Dear Guinea Pigs of My Mind

   Yes, that's what you are. Face it. I test out my ideas on you; see how you react. I find it fun to have place where the rash and irrational don't have their normal consequences. That is to say, that not all of my ideas so I necessarily hold of. Sometimes I just put an idea out there to see your reactions. Therefore, for those of you who know who I am, I'm willing to let you know that these are my ideas, and I'm also willing to bear the consequences. But for those of you who I didn't let know my identity, I wish to keep it that way.

    So I put out this request to you, dear guinea pigs of my mind:

    If you know who I am, please don't tell people who don't (yet) know. If you don't know who I am, ask yourself: Is there really a reason for you to find out?

Chezky
   

Musings (22)

If you're wearing mismatching socks,

The least you could do is wear shoes!

(Based on a true story.)

  

Musings (21)

Defeat is an attitude.

  

Children at Heart

   The child I used to be was free. He was the sort of child for which the world was a perfectly just place. Just black and white - nothing in between. Life was good, at least as long as he listened to the rules. To be sure, things did happen that opposed his sense of justice, but those were wrongdoings. No-one would ever come out to defend those actions.

   They claim they're still free; still children at heart. But I'm hard pressed to believe it. To believe that the child that's in them is the child that used to be there. The child that they now have is too intelligent; too biased, to view the world with a child's eye. The eye to which every loved one is beautiful. The eye that envisions dancing in the rain.

    And when someone does try, try to be a child with children's eyes, the same 'they' will give you a look as if to say: "You don't belong. You've seen it all. You've lost your 'child'."
  

Martian Friends

   Again. Someone I barely know sees me, and he greets me like an old friend. There's good reason, though. We're both away from home. For reasons unexplained, we seem to have a closer friendship when we've flown the coop. Fine, I understand. But there's more. It seems like the farther away we are from home, the closer we will feel toward each other. Big deal, you say. That is, until I ask you: "At this rate, how many friends will you have on the Moon? Mars, anybody?"

 ...

New Poll>>>

Thanks for the Revelation

I never had a normal haircut. It was always 'Wow, who gave it to you?', or 'Nice'. But just a plain simple thing like a buzz - never heard of, even by the boys. What's interesting is that not only do they comment and compliment, but they seem not to realize that they're actually talking to you about something that isn't there. Your hair is gone. I know I sound stupid saying this, but the hair left after the haircut was there before too. So they are really complimenting on the revelation of previously concealed hair. Quite a deep idea, I say.
   

Musings (20)

You can't have a rainbow without yellow even if you hate bananas.

  

15th Cousins?

What do you do, how are you supposed to feel, when you find out that someone you never met until three seconds ago is really your 15th cousin? (Or somewhere around that number, anyway.) For some reason I feel like I should have a connection with such a person, because we can both trace ourselves back to the same Tzadick from the 17th century. On the other hand, though, I'm probably related to more people than I realize if I want to go that far back. So why the big deal?

Also, the farther back you go, the more ancestors you have. Which in turn means that I may have more 'great', 'special' ancestors the farther back I go.

Either way, for those (like me) interested in family, this is a special treat.
  

Musings (19)

Instead of saying Bye to me when I leave, 

say Hi to me on the phone when you call.

   

The Other Side

A place so far away - I am,

Yet not a place at all;

Where all the good things grow - indeed,

My trees are thick and tall.

People will work hard to reach

the land where I do lay,

But when they come here they look at 

Each other in dismay:

"This is not what I thought

Or wished I'd ever see;

The land I worked so hard to reach

Yet lies beyonder me.

Look at how despicable

Is all the greenery,

The land of trees - thick and tall

Is where I want to be."

So off they go now to a land

No better than my own;

But listen friend, there is one thing

I wish they would have known:

"Do gaze at my very trees 

While on the ground you lie,

And even lowliest of leaves

Will always touch the sky."

     

Carrots

 

   The cook in my school, noticing that I was eating some carrots during breakfast, approached me and said: "Hehe, carrots are healthy. Good for you. After all, when's the last time you saw a rabbit with glasses?"

Meals and Memories

   Take a bunch of people that otherwise didn't lose anything in the same place, and put them all together. What do you get? Last Friday nights' meal. You know, the type that makes me regret the little body language I do know...

    Let's just take a look. The couple that sits nearest to me, hmm. Well, she's trying to tell him in a nice way -and without anybody noticing- that he has something in his hair. Too bad; I caught that. Later on they filled in for each other when the host asked them to say a story. It was cute.

    The next couple is distant family of the host, and they're what seems to be a little uncomfortable (like me, for that matter). Shifting hands from on the lap to on the table to playing with the napkin rings back to on the table. A piece of Challah every five minutes also helps alleviate tension, at least for the eater.

    Then there's me. I don't know where I fit into this picture. I help with the singing. I clean up a little. I observe. And I absorb what I see. When I walk back to my place I try to figure out if this was a memory worth creating. Retrospectively I guess it's always worth it.
   

Dying Flowers

  
   I felt almost like hitting him. "Insolent child! How dare you!"

.   .   .

