container from the shelf, which hit the cocoa container, that then gave the milk jug an ever so gentle tap, sending it to the death by aforementioned plastic tile. I am proud to say, I saved enough of it for one mug. Which she received of course.
Next up was the mirror. Starting last night, I've got 7 years of bad luck. I just finished my last session of this nonsense. I had propped the mirror up in the window so I could curl my hair, and then it fell. Needless to say the curls didn't work out too well either.
So here I am now, vaguely wondering what will be next. The roommate finds it all amusing, Baruch Hashem, especially in light that most of these dilapidated products are hers. But a new form of paranoia is taking root and I am beginning to worry. I suppose it's a good thing the rest of her stuff is packed up.

Maybe a lit menorah will fall on a box...
*link

Meet Gustav

2009-12-10T20:05:00.000-08:00

Hah! You thought I was going to blog about Gustav KLIMT! Hardly m'dear, hardly. Click on images to enlarge.

How Many (Blank) Does it take to Change a Lightbulb?

2009-12-09T17:31:00.000-08:00

There comes a point when enough is enough. I am a relatively low-maintenance kind of gal
(although OCD about showering everyday and paranoid of not getting enough sleep-ironic in light that I'm a night owl...)
but there is a breaking point.
1. The upstairs tenants are insane, there's more swearing going on then any Jerry Springer show you've ever seen (chus v'sholom! Actually, I've never watched it but people always joke about the beeping censor.)
2. The upstairs tenant's son has a habit of taking baths at odd hours (after repeatedly asking permission at the top of his lungs) and smoking a pack of cigarettes every Friday afternoon. For some obscure reason, the smoke does not rise as it should but rather, quite the miracle, goes against it's nature and sinks into our humble abode, caressing us with its delightfully cancerous fumes...smells pretty bad too.
3. The shower tap has a leak. I'll try to pretend I'm near a stream, maybe with some trees, and fish, with a breeze.
Still trying.
4. Cockroaches of all shapes and sizes, quite possibly to the point where they are NOT cockroaches but some other obscene bug, have made home in our kitchen. Needless to say, it's unpleasant to prepare food on the same surface as the little buggers.
5. Somehow the wind manages to seep through the windows. The cold temperature is pretty good at it too. This does not actually bother me too much in that I prefer the cold, but my roommates aren't happy. Therefore, every winter we seal off the windows with sheets of plastic. Which means I can't see outside. This does bother me.
6. And now, that breaking point you've all been waiting for, our overhead light is shot. Baruch dayan Ha'emes. I'm surviving by the glow of my faithful computer, or at least until we blow another fuse and lose our Internet. Then I'll just bring a cot to school.

At least the coffee's still good.

In Pursuit of Madness

2009-12-01T20:19:00.000-08:00

Here are some general tips to drive the public, or private, mad. And while I don't exactly condone such behavior, it would certainly be entertaining.

1. Use all the circuits and blow the fuse, several times each day. It is preferable to blow the fuse immediately after it has been reset.
2. One word: Chickens. Join PETA and offer to hold the rescued beasties safe. The more chickens, the more feathers, the more clucking, the more droppings, the better. Try and get some cows too. Then, just when your roommates are cursing you out, sell the buggers to the local shochet. Not only will your roommates be annoyed, but PETA won't be too happy either. (My apologies as well to the local vegetarian.) After all is said and done, start collecting cats.
3. You know those clever folk who use garbage items like dumpsters and old spoons to make awesome music? Invite your friends and make a band. But only if you can't carry a tune.
4. Set stuff on fire, all the while humming to yourself. Spray thing with perfume before lighting for extra effect.
5. If someone is picking you up, walk very slowly towards the car. If they are dropping you off, get out but leave the door open.
6. Sing incessantly old ditties like "The Song that Never Ends" and tell "Knock, knock" jokes. Chuck Norris jokes are far too clever and would only prove to make people smile. Which of course, is not the goal here!
7. Spend several minutes clearing your throat before making a class speech. Then ask for a cup of water. Then say the glass is dirty. When a new glass of water appears, use it to water the plants and only after that, may you begin your speech. Then inform everyone, you are not a student of their school and promptly walk out.
8. Before leaving your apartment leave all doors, appliances, and cabinets open. You know, just for kicks.
9. Get some fellows, link arms, and march down the streets at a very....very...slow pace, all the while singing "Matchmaker, Matchmaker" from Fiddler on the Roof. The more melancholy, the better. (This one may be more entertaining than annoying.)
10. Cover the floor in sand, set up a towel, umbrella, loud radio playing Micheal Savage, and relax sipping Coca-Cola and smothering yourself with your roommate's sunblock. This is best done during winter.

