Thanks to In Mol Aran for turning me on to this link. It seems I might be a man after all. Check it out.
http://genderanalyzer.com/?url=www.guitargirlsdigitaldiary.blogspot.com
Monday, December 22, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
On seasonal affect disorder; X-mas v. Xanuka;
and thoughts on mark again...again
I was at the Teaneck Scrabble club last week when one of our longtime members, Helga, confessed that this is her most behated time of year. It's not just Christmas, she said, but the entire season, "from Halloween to New Year's." It was cathartic to hear this from someone who is not Jewish. If I could have played PATINAE at that moment, I would have done so: It was a moment which, for me, wrapped up the entire Christmas thing with a pretty, tinselly bow.
Social workers who deal with holiday-conflicted Jews also have a package wrapped with a bow that they call the "Christmas Dilemma." It makes it easier for them to treat, suffer or tolerate their vitamin D-deprived semitic patients during this joyous season of merrymaking and goodwill toward men. I was married to an Irish Catholic who converted to Judaism, and I can attest firsthand that at no time was there any conflict in our lives that had to do with religious practices and holidays. His mother sent us the best Hanuka cards in the world. She had a real instinct for what worked.
I confess that I don't really recall Mum sending me anything much during Hanuka. There was a tacit understanding that money was available in small portions for presents for the children. Or perhaps Mum and Dad spent a holiday with us from time to time. Not a great reciprocator, I was always successful beyond my wildest dreams in assuring that I sent out greeting cards late, or that the plants or gifts I gave were vastly underwhelming, or sent some sort of mixed message to the recipient.
I'm not here to kvetch. I would, however, like to state that perhaps due to my upbringing I have zero understanding of gift-giving or gift-appreciating. I can send out a successful mass mailing fund raising letter, but I don't really know how to send a personal card to special someone/s who might really need to hear something intimate and tender from me. Classic example: I have not really considered presents for my kids this year, nor have I sent them any sort of touchy-feely cards or greetings. I've been pretty clammed up, in fact. Not gonna lie; not proud about it; just gonna shout about it.
Notwithstanding my inability to be gracious and classy in the gift giving department, the Xmas/Xanuka dilemma has never been my bailiwick. Christmas was part of our life when I was a child. Every year Mum would dust off the plastic holly and ornaments, and we would hang all of it around her ladies' wear store in the West End.
There was the annual Christmas party at the store during which Mum's right-hand employee, Ciel Mackenzie, brought in her fruitcake. At this point, if you are a conflicted Jew or a Christmas-celebrating Christian, you know that:
FRUITCAKE = MATZA
Ciel's fruitcake was different. It emitted an intriguing, chest-melting fume. Hers was pickled in brandy and sopping wet to the touch. A little whipped cream on top and coupled with a spiked eggnog, and the youngest amongst us was flying high. No wonder we had so many people stopping by the store, including the cops, security, Mum's competitors, too. And Mum always brought in a vast quantity of corned beef, pastrami, rye bread, pickles from Schmerl's Delicatessen, and a bottle of Crown Royal. Nothing was left but crumbs, year in, year out.
Despite this very sweet memory, December sucks for me. I thought I was over it, at long last. It's been a great month so far, filled with good things. I aced my semester and maintained my 4.0 grade point average. I met lots of new and interesting people at school who have been stimulating my mind and spurring my creativity. I wrote. I baked. I read. I listened. I made stuff. I guess it's still not enough. I cannot get over certain dates, long behind me, dates that visit upon me like unwelcome guests, especially when I can't see the sun for the threatening skies, and when the descending claustrophobia brings time to its knees in my brain:
I want to dedicate this column to Mark because not a day goes by when I do not think about him and remember him as though he were still here. I still dream about him. In those dreams, he is very much alive, clear eyes lovingly gazing into my own, much like they did back then. I hear all the words from so many others about how he was, but I only remember how he was to me. Special cosmic connection. Then suddenly you are left alone to carry on, and what a void that leaves. Changes you. Maybe that's what I hear in "Love Hurts" as sung by Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris.