  
   There I was, sitting on a bench in the park, enjoying the fragrance of blossoming flowers from the nearby bushes. Along he came. Armed with a pair of scissors, he clambered onto the bench and reached for the highest flower. Snip! It was cut. Dead to the world. Never to live again.

   Well, I'm a timid person. I don't react openly when things aren't my way. But my mind was racing; tearing this kid apart: Why? Where do such thoughtless actions come from? Where is the father of this child, who would have certainly prevented such an occurrence? Where is he?

   Lagging he was, but not too far behind. To him I'll give a piece of my mind, I thought to myself. As I approached, the father bent down and took the flower from his son. Hugging him tightly, he said: "Thank you."

   With all my politeness, I'm sure my ire must have seeped through my words: "How could you let your child bring about death to a poor flower? What did it do wrong? Have you no appreciation for beauty?"

   Said he to me: "Look at the bigger picture! Know that flowers were created to bring joy to people like you and me. Can't you see the delight I have in my child's deed? And as for the flower - in time another will grow on this very branch; just as lovely. To bring another smile to one more father."

.   .   .

   We look around us, and all we see is the death of flowers. Some neatly cut, others roughly pulled off their branches. At times even just a normal wind seems enough to sever them from their source of life. We want to scream out; to yell at the father that could let all this happen. The one who seems to let things spin out of control. Can our father not see the pain, the loss?

   Sometimes we're lucky. We are explained the way things really work; the way they're seen from the true perspective. We see the smile on the fathers' face, and we know intuitively that the right thing was done. But what about the rest of the time? Other dying flowers? When will the time come that we will be able to forever see the fathers' smile?

   I hope and pray that the day comes soon. But until then, I'll rely on my faith. After all, Daddy always knows best.

(For the sake of honesty (and for those who don't get it) I must say that this story never happened. It is a product of my thinking.)
 

Novels

Its words they will take me,

To faraway places,

To times long by-gone - 

Other clock faces.

I am still

In my seat,

Where I was 

Half past noon,

And the sun

It was beat -

Now its swapped

For the moon.

Oh, who conjured this work which

I cannot lay down,

"It sure does its job well!"

I remark with a frown.

'Cause hire I did

This book from the store,

Seventeen bucks -

Not a penny more!

    

Striking Skills

   In my yeshiva there are two people who (unfortunately) Daven for the Amud. I'll call them Mr. P. and Mr. H.

   Mr. H. - Will light the candles by himself. After Davening, he extinguishes the candles with one stroke of the hand.

   Mr. P. - Always manages to get someone to light the candles for him. Usually the boys that eat at his house more often end up doing him the favor. When this happens I'm reminded of a child whose mother always spoon-fed him, and still can't eat on his own. Do you really think you're doing him a favor?

    After the Davening is over, Mr. P. goes through what seems to be the agonizing process of extinguishing the candles. See, it takes him five individual waves of the hand to do it. He resembles to me what I think the Queen of England would look like trying to brush away a fly... (as daintily and as unsuccessfully)

    Which one of these people are you and who do you want to be?

Why not...

   I used to think that bloggers are a sub-species of humans who actually don't get convinced by or go for the petty stuff. Little did I know at the time. So here's to all of you. In case you visit this blog and don't want to read and think about what I write, I changed the template. Now you guys will spend (waste) some more time on this site without coming out with anything. Oh, and I also put out a new poll. It's very important.
  

On Plasticware and Pollution

  
   The cook in my school turns to me and says: 'You know, this whole plastic business, it's really bad for the environment. I think we should all be using real silverware. After all, the used plastic is thrown in the garbage and dumped, and is never used again.'

   A sound opinion, I thought to myself. But two minutes later: 'But sometimes it's good to have plastic; after you just finished making a party, and you're dreading the cleanup, using plastic makes it just so much easier.'

   It just left me wondering if she realizes that even after a party the plastic is thrown out and dumped, never to be used again.

   Maybe the accent barrier played a part in me not understanding what she said. She is "Ehhsssaaan" after all. (Asian, for all you who don't get it.)
  

Change

 
   Everything around me seems to be changing. Everyone is running too fast for me. New occurrences are pushing moments I want to treasure to the back of my file cabinet, to be replaced by newer and less savory stuff. Now the older files will be harder to find. If only there would be a way to keep some time-confined moments truly timeless.

   Alas, I know that the path upon which I tread will soon be overtaken. Perhaps by many, perhaps by only one. But overtaken it will be; never again to be the same. I hear them saying: "Why give more to the present than a moments' notice? Let your eye casually pass over it; like vanilla to the chocolate lover. Just skip it. We live in the past and future; in the bliss of the unknown and unseen."

   To myself though, I'm unconvinced. I say to myself: "Take the strongest, the heaviest of those moments and freeze them; those that weigh upon the heart. At the very least freeze-dry them so they'll keep their smell longer. Tomorrows' unknown need not be a reason to forget today's sights, smells, and tears. Bottle them up inside you and only open them when the time is right. Do this and in the driest of deserts you'll always have the smell of the morning after the rain."
     