Now I don't know how useful this list may have been, it seems driving people insane is not my forte. Doing weird stuff however....

Them Little Bars

2009-11-29T19:15:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: This has nothing to do with you folks.
I am generally not one to give unsolicited advice. I perceive situations but leave my thoughts unspoken. We folks make mistakes, get lost in some situation or other, wake up, make some form of resolution, and then hopefully move on. We learn through experience. Or listen to those who do give solicited advice and don't get in the situation to begin with.

There are reasons behind our actions, whether legitimate or otherwise is often left up to debate. I have my beliefs, my priorities, and all those other little bars one has to keep them self upright. The person to my left has their own set. As does the one to my right. Heck, we might even have some in common! Who woulda thought.

It's important to know when silence is more wise then supposed pearls of wisdom, and vice versa. Finding that balance takes time. Realizing that one's judgements spoken aloud may not have the desired affect. Not to mention the obvious fact that your perception might be missing some crucial facts. Let alone that it's not always your place.

And I'm usually quiet.

"Usually" being key because there are times when thoughts must be put into words. Even if their meaning is to have no external affect, they are said, and therefore exist. This is what I think. This is how I feel. This is coming from what I know of my own past and my own experience. Because when it is so close, for only once and not be repeated, I cannot not be silent.

Of art however, I am a bit more judgemental...

For Your Information: Chuck Norris

2009-11-26T22:53:00.000-08:00

When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live.

Outer space exists because it's afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

Chuck Norris is the reason why Waldo is hiding.

Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice.

There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard. There is only another fist.

When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn’t lifting himself up, he’s pushing the Earth down.

Chuck Norris is so fast, he can run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head.

Chuck Norris’ hand is the only hand that can beat a Royal Flush.

Chuck Norris can lead a horse to water AND make it drink.

Chuck Norris doesn’t wear a watch, HE decides what time it is.

Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.

Chuck Norris does not get frostbite. Chuck Norris bites frost

Chuck Norris does not hunt because the word hunting infers the probability of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.

If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you. If you can't see Chuck Norris you may be only seconds away from death.

Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

Chuck Norris has already been to Mars; that's why there are no signs of life there.

Chuck Norris doesn't breathe, he holds the air hostage.

Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried. Ever.

Chuck Norris can set ants on fire with a magnifying glass. At night.

Chuck Norris can speak Braille.

When Chuck Norris gives you the finger, he is only telling you how many seconds you have left to live.

Chuck Norris CAN believe its not butter.

Chuck Norris can strangle you with a cordless phone

Music Mania

2009-11-23T15:47:00.000-08:00

I can get really into music. As a child I wished to be a music conductor (amongst other things such as flying kitten and spy.) I am not musically inclined, despite a brief period when I played a harmonica whilst wandering the streets of Tzfat. But those tunes were singular, made-up on the spot, wholly original works of genius that remain to this day unrepeatable. I also memorized which keys on the piano went with Mary Had A Little Lamb, but that was memorization with no input from my own sense of tone, which again, is rather miserable. I still like singing though and my father is a world-class whistler. He however, actually can whistle and always laughs kindly at my feeble attempts to follow suit.
Now away from this brief interlude of my own lacking, I return to the subject of my adoration for music. I need not necessarily know the meaning of words to appreciate the tune supporting them. Ignorant and shameful but like, whatever. I am no musician and cannot claim much authority in judgement. There is one really Jewish song that I like. Mordechai Ben David's Moshiach song. I recall a time in Israel where a Bagel Shop with loose employee-customer relationships allowed one to choose the music himself. We would play this song and in the back kitchen, where no one could see us, dance like crazy people. It was fantastic.
Today I find myself turning to that Moshiach song, blasting my ears with it to drown out the drudgery of a long day filled with mature art discussions amongst my elder peers. I can't jump on tables and sing like a nut, but I can hear the song and pretend to.
What's said: "If I'm not mistaken the work is rather reminiscent to George Tooker's, Government Bureau."
What's thought: I want to run around the room willy-nilly, I want to run around the room willy-nilly...
What's later done: "Moshiach! Moshiach! Something-something-something!"
I returned home from a demonstration on print making today to find my roommate cleaning the kitchen and killing bugs. A rather productive means of letting off steam I think. She had a youtube video of Mozart playing but after a few minutes it finished itself off and the task fell to me to find some nice classical music. I immediately found Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake and I blasted it. Knowing the now familiar tunes, I started waving my arms to the rhythm like the conductor I had always wanted to be.
"It's absolutely phenomenal!" I told her.
"I see," she says. "I could honestly blackmail you for this..."
But the rest of her words lost. I can really get into music, to the point where all I want is to jump on tables gesticulating wildly with my eyes closed and after that, not much else matters.