I keep saying I want to medicate myself if only to speed up the clock and give me a little leg up. Then, like a miracle, January 1 rolls around every year and this white noise in my head just stops cold. For your reading pleasure, here is a poem that I recited quite often on the circuit, and which I had written only a couple of weeks after he left this earth.
It predates kd lang, so you could say yes, I did write it in the e.e. cummings style. It was intentional, not having anything to do with affect. I was so alone at that moment, so completely down. For me, every letter of the alphabet was also flying low to the ground. There could be no superstar letters. There could be no elevation. Here it is. Happy holidays.
and thoughts on mark again...again
I was at the Teaneck Scrabble club last week when one of our longtime members, Helga, confessed that this is her most behated time of year. It's not just Christmas, she said, but the entire season, "from Halloween to New Year's." It was cathartic to hear this from someone who is not Jewish. If I could have played PATINAE at that moment, I would have done so: It was a moment which, for me, wrapped up the entire Christmas thing with a pretty, tinselly bow.
Social workers who deal with holiday-conflicted Jews also have a package wrapped with a bow that they call the "Christmas Dilemma." It makes it easier for them to treat, suffer or tolerate their vitamin D-deprived semitic patients during this joyous season of merrymaking and goodwill toward men. I was married to an Irish Catholic who converted to Judaism, and I can attest firsthand that at no time was there any conflict in our lives that had to do with religious practices and holidays. His mother sent us the best Hanuka cards in the world. She had a real instinct for what worked.
I confess that I don't really recall Mum sending me anything much during Hanuka. There was a tacit understanding that money was available in small portions for presents for the children. Or perhaps Mum and Dad spent a holiday with us from time to time. Not a great reciprocator, I was always successful beyond my wildest dreams in assuring that I sent out greeting cards late, or that the plants or gifts I gave were vastly underwhelming, or sent some sort of mixed message to the recipient.
I'm not here to kvetch. I would, however, like to state that perhaps due to my upbringing I have zero understanding of gift-giving or gift-appreciating. I can send out a successful mass mailing fund raising letter, but I don't really know how to send a personal card to special someone/s who might really need to hear something intimate and tender from me. Classic example: I have not really considered presents for my kids this year, nor have I sent them any sort of touchy-feely cards or greetings. I've been pretty clammed up, in fact. Not gonna lie; not proud about it; just gonna shout about it.
Notwithstanding my inability to be gracious and classy in the gift giving department, the Xmas/Xanuka dilemma has never been my bailiwick. Christmas was part of our life when I was a child. Every year Mum would dust off the plastic holly and ornaments, and we would hang all of it around her ladies' wear store in the West End.
There was the annual Christmas party at the store during which Mum's right-hand employee, Ciel Mackenzie, brought in her fruitcake. At this point, if you are a conflicted Jew or a Christmas-celebrating Christian, you know that:
FRUITCAKE = MATZA
- No one eats it
- It never goes stale
- It's the Picture of Dorian Gray: Somewhere hidden away is a fruitcake, sagging and wrinkly.
- You should carbon-14 date it before it goes anywhere near your mouth
Ciel's fruitcake was different. It emitted an intriguing, chest-melting fume. Hers was pickled in brandy and sopping wet to the touch. A little whipped cream on top and coupled with a spiked eggnog, and the youngest amongst us was flying high. No wonder we had so many people stopping by the store, including the cops, security, Mum's competitors, too. And Mum always brought in a vast quantity of corned beef, pastrami, rye bread, pickles from Schmerl's Delicatessen, and a bottle of Crown Royal. Nothing was left but crumbs, year in, year out.