Soon To Be Gone

   He is soon to be gone. He'll almost vanish into thin air.

   But he's a good guy. I don't want to forget him. He's worth enough in friendship terms that I should want a place for him in my heart. You know, the place where all my good friends are stored, them and the good times we had.

   It doesn't come easy, though. A constant effort is needed to keep him alive in me, untill I see him again. Because for now he may be as good as non-existent. After all, all the good times we shared are not to be repeated. When I see him next it will be but for a moment; a day at most. Not a year. A year in which we lived, grew, shared - all together. So things  -as much as I wish to deny- will indeed be different. Vain thinking it would be to conjure a scenario where all this can be repeated. It just won't happen.

.   .   .

   But does that mean I should forget? Just because there seems to be no point in remembering?

   Let me tell you something: All these memories, times, and the spot in my heart for them, their benefit is only mine, only mine. They are there for me to be able to use them when the going gets rough. In the future I'll need to have what to reminisce about; something to pull my own heart with. And if I don't treasure these moments and store them now, I just won't have them; my loss.

   So he's a good guy. That's who he is. But for me, to remember him is a tool; a way to reach my emotions with my own bare hands. For that - he's in me, and he'll stay in me.
      

Contemplation

  
   A most used expression in Chassidus is 'Hisbonenus' - contemplation. Often we wonder: What does this mean? Can I really do this?

   Yes you can. We all have the mechanism in us to properly contemplate, it's just that we use it for other things. For example, if someone offends you, the natural instinct is to chew it over. Why did he say that? What did he mean? How can I teach him a lesson? Moreover, we speak about it to our friends to get more insight into the matter.

   If spiritual matters are as pertinent to us as the physical, we'd be able to contemplate about it. The problem only lies in the fact that it isn't as important.

   Now we've got homework.
 

Mivtzoim Musings

  
   On mivtzoim I go to Uffizi, a Jewish owned coffee shop. Though not especially a kosher place, it nonetheless attracts many Jews, and needless to say has Jewish workers. Today, upon entering, my partner and I met two Jews of the old school; Yiddish speakers.

   One of them says to me: "What are you doing here? This is not a kosher place!" To which I explained that we are only going in to leave some pamphlets for the two workers. He wasn't satisfied: "People like you should not be seen in a place like this!", he says to me.
  
    Now, since he was knowledgeable enough to ask me such a question, he obviously knows I wouldn't eat in such a place. Rather, he was asking me what I thought about other peoples' impressions of our being there, concerning which he raised a valid point. Can my well-meant actions be (in this case) taken by others in a negative way?
   

Musings

Silence - 

The one language we all speak.

  

Musing

"It's not you I don't trust; 

it's the people you tell that I don't trust."

(Just heard this from someone. Don't know if it's original. 

Either way I feel I could use this once in a while.)

  

Dunno

 
   He is a master shoulder shrugger. He does it all the time. To every question I ask, I know by now that I'll receive the same response: "I don't know".

   Just a second. Before you start chiding me for saying that being truthful is a bad trait, allow me the liberty of explanation. If he'd only tell me this when I asked him a thoughtful question, I'd understand. But when I ask him a question like 'How long will you take to finish your shower', or 'Do you want me to wait five minutes for you', it gets annoying to have someone who is unwilling to take the responsibility to keep his word and therefore shirks into the amazingly wide expanse of uncertainty. In a way I'm jealous; he can do whatever he wants. But is that the way to deal with a question posed to you by someone who wants an answer?

   I'd love to tell him what I think. I want to say to him: "If you give me an answer, you'll have a goal to attain. When you then keep your word, you will have checked another box in your minds' chart. You will have grown."

   But what can I do? If I give him a piece of my mind I'm scared I'll receive the response: "Maybe your right; I don't know".
   

My Dawn

 
   For a second I shudder. I wonder if you'll succeed again. After all, you seem today to be having a hard time. All the odds are against you. The clouds, rain, and sky itself bespeak prevailing darkness.

   Looking around me, the black clouds seem to cover the earth in a definitive fashion. Why, they seem to challenge me to a duel which they are sure they will win. And the rain - it's what makes this darkness hit home. In its drops it seems to carry the clouds' message into my face. Every drop says to me: "Just give up. It'll be dark forever."

   I'm not so easily convinced, though. I've known you for too long. You'd never succumb. But I still question myself: Where are you? Must you always test my trust in you? Do you really want me to fall off the cliff of doubt?

   My morbid thoughts notwithstanding, I look up at the sky above me, and behold - there is change. There is some light skirting the edge of the ominous clouds, making the rains' hue lighter too. I speak aloud, hoping you'll listen in: "I knew you'd make it. You were testing me, and I passed. All I need to do is see a drop of your light and I know that more will follow. Soon the air will carry a different tune. Brighter. More alive."

   And indeed, you succeed to the extent that later on in the day I am foolish enough to think that this was just another dawn; one oft repeated. But little do I know.
    

Musings

You tell me: "I respect that".

But it gets me thinking. 

Do you respect me although what I do is different 

or because in that way I'm the same as you?