New Findings

2009-11-20T11:42:00.000-08:00

By Harvey Dinnerstein (click on images to enlarge)

By Max Ginsburg

By Edwin Dickinson

It's a beautiful day outside, a breath of fresh air. School's out for Thanksgiving, it's almost Shabbas and I have a whole glorious week to fill. The first artist, Harvey Dinnerstein, I discovered recently as he gave a lecture at my school. His portrait is the standing man on the left, holding the drawing pad. The second artist, Max Ginsburg, is the husband of my classmate Miriam who yesterday told me to look him up. After checking him out, I returned to my insomniac ways and spent the night studying his technique. The last one, Edwin Dickinson is actually an artist I learned of just now. I have cut outs from various art books on my wall and the last picture of the cello player is one of them. The artist wasn't listed below the picture but thankfully the title and date were, so I googled and viola! There he was.

Moderately Monotonous

2009-11-18T20:44:00.000-08:00

Those time when there is so much to say and it all tries to burst forth at once, a little mess of thoughts clogging my mind. Of course it's usually like that which is why I end up writing about...plastic spoons or...coffee.

My teacher wanted my class to draw the interior of a cathedral this Friday, to which of course I diplomatically refused. He seemed a bit irritated, and kept repeating that I wouldn't have to perform some sort religious ceremony, that it's only architecture, and plenty Jews enter such arenas. All the time! Eventually he sighed and asked if I would ever see the interior of a Gothic church.
Um...no. I won't.

As it turns out however, the cathedral's priest is a prickly fellow and wouldn't allow such activity for some various reason or other. So we're drawing a spiral staircase instead which should be equally arduous but much less controversial.
I suppose it's needless to say the teacher is Jewish. And a cathedral is not just architecture.

I had another meeting this past week with my mentor, Viviane Silvera and we got on the topic of my background, my goals, etc. The interview felt like something from National Geographic. I suppose from an objective view, the observant lifestyle is quite interesting. Personally however it's rather average, we wash our hands continuously throughout the day and swing chickens over our heads. One of the Asian girls in my class asked me today if she could see my shul. I told her it was quite smelly but there's a really nice one she could check out on Lexington. Why would she want to see a shul? Right, to take pictures. I wish there were other frummies around, being politically correct all the time is irritating.(That last sentence has nothing to do with the one right before it.)

I signed up for three classes this quarter, each on being three hours long. Including traveling time, I'm gone twelve hours a day. Thank G-d for cream cheese sandwiches and instant coffee though the thought of purchasing a cot and just spending the night can be awfully tempting. Shame about the hygiene issue, though.

And now I feel a bit ridiculous because none of these topics are what I'm really thinking about. Sheesh. What I'm really thinking about are stereotypes, galleries, hypocrites, self-conciousness, fear, art shows, sushi, Holtzbergs, Mumbai, Thanksgiving, Mom's birthday, integrity, creepy men, putzing, electrophysics...fine, perhaps not the last one but you get the gist.

Kids These Days

2009-11-15T19:40:00.000-08:00

Monday Mornings

2009-11-09T10:22:00.000-08:00

I'm writing to make you jealous. Jealous because on a Monday morning I can sleep ever so late for the simple reason that models need to be posed and set, an ordeal that takes perhaps an hour or two per class. Especially the painting class because it's a three week pose of two models. So while I still have classes that run until 7pm, I can sleep late on this Monday morning. A charming morning with a long shower, and lazy putzing with music in the background. A morning where I can sit and eat Life cereal whilst reading my book.
I do love this type of morning. Shame it's rare.

