Musings Merchant

As I sit down to write this, I am accompanied by the sound of loud Israeli music, rambunctious conversation, and the ambient noise of people partying. The Israelis on the beach singing karaoke since sundown have not heard what happened in Boston, they were well liquored up before the marathon even started in celebration of Israel’s 65th Independence Day.

I had spent the day setting up tables, taping Israeli flags to the ceiling of a friend’s house, and helping my mother prepare a number of dishes for a potluck party. I was just getting to my second serving of homemade zaatar bread, meat-stuffed burrekas, and mediterranean vegetable salad when a friend messaged me with the news.

I saw the gruesome pictures, despite my general aversion to such reporting, but took a moment to digest the news of what appears to be a terrorist attack on US soil. I ran inside to flip on the TV, but the Israeli news channels were still playing the feed of the national ceremony in Jerusalem. The Prime Minister, the President, and assorted dignitaries were all there. But they didn’t know either.

I walked back outside to the festivities and quickly realized I was in no shape for jovial conversation. I may not be an American yet, not officially. But I am in spirit. I may engage in what amounts to PR for the State of Israel, not officially. But I am as Americans as I am Israeli. I realize now - more than ever - that I am a product of both cultures, an admirer of both storied histories, and a patriot of both countries.

Today I am an American, regardless of my immigration status. I do not need a passport to stand in solidarity with the people of Boston, the people of Massachusetts, and the people from all across the United States of America who came to participate in the marathon. I walked away from the parties to watch the news and follow breaking reports - and rumors - on Twitter.

Today, on my first Independence Day in Israel since 2010, I cannot celebrate the joyous occasion of the 65th anniversary of a two thousand year old dream because my other people are hurting.

Today I become a hyphen, an Israeli-American. The tragic events of today consecrate my allegiance more than any stamp from immigration services or oath ceremony ever could.

#prayforboston

I try to contain the wave of emotions that is washing over me with the force of a Caribbean storm. I wash the dishes, sweep the floor, and fold my laundry to no avail. The tears keep on coming, welling up in a moment that is one part happy, two parts not. Then a lonely tear carves its way down my cheek, leaving a trail of salty secretions.

I remember a time when I used to like the taste of tears. But these tears are not catharctic, they are confused. There are so many emotions swilling in my grey matter pot, bubbling still from the passion yet to subside. I used to like the taste of tears because I once enjoyed basking in this emotion or that.These are not those tears.

These tears express the full range of emotions, happy and not. These tears mix joy and sorrow, hope and despair. They call forth an exquisite moment of connection with another soul, and the unbearable, inevitable separation that marked both an end and a beginning of the relationship.

These tears are not remorseful, nor do they carry the slightest tinge of regret. These tears are bittersweet, like dark sea-salt-coated nibs of dark chocholate. The contrast in flavor is a reminder that nothing is black and white, that in moderation opposite sensations are more than simply the sum of their parts.

Elementary, episode 4

Thirty months and then it’s done

Though the lesson, far from gone

Thirty months of numbing cold

Lifted by a move so bold

It was not to be predicted

No matter how the tale was told

-

Thirty months and then it’s done

Reignite the spark of fun

The passion yearning for release

She brought me back from the abyss

I am pulled apart at the seams by my overwhelming interests. How does one choose?

How can I submit my Self to a thorough psychological examination as a memorist when I am consumed at odd hours with pushing the plodding behemoth that we call the Arab-Israeli peace process? They are not one and the same.

And if I were to pursue the path of shameless chronographer of our hedonist times and my Quixotic quest to change my fellow man, would my legislative interest in consumer advocacy and income equality be tainted by association? Only a fool tries to swim upstream while carrying a heavy load.

I know every day I diddle and avoid the choice is another day lost in pursuit of achieving one of these goals, fulfilling one of my passions. And yet I fail to act.

There’s no day like today to try new things. Skype, SnapChat, or sext, there is no harm and much joy to be had in casual flirtation. Well, I’m not sure what casual is.

For several years flirtation was an innocent indulgence. Not even. A social norm, which I eventually learned to like. But it was literal diddling, there was little to no chance of actual intercourse. Yes, I’m weird. No, I don’t mind it… anymore.

But now, when the memory of sensual contact is nearly gone, now I stumble. Now I feel like I am losing part of the physical discipline as my facade of emotional fortitude chips and threatens to crumble… but not because I’m trying to put myself out there. Because now when the memory is fading, now I miss it more numbly than ever.

I play strong. I am strong. I will be strong. But I will nevertheless err. I must keep that in mind, then accept it.

Now is the time to take a serious foray into the (odd) modern breeding ground. If not now, then probably never.

Every time I watch a Les Mis performance - live, recorded, or in film - there are many lines that reverberate through my body for the days to come.

But one line - above all - resonates with my personal experience: “To love another person is to see the face of God.”

There are as many interpretations of that line as there are aspiring writers in the world. But for me the line rings true because it is the reason I went from an arrogant atheist to an ambivalent agnostic.

I found God in love. I found God - ever briefly - in the having and losing of an overwhelming feeling that shatters the walls of our conscious being. Knowing what I felt then, I could no longer deny the possibility of a higher power.

One could pretend that science will one day explain Love, that the feeling is nothing more than the interaction of hormones, pheromones, and biological imperatives. Yet anyone who has ever sunk deep into the throes of Love senses there is more afoot.

I sat down for some Tumblr Therapy, but then it all worked out quickly and clearly in my head.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t been back here as much. My regiment has faltered, both mentally and physically. Yet I feel more alive than I have in a while.

I have more anger, but its fire keeps me warm and it feels good. I have been less patient, but the new-found pressures of time motivate me to more proactively practice my craft.

I am not as good, but in some ways I am better than ever.

If Dov Hikind was the religious man that his kippah lets him pretend to be, he would not have dressed in blackface for Purim.

If - however - Dov Hikind lost his sensibilities and decided to dress in blackface for Purim, he should at least have the decency to explain the tradition of the holiday in a way which allows him to shrink the controversy.

Let’s give it a try: Purim is a Jewish holiday in which we are commanded to drink until we cannot differentiate between good and evil. The point of this offensive costume was to stoke controversy by dressing up in a manner which was once considered acceptable (what was once right is now wrong) - though the truly committed man would be too inebriated to notice.

Ugh, if assholes weren’t the only ones who need PR agents, I might have had a career in this industry.

He was a boy, and this was no ordinary city. If he was not careful, the people in the mansions up on the hills would chew him up and spit him out like a flaverless piece of gum. But how do you tell the young to stay vigilant? You can warn them, draw their attention to the greed and desire at the core of this city, but they may not listen.

The young are destined to repeat our errors; who are we to dissuade them? If we ignored our own parents’ advice, we cannot expect our children to behave differently.

Worse yet - for this particular young man - he was plopped down in the midst of an environment which bore no resemblance to that in which his parents were raised. Their advice seemed ever less relevant in surroundings where even they never felt in charge.

He was a boy, and this was no ordinary city. 

But neither was he.