        

Thanks, Cuz

 
   By a family Simcha a while back, I wandered outside the hall for some fresh air. Amidst the pseudo-smiling faces of the chatting women and several strollers, was my first cousin, some twenty years my senior. Holding her baby of several months as deftly as only a Shlucha could, she approached me.

   "Are you  ----?", she asked, calling me by my first name. "Yes, that's me", I replied with somewhat of a shy smile. (Let's just say I'm not famous for my small talk abilities...) "Oh", she said as she started what seemed to be a oft-repeated mantra: "I remember you! I flew in to help your mother when you were born..."

   Being that other than that tidbit we haven't much in common, the conversation ended soon afterward. (She must have also gone through the "Wow, you've grown so much since I've seen you last" stuff too, but I don't remember.) However, the casual recital of the sentence gave rise in my mind to several questions, which I shall now transcribe:

   What exactly do I owe you now that I know this? Do you want me to help you out next time?

   Is this a polite form of robbing me of my self-worth?

   Is there any way I can make amends for making you change my diaper?

   Do you think now that anything I'll do is to your credit, or can I take some of it for myself?

   Now, dear reader, please don't misinterpret me to mean I bear a grudge against this cousin of mine. I don't blame her for feeling impelled to reveal to me this rather unimportant fact. But just remember: there can be many implications to a simple statement, including ones you may not want there to be. Thankfully this time those implications exhibited themselves in a rather humorous way...
    

Musings (15)

"A picture is worth a thousand words."

It's easy to take such a picture.

It's much harder to paint a good picture with a thousand words...

      

Rain

What from others it takes,

To me it does give.

A time to to be myself,

My real me can live.

.   .   .

When it comes they shudder,

Hide behind a closing door,

And when it finally abates,

They hope it will - forevermore.

Why they so think I do not know,

These people of civility,

Can they not see the hand of G-d

Making green his tapestry?

Oh, now I can see their mistake,

They have not been doing their part;

Instead of framing what he made,

They're ruining his work of art:

Where he put grass they put cement,

And lots of other things like that,

So of course when it comes back,

They'll hate it - but it's tit for tat.

But you, for one - just go and see,

The way rain is supposed to be:

Clean, clear, pure and bright,

It's sure to bring you much delight,

Why, you may even feel like me,

Untied, and for the time being -

Free.

    

Musings (14)

Bravery seems easy when the consequences are not immediate.

      

Strange Smiles

     
   Two stops after me, a thin man boards the tram. Glancing cautiously around him, he chooses to sit next to me. I shift - uncomfortably. He's not exactly my type of guy, you know. His breath smells of alcohol; he cuddles his hands as if they're cold. "Don't do anything foolish", I say to myself. "Just let him be".

   "Hi", he says to me. I uneasily reply with a hello, hoping he won't start a conversation. Seemingly content with my reply, he proceeds to occupy a little more of the bench space.

   I continue counting the number of stops left. Abruptly he turns to me and asks: "How was your day?", to which I -curtly enough- reply: "Good, thank G-d". Once again he's quiet.

   Who is this guy, I wonder. Bald, with a stylish but well-worn cap on his head, he looks to me like he's seen better days. I just hope he doesn't want anything from me. But he doesn't seem to. I get the impression that he's content just being next to me. Why, I don't know.

   After the next stop, he stands up and prepares to leave. He has kind of a spaced-out look to him, I notice. As though he has what to think about. Or maybe he's tired.

   A minute later the tram pulls up to the stop where he'll leave me. Exited enough at the prospect, I look his way as he departs. As he does, though, he looks my way again. Lifting his hand to resemble a wave, he smiles and says: "See ya later".

   After he was gone, I smiled back.
       

My Zaide

  
   He was a classic. Classic in the sense that he was old-fashioned. The house he lived in (for as long as I can remember) was probably older than him; so seemed to be everything in it.

   After a six hour drive with my siblings, we'd pull up to the large, square house with the slanted roof. As we happily (and me - nervously) climbed the stairs, we could already feel the other-worldliness of Zaides' house. The tall staircase and the carpets lining it soon gave way to an unused Singer sewing machine, a messy dining room, small kitchen, and living room.

   But what made the visits special for me was the sense of history. Visiting Zaide was like seeing life through my mothers eyes; seeing things the way they were when she was little. I can hear my mother chuckling aloud: "That's my old room", "That was my bed". That feeling was everywhere; the air itself was musty and smelled of antiquity. For a child like I was, this was a breeding ground for curiosity and good memories.

   I didn't visit Zaide once, though. Every so often we'd visit again. But as I grew older, my perception of him changed. Zaide for me was no longer a 'classic'; he was more human, more real. He was now someone who lived a life, I realized. He got up early, davened early, and actually did things with his time.

   But this change in my perception had a negative side effect; my Zaide had now become estranged from me. Of course I knew we were still related, but I felt uncomfortable visiting him; almost intrusive. The difference between us was too vast.

   Yet that phase passed too. I'd still feel uneasy talking to my Zaide or asking him to do me a favor, but I had begun to appreciate his age, his wisdom, his humor. On several occasions I was brave enough to "squeeze" Zaide for an anecdote of years gone by. And he was always compliant. Storytelling was always his forte. All I needed to do was prod.