Bearded Ones

2009-11-04T19:29:00.000-08:00

I think we need some variety...click on images to enlarge

Glamour for a Day

2009-10-29T18:45:00.000-07:00

My school offers a diploma program which means that after four years one receives a donkey. Tied to the back of this donkey is glorious piece of paper declaring itself as a diploma. That part about the donkey is in fact, not true.
This diploma program offers a set fee for unlimited classes, an art mentor of one's choice, and several year-end shows.
The school is not credited, I get no degree. I could teach there, as well as the Arts Students League, but everywhere else would require a Masters...except maybe Bais Rivka but that won't happen. Really however, I'd like to paint.
Portraits of the people I know, the city with it's colorful quirks and that brownstone I pictured in the previous post which is so bright it looks aflame...
I want to paint Eastern Parkway with the young couples walking amongst raining leaves, and 770 where it's inhabitants make themselves at home, I want to paint a line up of "Mushkies" sitting on a bench, listening to their ipods or texting their friends. And the laundromat that brings ghetto folk together. Unless they're fighting over detergent...
I want to paint a shidduch date where the boy is so eager and the girl is trying to smile. A mother walking her son as he looks the other way, directly at the viewer.

Aspirations...but of what use if not made into reality? 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration. I'm scared I'll have to transfer for the sake of a degree. Classes can be credited, thank G-d. But I'll never have studio time like I do now.

So back to the point of this post, which is of course the doings of my day because it really was quite a day. Not so much what happened but the mentality behind it. So my art mentor is a different one from last year, her name is Vivienne Silvera and we both have/had the same sculptor, Anothony Antonious for a teacher. This mentor of mine has been trying to "get me out of the studio and see contemporary art." Or at least that's what she told the crowd of Wasp women. See, she invited me last night to join her for the "art-walk" she leads on Tuesdays and Thursdays and thinking such would be a good idea, I coerced. To think this morning I thought I had dressed up, what where my group peers would be in converse and ratty Tees? As it turns out, the group she leads is not a band of bohemians but a ferocious display of fine breeding of the Upper crust New York social order. These ladies had bling, and perms, and Prada bags worth more than my tuition. They stared me up and down as my mentor introduced me, telling them I was "a talented artist and advicee of hers..."

To say I was unprepared doesn't quite describe it, especially being that I got put in charge of collecting the tour fee of a mere $40 and writing down their names, made even more awkward with my shaking hand tick. What lives these women lead with Hermes scarves and newly made noses, chin tucks, and Italian shoes? And the bling that hung from wrinkled necks and spindly wrists, there's my tuition and yours. Their days are spent lunching out, working for various committees and learning about "culture." Culture created by folks who like Van Gogh chop off their ear and kill themselves. Does it give them meaning? Do these clothes satiate the desire for existence? Objects to reassert oneself? (Now, now, let's not get too intense here.) Could be they just like shopping as a hobby. And I must admit to my own love for glamour as its aesthetics of color and design appeal to my sensibilities.

So the tour begins and I wonder along with these gezhe goyim, shifting my worn backpack and treading amongst heels in old loafers. They talk amongst themselves and for the most part politely ignore me, which is fine seeing as how I prefer art. I did discuss sculpture with one woman however in that friendly noncommittal way.
Eventually the tour ended, and I meandered off to school, the phrase "these are not your people" drifting through every so often. After a few hours of freshly inspired painting the subways take me home.

Home, home, home is where the heart is. I've remade home so many times I doubt it's validity. Emotional sentiment. It's people who must make the strong foundation within themselves. Instead of heading to the basement I found myself turning around to Kingston and entering 770. Rochel, the crazy lady who used to sing with me in Machon Chana no longer seems to recognize me. In either case I davened mincha, and feeling very Jewish again went home.

The contrast of these two worlds grapple me. I spent the morning looking at David Hockney paintings with women who afford the clothes in Vogue, the afternoon in the comfortable confidence of my brush, and the evening reading Lessons in Tanya and discussing social ongoings amongst friends.

And that's about it. Worlds of their own separated by one's mind and a 50 minute subway ride.

Project X

2009-10-26T18:58:00.000-07:00

I spend each and everyday focusing my efforts on creating various things...

And sure there are the quirks of such an environment...

Ahem...

but sometimes...sometimes these sweet little creations of mine...

create a polar effect, and my hands begin to ache...

to really just blow things up.

However, I do have some humanity and therefore console myself to a rampage of annihilation on much smaller scale. I present a novel concept that many an artist, or hard worker of any sort, will surely want to partake in. I introduce my most recent project appropriately titled "Productive Destruction."