Despite this very sweet memory, December sucks for me. I thought I was over it, at long last. It's been a great month so far, filled with good things. I aced my semester and maintained my 4.0 grade point average. I met lots of new and interesting people at school who have been stimulating my mind and spurring my creativity. I wrote. I baked. I read. I listened. I made stuff. I guess it's still not enough. I cannot get over certain dates, long behind me, dates that visit upon me like unwelcome guests, especially when I can't see the sun for the threatening skies, and when the descending claustrophobia brings time to its knees in my brain:
- Dec. 5- official date of death of Mark Balshin, 23, biggest love of my life
- Dec. 8 - murder of Israel Ehrlich, Holocaust survivor, 50s, close family friend, by a 15-year-old boy and his 14-year-old girlfriend
- Dec. 9 - accidental death of Rachel Tenenbaum, 12, school and camp buddy, who stepped out in front of a truck after school
- Dec. 22 - Mark's birthday
I want to dedicate this column to Mark because not a day goes by when I do not think about him and remember him as though he were still here. I still dream about him. In those dreams, he is very much alive, clear eyes lovingly gazing into my own, much like they did back then. I hear all the words from so many others about how he was, but I only remember how he was to me. Special cosmic connection. Then suddenly you are left alone to carry on, and what a void that leaves. Changes you. Maybe that's what I hear in "Love Hurts" as sung by Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris.
I keep saying I want to medicate myself if only to speed up the clock and give me a little leg up. Then, like a miracle, January 1 rolls around every year and this white noise in my head just stops cold. For your reading pleasure, here is a poem that I recited quite often on the circuit, and which I had written only a couple of weeks after he left this earth.
It predates kd lang, so you could say yes, I did write it in the e.e. cummings style. It was intentional, not having anything to do with affect. I was so alone at that moment, so completely down. For me, every letter of the alphabet was also flying low to the ground. There could be no superstar letters. There could be no elevation. Here it is. Happy holidays.
thoughts on mark again
turns to ash
and you can’t answer
to your given name
and nobody’s on the phone
when you can’t comfort or be
comforted
when you cease
to recognize love
when you don’t feel needed
and nobody wants you
when your ears are deaf
and you stop trying
when the hope in your heart
turns to rust
when you won’t be home
anymore
when the sun leaves
your eyes
and you turn off the world
when the fridge is empty
and the oven won’t work
and nobody emptied the ashtray
when a thousand eyes
are weeping
and one candle is burning
when a sympathetic word
can’t stop the pain
when an image visits
in the night
with starry eyes
and kisses the memories
when the truth beats down
in the morning
and there’s frost on
the newly turned earth
when your song is on the radio
and nobody will tell you
when your magazines
beg to be read
when your clothes ache
to be worn
when you don’t care
and your love is no more
and you leave a hole
when people were afraid
when your signals crossed
and you made a mistake
that you can’t take back
now your pens don’t write
and your secrets are
no longer sacred
and the only witness
is your pillow
and the blankets
refuse to give a statement
and the air is thick
with confidential information
and the curtains
are acting dumb
and the television
didn’t hear a thing
when questions are answered
and answers are questioned
when you’re alone and
you don’t understand
when everybody’s talking
but nobody’s saying anything
when people you didn’t know
are apologizing
when everyone asks why
and you’re not one to say
and you can be oblivious
and you dare to
be silent
when you stop creating
and start destroying
when you need help
but won’t reach out
and you’re depressed
when you can’t show love
and you can’t take it
when you can’t remember
the last time you had fun
when laughter doesn’t
come so easy
and contentment is impossible
when humanity is
a mere abstract thought
and living doesn’t matter
when ceasing is
a good exit
and dying and escape
are the same damn thing
and you would actually do it
and not worry about
others’ feelings
when your mother can offer
no excuse
and you will never apologize
when all the tears and
hurt and anger and burning
and money and screams
won’t bring you back
when you will never ever
call me again and say
“i’m back”
to wake me from this nightmare
when all the poems
throughout human history
offer no condolence,
what will i do
what will i do
WHAT WILL I DO?
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