   Thus the last few years passed for me.

   But then he was gone. Just like that. From right beneath me; from right beyond my grasp. I didn't have a say in the matter, neither a chance to say goodbye. His passing started me to thinking: Did I ever love this man? Did I know him? Will I ever be able to stroke my beard one day and recount a story from my Zaide? I don't know. And the thought makes me angry with myself.

   Of course I shouldn't feel so. But with the suddenness of the whole thing I can't help but feel like I did something wrong. Could I have enabled him to live one more day? Maybe if I would have written another letter or called him again he would have smiled one more time?

.   .   .

   Life goes on. But though it does, I can still take with me its lessons. I learned about my Zaide that he was a human. Like me. With faults and all. But that didn't stop him from acting to us as he acted to himself. A good man.

   Retrospectively I realize that his humanity and smile were not the result of being a Zaide; that's who he was. As a boy growing up all the way to seeing us off in the van for our journey home, he was just being himself.

    But curiously, this leaves me with a sweet taste in my mouth. Why, before I know it, I'll be a Zaide too. Will I be able to impart similar memories to my grandchildren?
     
   Becoming a classic starts now.
   

Please Don't Sue Me!

 
   I'm sure you've seen this before: "Warning: Do not leave burning candles unattended."

   Sensible enough, I'd say.

   But yesterday I saw it on a seven day candle. Now that's a whole new level.
       

Whos' Fault?

  
   The story is said about R' Yoshe Ber Soloveitchik that he approached his son on his wedding day and said to him:

  "Do you see all the important guests that have come to celebrate? Don't think they came for you; they came because of me!"

   Said son to father: "If that's the case, why are there not more of them?"

   His father replied: "That's because of you, son."

   At a Farbrengen I recently attended, the Mashpia explained: All the good things that are accomplished by Lubavitch are a result of our Rebbe. As for all the negativity and turning-off that occurs, we can only blame ourselves. We are the humans who make mistakes and thereby have a negative impact on others.

   Either way, I thought it was a point worth mentioning.
        

Musings (13)

Many a flower,

Only at night,

Opens its petals;

Shines its light.

        

Daydreams

I was flying,

Free as can be,

Unconstrained.

No longer did my legs,

Carry my burden,

Groaning.

A taste of the unknown,

For a usually limited

Me.

T'was all good -

Till the crash;

I was no longer jumping -

I had landed.

Reality hurts.

  

Self-Blues

  
   I'm an actor. I wear masks. One for indoors, one for out. One for friends, one for strangers. But I can't fathom that the masks define me. That guy? That's just how I act when I'm confronted with certain situations. But that isn't the real me.

   But there is a problem with this. If all my masks don't define me, I am never my real self. There is a part of me that remains closed, possibly forever. I more and more get the notion that my real self can only be expressed to myself, and only myself.

   Honestly, it sucks. But what am I supposed to do?
        

Openness

 
   Being an open person is a notable trait, I believe. However, if you're an open person you should be open about everything, including the fact that you demand more of yourself. Therefore, in the same breath that you tell someone "I did wrong, and I'm not ashamed to speak about it", you should also be able to say "I hope not to do this again". If living a moral life means aspiring to higher standards, that should be a part of your openness.

   It seems to me that open people can be put into several categories:

   1) Someone who will be totally open about himself, but is not aspiring to become better. Such a person can be viewed as using openness as a way to make it easier for him to do what he wants; he doesn't have to hide it. I'd venture to say that this type of openness is a reflection of today's carefree society, where doing what you want is the norm. This should not be the case in Judaism; our religion tells us there is more to life than our desires.

   2) Someone who will be totally open about himself, but is not using his openness as an excuse; he still expects more of himself. This is an inspirational type of openness; speaking with such a person will leave you with the impression that "He's in the same boat as me", "If he can do it, so can I". Such a person realizes that he must aspire in order to achieve, and exudes this inspiration to others.

   3) This is the not-open person. Although he may be working on himself, he isn't open about it. This leaves others with a sour taste in their mouths, e.g. "He's really the same as me, he's just too proud to admit it", etc. Needless to say, this type of person doesn't inspire others .

   Looking at these three categories it's easy to conclude that the ideal form of openness is the the second one we have discussed. Such a person is living for real, and at the same time is able to speak about his shortcomings to everybody who is ready for serious conversation. This is the form of openness that I believe in the long run will inspire and astonish other not-so-open people.

   So do what's right and good luck.
    

Musings (12)

I may be a baker worthy of being a diamond merchant, 

but what can I do if I love the smell of fresh bread?

        

Avocado Ethics

  
   Put someone in a tight spot, and they'll fight over the most ridiculous things. So they say. But it's certainly different to see it in practice...

.   .   .

   In our school we are served avocados once a week. Real homemade avocado spread, not mixed with mayonnaise or anything, just real avocado. Understandably, this gives rise to somewhat of a battle of wills, you might say. Now it is weird to use avocados as a yardstick with which to measure peoples' egos, but it's all there in the open. Here, see for yourself...

