Musings Merchant

I am generally a physical person, with strangers and friends alike. But for one person. Oddly enough, I consider them among my closest of friends, though you could never tell by watching our interactions.

I don’t understand why. I hug everyone. I nudge, I pat shoulders, I’ll grab one’s hand to emphasize a point. But not this friend.

You might think that - this friend being female - the matter is one of awkward attraction. It isn’t. She has been in a healthy, committed relationship for most of the years that I’ve known her. The issue at hand, though I am ashamed to admit, may come down to howwe know each other.

We met through a mutual acquaintance. A mutual acquaintance that happened to be my girlfriend of three years. Before the ex began to drift away, to sway under the influence of her idolized roommate, this was her best friend, her close companion in the trying times after she quit her destructive cocaine habit - and when I was two-thousand miles away in school.

This friend, in one way or another, played a part in our breakup. And now, four years later, she stands in the small circle that comprises my close confidants. But still, each time as we edge the door to her apartment we get lost in a sad, millisecond long dance of “how to say goodbye”.

Yesterday she patted me on the shoulder. The time before I simply hurried away. If I can give hugs to strangers and frenemies, why does the prospect of physical touch with such a close friend scare me so? Is it the memory, is it her connection to the once painful memories? I wish I knew.

Surrounded by the well-to-do and falling into the Israeli ex-pat community, it seems only natural - if we go by statistics - that I have no personal cause to mourn on Memorial Day. The majority of the people I know have served in an army, but not America’s. But for all the words spoken in outrage at the denigration of the day’s meaning, the ones left unspoken are the most critical: less than 1% of Americans serve.

We have fewer men doing more work. A small concentration of families feel the effects of repeated tours of duty, while the rest of us live our lives, oblivious to their pains. We rally around the flag for a holiday or two, but being a “community organizer” is a disgraceful act in half of this country.

kohenari:

Since it’s Shavuot, which commemorates the relevation at Sinai, I thought I’d post these interesting thoughts on the importance of moral action that stands at the heart of Judaism:

Rabbi Simlai, a 3rd century Amora, taught that David reduced the 613 mitzvot to 11, Isaiah to six, Micah to three (do justly, love mercy and walk humbly before Your God [6:8]), Isaiah again to two (keep justice and do righteousness [56:1]) and finally Amos to one, “Seek Me and live” (5:4) (Makkot 23b-24a). Simlai was not saying that we did not need to observe the 613 mitzvot, something that Pauline Christianity had asserted, but rather that all the mitzvot were to be seen as an attempt to bring justice and righteousness into the world. They are our way of truly seeking God. The 613 mitzvot are details of a larger philosophy, a greater belief, intended to improve the character of each person.

That which distinguishes Judaism as a religious way of life is the emphasis on deeds rather than on abstract belief. This does not denigrate the importance of belief, indeed a belief in God as One and as concerned with morality is the basis of Judaism, but these beliefs must be translated into specific deeds. Moreover, actions are the way in which character is molded.

HT: Rabbi Mordechai Levin.

The Facebook feed is where my optimism goes to die. A place where I am constantly reminded that my cohorts flaunt their disposable income in a deplorable manner. That they live for the present, and commemorate the trivial past. They treat their future-selves much like they treat strangers, with absolutely no regard.

But I don’t blame them. In the land of crooked timber, the upright are not idolized. They have no role models to inspire them. And our world does not reward the good and the kind. The cultural forecast has been bleak since the Greeks bemoaned its inevitable death. But it took mass consumption for the nightmare to cross into reality.

I’ve harbored a number of wishes since childhood. One was instilled by my father. From an early age, he told me that his one wish was to provide his children a better life than he had lived. Being an industrious worker, my father provided us, materially, beyond his own expectations.

Now I am the same age that my father was when my sister was born. Having grown up in Beverly Hills, I know that providing my children with more than I had would be harmful to their development. Which leaves me with a limited selection of ways to provide them with more than I had.

I may try to be better father, but achieving that aim is doubtful. I may want to give them a saner mother, but my record with relationships suggests I will not be successful in that pursuit (and, in case you’re wondering, this is one of the few aspects of Freudian psychology that I believe few of us manage to escape). So, since the age of eighteen, I had hoped to give them a nation and a community the likes of which I am still searching.

Peter Beinart and his ilk can pretend all they want that they are in the minority of Jewish opinion. But Beinart goes to a synagogue where I am sure he finds affirmation of his beliefs. Where am I to go? I believe there should be no partition between men and women during prayers. I also believe prayers can take place where and when you want to say them. In fact, I view meditation as my favorite sort of prayer. Where is my Jewish community?

One hears about Karl Marx’s alleged anti-Semitism, but it all fades away with this gem, this beautiful insight into all human minds, which particularly comes to define the “Jewish question” as it is often referred to in 19th century texts. This is the dangerous dance of internal identities which occupies the thoughts of the obsessed few who grapple with the future of atradition.

Buddhism may not be a picnic, but it seems so natural to swallow and digest this beautiful nugget of Buddha’s wisdom: “I show you sorrow, and its end.”

The 27 Foreign Ministers of the European Union published a condemnation of Israeli policies in the West Bank, claiming that they endanger the two-state solution.

Apparently they stopped teaching literature in Europe, because the irony of that statement flew over their heads. The financial policies of the EU’s member states are threatening the very existence of the European Union. The wealthier countries are imposing harsh financial sentences on eastern and southern states, which are effectively strangling the latter’s recovery from a crisis caused by said patrons.

Instead of fostering a transnational community - as was the original purpose of the Union - the strongman of Europe is placing national self-interest over international cooperation and camaraderie.

But at least all 27 Foreign Ministers can agree on one sentiment: Israel is horrible.

My friends balk at my celibacy. At the reasons for it, and its length. But I spent the night talking to a pair of blue orbs, and never once cared to undress her with my eyes. She had to remind me to take her number, though I’m still surprised that she did. With practice and patience I peeled away her nerves and neuroses. Where my friends - male and female - saw a ‘blonde bitch’, I peered a few layers deeper to discover an small-town girl hollowed out by the jaded denizens of the big city, reacting with a natural defensiveness.

Less than an hour in to our conversation, she jokingly thanked me for the therapy session. By the end of the night, she openly admitted to being a bitch, but clung to the attitude like her life depended on sarcastic sass. If she hadn’t added her number to my phone, the experience would not have been tarnished. Looking into those pale blue eyes, and letting the person behind them unburden their soul was more than I expected for a Saturday night.

But it does lead me to wonder about my love for blue-eyed females.

In a two-party system, the political center holds sway and determines the country’s future. As an immigrant from a messy parliamentary system, I was enamored by the rich history of a vibrant democracy taught by thoroughly patriotic textbooks. But fourteen years on – and eligible for citizenship – I find myself searching for a reason to commit. With no contentious proposition on the next California ballot, there will be no inner conflict with my political and personal values, as this state holds blue and true for this election.

I write because the alternative is unbearable.

I write because a big boulder of ambiguity covers my emotions, and this is how I make sense of it all.

I write because time is fleeting, and so is our mindset.

I write because I’m no different than you, and reading may be your release.

I write because I’m compelled to spill my burdens onto blank spaces.

I write because I want to sculpt my feelings, and only the keyboard can shape them.