Within this charming little bottle is an array of things destroyed including;
beer bottles, lchaim plate shards, cut up shoe sole, burnt spoon, burnt dried flowers, cut up tea bag, broken pens, dismantled mascara, and some candle wax with nail polish for a touch of color. It may seem bizarre, but my desire has since waned and more important works like my sculpture are again safe from my irritated hands.
Hope that wasn't too disturbing, I only get this way after long periods of time inhaling clay dust and paint.

Well Imagine That

2009-10-23T13:49:00.000-07:00

So I made a shidduch. Quite casually, some months ago I mentioned a name for a friend.
Apparently she looked into it, and now they're engaged! Mazel tov!
And good shabbas.

(Favorite scene from my childhood, it always reminded me of women being sold for goats and camels....)

Puff the Magic Carpet

2009-10-19T19:50:00.000-07:00

Our carpet absorbs absolutely everything liquid. Sure the microwaves have little bugs crawling inside the digital clock, and yes our vacuum deposits more than it picks up, but our rug is magical. Not only is dirt unnoticeable amidst the bedlam of blue threads, but we needn't bother with sinks, let alone drains. Our old contact solution is simply tossed aside, right along with hair product, old water, and even nail polish, not to mention polish remover. Sure the cockroaches have made their nests, and of course the floor is lumpy, but our incredible carpet allows us to be lazy, a blessed thing held in the highest regard. The cacophony of upstairs neighbors our lost amid our delightful joys, for our rug is a unique one, and one to be treasured forever.

Pink Flamingos

2009-10-15T20:29:00.000-07:00

Right, let's do this quick-like yes? I actually have been writing posts, I simply skimped out on publishing. My apologies if the writing is a bit low par.
Today was a long, productive, wearing-down-of-oneself-but-in-a-good-way kind of day. Hate the excessive hyphens? Me too. But lets move on.
I am writing a post of my day. I wonder if that makes this whole blog rather narcissistic? What else would I write? Important stuff? But then I risk sounding pretentious. Which is really the same thing so let's not dwell.
Sculpture is three hours long. Then there is an hour lunch break and then three more hours of painting. I have found a way to drink great quantities of coffee without having to blow my money on Starbucks. I bought a small collection of mini soy milk cartons and now may purchase thousands of cheap plain black coffees from the local deli. The Splenda is free. That's $1.50 cheaper per coffee, sound good no?
It just occurred to me that I could simply bring my thermos and a baggie of instant coffee...
Either case I spent lunch in a museum tour.
An old classmate of mine, Eleanor aka Winky opened a studio with some fellow monitors (a monitor is the person who sets the pose and times the breaks, etc.) Today they presented a show with their own works and that of our teachers, Mary Beth Mckenzie, Sharon Sprung, Costa Vavagiakis, along with a few others.
Just getting there was an adventure. Towards the end of my painting class I asked Judy how I might get to the studio by subway. She turned to our teacher, Mary Beth and asked if some fellow names Thomas, who was driving to the show, would have room in his black Ford. She jokingly replied that if not, I could sit on Christian's lap. Did I forget to mention I wear bullet proof tights? Right. So schools ends and we wait around, looking out for this black Ford. As it turns out, there are many. At one point we all gathered around one car and attempted to squint through its tinted windows. To our dismay the driver rolled down his window, lo and behold, it wasn't Thomas and we looked like a bunch of weirdos who enjoy peeping into people cars. Finally Thomas comes, and we all introduce ourselves. As it turns out he was oblivious to his newfound carpool duty to anyone but our teacher, but welcomed us warmly nonetheless seeing as how its pouring elements outside and I'm using my sweater as an umbrella.
They studio was packed, 770 during Tishrei style except with fashionable people drinking champagne and discussing color. The work was absolutely phenomenal. As the crowds grew denser however, I opted to take my leave and asked the kindly man handling coats by the door where the nearest subway station was. This man clutched my arm, literally gripped it and was about to tell me directions except some fellow needed to get by, so the old coat/doorman, still clutching my arm, welcomes the dude with much more time than really necessary and only then earnestly tells me where to go. Only after confirming I knew the way did he loosen his claws. Batty fellow.
"I'm a religious Jew and thus generally avoid contact with men outside direct family, could you please loosen the talons? My arm is going numb." Of course I only thought this.
So from the then present location of Harlem 123rd street, I walked to the subway, a long and arduous journey including trudging through treacherous torrents of rain and fighting against great gales of wind. Did I mention my lack of an umbrella? But I did get home, and I did pick up groceries along the way including a new soup I'm obsessed with. Mushroom Barley, it's cheap and microwavable, not to mention warm when heated (amazing, eh?) Unfortunately when the bowl is hot, one's hands tend to loosen their grip thus resulting in mushroom barley floor paste, but that was only half the concoction so twas alright.
Soon thereafter was a trip to past time blog-commenter Kesem/Farbrengan's house for, that's right, a Farbrengan. Food was delicious, as was company (including Le7 [welcome to New York!])and we took turns trying on Kesem's "Loquaisha" wigs bought on Utica. Fine, I tried them on. They're actually by the brand Vanessa but that's a minor detail. Kesem gave over a little sumthin sumthin from the parsha and then loaded us with goods including toilet paper, pizza crusts, cereal, tooth paste, and sardines (when I wasn't looking,) all of it free apparently from her husband's Chabad house.
So that was all rather pleasant. And here we are, me, myself, and I, and I wonder, or we wonder...um, one wonders what a strange mix of a day. Obviously I've noticed the sharp contrast of art school and life in Crown Heights, the chaggim vs. shows, classes vs. shabbas, the only transition being a 45 minute subway ride. One friend is on shlichus whereas another is covered in tattoos and gay. It's really quite twisted...I'll probably post about this some other time.