   The session has just finished. Everyone knows that in the dining room there are fresh bagels, tuna, eggs, and of course avocados. So let's see: Who are the first five to finish the dash? I shan't go into more about those. Then there is the actual avocado taking. You see, for some reason they trust us with sharing this stuff. Mind you, there isn't even enough to go round in the first place. So it's first come first served. Eat or... don't eat. (Quite a dire prospect to some, apparently.) So now they're all in the dining room. But wait! The winners of the dash and their runner-ups got to the bowls first! Where does that leave the rest of us?
 
   Well, it's not actually that bad. In the end, most are content with what they do -or don't- have. Or at least their let's-fight-versus-it's-only-food struggle ended with the victory to the latter. And besides, with the first five already gone and the avocado with them, there is no use fighting. But it's still fun to see how peoples' worst and best traits are aroused by the should-be trivialities.

   Or maybe avocados really are worth fighting over?
               

Ode To a Tree

When I first saw you,

You were bare,

I thought

You're like the rest

Of them trees,

The limbs of yours

I could not see -

How high they stretch;

How worn they are.

But now,

It's all there,

In the open:

Better than the rest,

Taller,

Thicker,

Broader.

Had you a mouth,

You would speak,

Of all those,

Who you've had

Under your spell,

Of all those,

Who you sheltered

Under your leaves.

But since you're silent

I can't be sure,

So I think

I'm the first,

Whom your limbs

Seem to embrace;

Whom your leaves

Seem to shield,

From a burning sun.

But even so,

I say I'm different -

I saw you first

 In the dark.

     

Musings (11)

It was never a fixed one,

yet I've got a broken one anyways.

What is it?

My French.

      

                                                                                  

      

Arythmaahem...(2)

Like a river

Whose water flows

Ever so slowly,

Are my pens' letters

When I've time to think;

Like free speech

Emanating

In no hurry,

Is my quill

When I don't rhyme.

But when I rhyme

I have no time -

My pen and ink

Can't stop to think -

It must work,

It must go;

Like a stream,

It should flow;

I can't say

What I want,

I must fit

All my rant,

Into sentences exactly the same size,

Or they might think that I'm not very wise.

So I stop -

And start again,

My heart -

It speaks

Its own language -

Unconformed.

Then I feel 

Truly free -

My hand extends

The heart of me.
   

Where's your money?

   It seems like the International Banking System is (still) successfully pulling off the biggest display of irony, and us 'cultured' people are falling for it. Why, I just got  my  statement yesterday and they decided to spend fifty cents to tell me that I gained 1.34 over the last half a year. Now can you tell me why I trust them with my money? Would you spend fifty cents to tell someone something of so little importance? Why don't they just put the fifty cents into my account and not tell me anything?
                                                         

Musings (10)

If Grey hairs are a sign of old age,

Good - I'm young.

But if Grey hairs are a sign of wisdom...

          

'Honesty'

 
   Authors' note: Here's an issue I've been thinking about the last while. Feel free to retain your opinion on the subject. Please do not be offended by the harsh tone; I think I make my point better this way. For this reason I've also used the first person terminology.

.   .   .

   In the last few years I've been hearing it more and more. It's the argument of Honesty. Of Openness.

.   .   .

 
   You tell me you're being honest with yourself. You say: "If I feel a certain way or if I want a certain thing, I should have no problem being open about it". Sounds like a nice way to live a life, no?

   I say not. Though there may be good aspects to such an openness, it has a major flaw. Namely, it leaves the decision of right and wrong to the individual. People like you say "I must be open with myself; if I want it I must be able to have it".

   As humans, Jews, and believers, we ought to know that our wants are not necessarily in tune with the truth. We were given an incomplete nature to work with, and our job is to tame it. It follows therefore, that if you desire a certain thing, you must first be sure it is a correct desire before you pursue it. If you then do it anyways you should at least be open enough not to call it 'Honesty'.

   Moreover, there is a limit to this 'Honesty'. There is a boundary somewhere that you won't pass, saying: "I know I want to do this, but I can't. I just can't." Tell me now, what happens to your 'Honesty' then? If you want it, why can't you bring yourself to have it?

   No; everyone has a standard. It differs only in that some of us want an easier time, so we say that some things "I'll accept of myself doing, because I'm honest". Is that Honesty? Is that Openness?You're just too lazy to work hard! Living a truly honest life is about always raising your standard, not lowering it.

   Don't get me wrong. I've done wrong in the past, and will do again in the future. But since I'm raising my standard, I'll be (rightly) embarrassed of things I did that don't rise up to it. This is a good form of 'Dishonesty'.

   So go ahead; be honest. Don't let your own desires get in your way. Look objectively and realize that you were created to improve yourself.
      

Musings (9)

Good memories get better over time,

and bad memories get worse.

     

Arythmaahem...

Should poems rhyme

With meter and time?

Or are they good - even

If they don't?

A story I'll say:

T'was yesterday,

That Sam our poet,

Who did also know it,

Decided to recite,

For his sons' wedding night,

A poem -

So very bright.

Yes bright it was,

It was because,

Although it did not -

- Could not -

 - Would not -

Rhyme,

It was still genius -

But one thing at a time.

So Sam our poet,

Went to the stand,

And stand he did,

With paper in hand;

He stood some more,

Amid looks galore,

His eyes how they darted,

Before he started!

 Then start he did,

And the crowd went wild:

"He speaks like a child!"

"He speaks like a child!"

His eyes vainly looked,

For a friend which could,

Save him from the sitch,

With zero a hitch.

What happened next,

I can't really say,

Because they threw

Chairs

Tables

Glasses

And the whole crowd left

And

Never came

Back again

To hear our 

[By now no longer poetic]

Sam speak.

So what do you think?
Is expended ink,
Only goodly spent,
If it has a flow,
Like a river so slow?
If it has taste,
And is not made in haste?

Or is it good even -

If it

Ends

Like this?
  

Musings (8)

The more you know about life,

the easier is it to die.

  

Saga Of A Birdie

 
   What's a bird? An easy question, I used to think. Ask anybody what a bird is and he'll tell you it's something that has feathers, wings, a beak, and all the other things that birds have in common. I still do think that a bird needs all those things to be considered a bird, but no-one would tell you that a bird is a bird even if it doesn't use its feet or wings, because it's just so unusual.

   But now I've officially changed my mind. A bird is a bird even if it can't use all the things G-d gave it. Moreover, I'd like to put it that a bird is a bird especially when it does not have these things. Here's why.

.   .   .

  
   Well, at first I didn't really notice it. I was too busy -on the run- and birds on the ground are a common sight to anybody. Neither was it of the type which I -as a nature lover- would take a second look at. Only after a few days I noticed that the same bird came every day to the berry bushes near the side door of the school, and looking to and fro to make sure there were no humans around, would quickly dart to that semi-open area where the berries were rotting, and make off with one.

   Then the question hit me: Why is there only one bird that is brazen enough to come collect some berries? Where are the others?

   The next time I saw it , I just stood there and watched. Its eyes were of the beseeching kind, like a beggar who asks for alms but is embarrassed to do so. After watching it snatch its' berry, I decided to follow it. And I did. I walked. It walked. I walked faster; it still walked. I ran; it ran. And then it hit me: Birds are supposed to fly!

   No longer did I feel a need to find out about the bird. It was all in that open, in one word: Crippled.

   Had I thought about it a little more, I probably would have realized that a flightless bird in its society is like a hand-less person in ours. Quite a handicap. And birds live in meaner world than us humans; there is no spoon-feeding you once you grow up. My bird would have to fend for itself. So much for the berry-eating manners of this bird - it was just not able to eat anything else.

   So fend for itself it did. It suffered humiliation from its more egotistic and soaring brothers, which was by now apparent to me by its ruffled feathers and stark eyes. But it was not discouraged, it would just have to take more drastic measures to survive.

   Now that I knew my birds predicament, I felt somewhat of a responsibility to help it out. But every time I'd approach, it would just run away to the nearest bush and hide. I felt for it, as it was not its fault; it had been taught to be scared of everything and everybody. It was alone. So I would try to leave it crumbs near the berry bush hoping it would eat them upon its next visit.

   After a while, a I stopped paying attention to my bird. Us humans can become insensitive to more emotional issues than this, and with time this too faded.

    Until one day I wondered: Where is that thing? Why didn't I see it make it make its dash for survival in already two weeks?

    Left to my own conclusions, it did not take long for me to surmise that it was not around anymore. It had battled the odds -for a while successfully- and then G-d must have said: "Good job, now it's time to take you back" - and then the cat got it.

    So now, when I think back at this strange event long gone, I wonder if I should have done more to help it out. Was watching nature unfold in its sometimes cruel form leave me stained as an accomplice of a villains deed? Or was it just providence that I witnessed what I did, and I am therefore not to blame?

    Say what you may, but to me one thing is certain: The one with the rusted feathers and defiant look, that's the bird I evermost loved; that's the bird I knew.

    And you can always tell me that maybe -just maybe- it learned to fly.
       

Musings (7)

Toilet paper is like Time.

The less of it you have,

the more precious it becomes.

   

Australia

Far away a land forlornly lies,
Well hidden it is from prying eyes,
"Down Under" they call it with a grin,
But me that fabled country did not win:

For while the duck-billed mammals' eggs it lays,
The big and arid hole centrally stays;
And while it breeds majestic kangaroos,
I've yet to see them other than in zoos;

For while its' people greet me with "G'day"s,
The laid-back culture me still does amaze;
And while they on the wrong side always cruise,
I've still to answer what I here did lose;

So as I leave all I'll do is say,
Happy - that far away,
I'll be - when it does lay.

   

Musings (6)

If variety is the spice of life,

does that mean your life is bland without it?

    

Annoying People

 
   Authors' note: I understand that some to whom this may apply may be reading this, so I therefore wish to state in advance that firstly I'm not aiming at the individual, rather at the idea, and secondly that I may exaggerate to bring out a point or make it funny.