Meanwhile, here are some paintings by aforementioned teachers:
By Mary Beth McKenzie

By Sharon Sprung

and By Costa Vavagiakis

He actually started wiping off one of the paintings on display with his spit. It's funny to see a man carefully wiping smudges off with his own saliva, especially after slaving away on said piece of work for a year's length.

Last but certainly not least, a big Mazel Tov to Auntie Mims aka Roommate who dropped the K-bomb* and is now engaged! Binyan Adei yad or however it's transliterated, I'm rather happy.
*K-Bomb: When a young woman announces her new status as a Kalla.

Sunday Night Running Commentary Without Enough Editing

2009-10-04T17:31:00.000-07:00

Breathe easy, I've showered. Two day yom tov plus fever/cold=bad combination bc. nose gets dry and lips start crackin' and tissue boxes are running low. But NOW, now I can put on chap stick and lotion-up (not put lotion up) the little noggin as much as I very well like. (Though it would be sort of funny if I said "put lotion up the little noggin. Like how unpleasant!) I do still sound like a man though, which is sort of awkward.
Yom Tov was nice, thank you for asking, how was yours?
It seems Sudafed makes me quite chipper, I don't know why.
It is a mite interesting how very easy it is to sound delirious, like a crazy person, drifting in and out of reality. All one must do is say every bloody thing that pops in their mind. "Stream of Consciousness" they call it. They (I always wonder who "they" are) in this circumstance are my peers. We sit outside during a break and discuss ways to up our creativity levels....because technical details require much imagination. Who woulda thought. So these creativity-upping peers of mine suggest three pages worth every morning of complete ramble. Rambling is easy enough, love, I've got to daven.

So for today's meal I went with my roommate aka Auntie Mims to a new family that she knew. Their name is to remain confidential. I had actually planned for 2 meals to be out, and the other 2 with my moshpia who is an absolutely amazing cook. No really, everyone says that, but this lady makes your heart sing. Like Alicia Keys no less. (I don't know any songs by Alica Keys. But I know several by Blink-182, my childhood obsession, a direct result of wanting to be a brothers best friend.) Anyway....
I ended up only going out for this one meal, lo and behold, roomie and I are the only females, let alone Americans outside host parents with no children but one 14 year old boarder. Did that sentence even make sense? I seriously doubt it. But I never did have that grammar class so never mind. (Neither Geography, Physics, Chemistry, or Government. Ah, but I did have Art History, Literature, 50's History, Marine Biology, blah blah blah.) Right, so we're at this table full of Israeli men and they're telling mikveh stories and there's that one Venezuelan bochur who keeps fidgeting and proclaiming certain halacha commentaries because he's just discovered G-d. At one point a bochur explained that he spoke English very slow...like Forest Gump. That was funny. So we benched, left, and ran back to aforementioned moshpia's house just in time for heart-singing plates of fudgy warm cake with mango slices and homemade ice cream that tastes normal.
So th-tha-that's all folks. (Drum beat.) Time to watch the dancing.