   Also, it goes without saying (thanks to the Feminist Movement) that the feelings portrayed here can apply equally to either gender.

.   .   .

   We sit back to back. No, no, we're good friends, it's just that we sit at different tables. The catch is that our backs almost touch - and there is supposed to be enough room for someone to pass between us. Still manageable, you say? Well, every time he stands up, the following happens: 1) The back of his chair knocks into mine, jolting it; and 2) he leaves his chair out and doesn't slide it back into its place.

   On the first issue I won't be the one to criticize him, as he probably miscalculates the space behind him, and I don't expect him to turn around every time with a caliper to ensure that he won't bump into me. But on the second count, there is no excuse. It often will get to the point (after I've stood up and fixed his chair 1001 times,) that I feel like sending his chair flying in such a way that he'll never be able to bump it into mine again, if that's at all possible.

   I just don't get how someone can do something like that so many times and not realize that (much as I may hide it) I get annoyed! He must have grown up in a society where chair-jolting and chair-stranding are time-honored customs, thus making them his societal norm. How else could he have learned the art? Why, at the brink of my patience he will suddenly put his chair back halfway, so I have just enough room to maneuver around him.

   That's that. Not that I think my particular issue is shared by you, reader, but this type of annoyance can take on more humble and subtler forms, with  which I'm sure you can associate.

   And do take a look next time, for like a million other things, you can tell alot about peoples' character by observing whether they slide their chair back into its place at all, and if they do - ponder this: Their mood can be determined as well: Is it "Clang-Blong-Bonk" or "Sss-Thonk"?
         

Bedsheets

My bed, my bed
It has no feet,
So in its' stead
There goes my sheet,

By night it's neat
By day it's not,
To stay still it
Was never taught,

How it walks
I do not know,
To new spots it
Will always go,

(I never thought
A thing like that,
Could have me brought
So off the bat,)

Why, one day
I might awake,
And have to give
A double take,

For I will see
A note for me:
"I do not mean
To let you down,
But 'till next week
I'm out of town!"

 

Musings (5)

"A penny saved is a penny earned"

Is only a penny

Whose value you learned.

What's So Good About Crocs?

They come in all colors and sizes, they're worn by the young, old, and everyone in between. It seems as if they entered the it's-now-in-fashion realm, and show no sign of leaving. Like many revolutions in our history, the Croc revolution seems to have forever altered the world the way we know it. 

But before I admit defeat, and bow my head in recognition of the greater forces around me, I'd like to dissect this disease a little, so as we may then move on to more important things.

The Croc wearing community can be divided into several categories:

  

  1) Those for whom it's become the ultimate piece of footwear, to be removed only for sleeping, (totally blown);

            2) Those who wear it pretty much instead of an ordinary pair of shoes, (extreme);

            3) Those for whom it replaces a pair of Flip-Flops, slippers, etc., (fair, but still under the influence);

            4) Those who own a pair, but don't use it, (must have found it uncomfortable, believe it or not);

And finally there are those who never bought a pair.

Now, as I launch my diatribe, let's just agree on one point: You're walking down the street, and approaching you is a(n otherwise) distinguished looking Rabbi, say of about fifty years of age, and everything seems to fit his bill other than that interesting pair of footwear that is somehow still on his feet. Now, even if the snow wasn't melting outside and the sidewalks weren't muddy, I'd still have a double take. Wouldn't you?

Say what you want, but what has gotten into his head? Does he really think that fitting into any of the abovementioned categories excuses him from his senselessness?

It's not like I have much to say on the subject anyway, but I'll give you some food for thought:

Anything that has 'made it' so well, across genders, cliques, communities, cultures, etc.. is bound to be considered the norm, or accepted, or plain. You're just not original, even if you have twenty of those thigimajjigis to try and make it look cool. Crocs are no longer fashionable. And comfort has gone -and will again go- out of style.

  

Nosson Deitch OBM

As if I knew

What was to come,

As if I knew -

My heart is numb.

As if I saw

What was to be,

As if I saw -

It could be me.

 

Musings (4)

   
Why is it that the simple people always come up with best stories?
   

Musings (3)

Maimonides says that mans wisdom is best gained in that night hours.

Ahh! that's the reason for Daylight Savings!

   

One More Step

His racing heartbeat tells him to slow down,

But something inside makes him continue.

"So much effort was already spent!

I can't give up now."

"I've been training for this for such a long time,

What will my sponsors say?"

On he runs, overcoming obstacles from without and within.

He still keeps his lead, our persistent hero.

But alas, the final blow is to come not from himself,

-When the track disappears from under his feet,

And he disappears with it.

Such is my feeling of a time

When my opportunities

Were taken.

A loss of life,

A loss of freedom.

But not by me,

 By them.

That's me for today.

Boxed In

Fill it, Fill it

Says my screen,

Or perhaps you

Lack the keen

Travel, travel

Says the road,

Or I might think

Heavy's your load

It might just be

That things like me

Are hard for I

To write about myself

Musings (2)

Why is it that the good in life bring out the worst in people, and the worst in life brings out the best in people?

Musings

I'm a pessimist. But I could be a dead pessimist!