tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-354495542024-03-13T11:05:46.404-04:00Which Way Is Up?Perpetually searching for the answerSJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-43132125607250017412010-11-22T00:10:00.005-05:002011-02-09T09:33:17.763-05:00Free ChoiceWhat choice is ever free? There is no such thing. Every choice has a cost. In time, money, energy. In love lost or gained. In hope. In doubt. In the person you are and the person you could have been. What choice is ever free? Is any choice really your own? Who will you hurt, and how? Who will you help, and how? What opportunities are you relinquishing to make this choice? What choice is SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-49462185185581447962010-10-05T00:33:00.004-04:002010-10-05T00:41:34.049-04:00Words' EndSilence is eloquent. It is silence that reveals the communion of two souls—when you slip into that sudden space like children burrowing under a blanket, and the quiet moments fit in time like puzzle pieces. Silence can be a thing of discomfort, discordance, a desperate search for words—any words—to shatter the inappropriately intimate hush, stretched taut and straining like a rubber band. Then SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-13728729793762462482010-07-20T18:23:00.003-04:002010-07-20T18:27:17.451-04:00Tisha b'AvA day on which to mourn. Much has been written, spoken about the difficulty of connecting to Tisha b'Av in the modern era. How do we make ourselves feel pain? How do we manufacture that emotion? My problem, today, is slightly different.I spend my life running from sadness. It lurks around every corner, just out of sight. I sense it there constantly, knowing it waits for me. But a productive life SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-38622213837790024372010-03-10T12:54:00.004-05:002010-03-10T12:58:53.722-05:00Truth and MeaningWhat is the difference between seeking truth and seeking meaning?A life spent seeking truth entails endless frustration. There is no way to ascertain absolute truth; there is only constant searching, temporary conclusions, and redoubled effort—with, likely, minimal concrete results. But meaning can be found in many forms. Meaning can be found and peacefully lived with.Yet is meaning a compromise?SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-14666632287153760582010-03-01T19:06:00.003-05:002010-03-01T20:27:01.028-05:00The Little Things 3A sky of mottled fiery rose and lavender-grey, seen through the delicate silhouette of bare winter branches....SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-12911883424003010022010-02-16T09:31:00.002-05:002010-02-16T09:39:17.906-05:00It's the Little Things 2Chocolate milkIn a yellow-walled kitchenAnd through the windowSmall white dotsFlying madly by...SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-4531638050502151612010-02-15T11:01:00.005-05:002010-02-15T11:16:21.974-05:00It's the Little Things...The tall stained glass windows lend character to the morning prayers: the white pages of my siddur are highlighted in deep yellow, and the girl in front of me has pink streaks of light in her black hair. On the other side of the partition in the long room, men rush to take off their tefillin so that mussaf can begin. Through the quiet, a sudden symphony: the click, pop, snap of black boxes SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-4542110355998132042010-02-07T21:58:00.006-05:002010-02-07T23:38:56.415-05:00SoliloquyWhat are the chances that I can sit down with a blank document, the two of us, cozy in my room which is a mess—papers fluttering round my desk, clothing draped over chairs and bed, dust giggling conspiratorially in the corners, and everywhere stuff, stuff, stuff—and, knowing that I’ve been unable to produce anything of value, knowing that I feel singularly uninspired (is that a cliché?), knowing SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-59237974536051985492009-08-26T03:44:00.004-04:002009-08-26T04:05:49.501-04:00InsomniaInsomnia before your first day (afternoon) of grad school is less than ideal. In fact, it's somewhat annoying. But I can't seem to convince my mind to shut off. What with moving into a new apartment and community, starting school, trying to figure out what to do with my days (since classes are all in the afternoon/evening), and catching up with friends after a productive summer, I'm all awhirl. SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-14019167981438960622009-08-18T19:56:00.005-04:002009-08-18T20:04:04.113-04:00...How in the world am I to know who and what to believe about myself?(And don't even think about telling me to block out the other voices and listen to my heart or to my mind. If it was that easy, don't you think I'd have figured it out on my own?)...SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-51296614135096110252009-08-12T20:43:00.007-04:002009-08-13T21:15:17.760-04:00Water and Reflections"Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries--stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-78826509447297778172009-07-08T07:47:00.002-04:002009-07-08T07:50:14.791-04:00Language as Music, Prism, and Mirror"He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself:—A day of dappled seaborne clouds.—The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-78830941012428170812009-07-05T23:11:00.003-04:002009-07-05T23:16:39.861-04:00SundayThe sweet strains of jazz lured me forward, awaft on the airy blue furrows of the soft breezeless day. With only my whims to follow, I sauntered toward the sound and lurked at the corner of the small gathered crowd. The sign perched in an open guitar case at their feet read “The Baby Soda Jazz Band,” a pile of green bills strewn messily across the black velvet. An older man in a white t-shirt SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-82047065484810658822009-06-25T07:33:00.002-04:002009-06-25T07:36:35.803-04:00PiecesLittle pieces first, flakes that flicker as they fly, tiny points of light that scatter like embers and settle, glowing a moment, then gone. But then larger portions, something given never returned, shreds of innocence fleeting. Soon enough it’s noticeable, the chunks missing here, there, you can see it in my eyes. Do they have them, guard them, treasure them? Have they been dissolved, evaporatedSJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-49415795974904934552009-06-12T16:03:00.003-04:002009-06-12T16:07:39.075-04:00Waking UpThis morning I was woken up by birds. Not the polite, cheerful twittering of movies and sound effects, but a loud, rude, repeated honking. The honking bird would say his bit, and another bird would answer, with a flat, trilling laugh ending in an unpleasant buzz. HO-onk, trill, buzz, HO-onk, trill, buzz—over and over again, at first background noise, then pushing itself steadily into my dreams, SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-47812500335786625552009-06-10T13:17:00.001-04:002009-06-10T13:18:45.497-04:00MissingA girl, circa 22 yo, brown hair, brown eyes, full of dreams. Passionate, devoted, excited. Able to see potential and a world bright with magic. Overflowing with words.If found, please return.Care of: SJA boxNYC SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-29964681102954462512009-03-12T20:17:00.020-04:002009-03-12T23:24:37.350-04:00A Life That Transcended LimitsMy grandfather, a”h, was niftar in Yerushalayim on Shushan Purim. He had just celebrated his 83rd birthday a few days before, on zayin Adar, a birthday he shared with Moshe Rabbeinu.Today and yesterday were not easy days—I cannot bring myself to comprehend that I will never again see his smiling face, that he will not be a part of my future. Yet, I cannot help but be grateful for the life he SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-44969959802629118432009-02-28T21:34:00.004-05:002009-02-28T21:50:18.876-05:00UnbalancedI’m walking this road, the narrowest string of land, snaking its way along the edge of an inky ocean. On tiptoe I proceed, inching carefully forward—but after so long my toes are numb, and I don’t even notice the ache, much of the time. But then something glints in my path, and my head wobbles, and I find I’m tipping, and I see the water approaching as I start to fall. It takes an effort to rightSJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-20680386038768331382009-02-23T00:21:00.003-05:002009-02-23T00:26:35.500-05:00The Valmadonna Trust Library at Sotheby'sAssailed by multitudes, sheer numbers overwhelm. Books scale the walls; these books testify to our history, because we are a people committed to the written word, preserving our original thoughts, our ideas, our traditions. Most bindings are leather—deep red, faded brown, crumbling, newly restored. Each labeled with a title, a location, a year. In the first room, the shelves ascend toward the SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-1628039344121956852009-01-31T19:18:00.004-05:002009-06-10T13:10:22.093-04:00The Gift Of SightThe Ponevizher Rav, Rabbi Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman, lost everything he had in the Holocaust. His wife, his children, his colleagues, his students—all perished. When he arrived in Israel in 1940, he stood on the hill overlooking the sparsely populated Zichron Meir neighborhood of Bnei Brak. Undaunted by the tragedies of his past, he pointed at each empty patch of land and proclaimed, “Here will be aSJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-27173705889722459772009-01-29T02:14:00.004-05:002009-01-29T02:22:09.551-05:00Questioning A PassionIs there an inherent validity to a passion, a talent?If there is something I love to do, but it is not deeply meaningful in an obvious way, do I have the right to pursue it? Is it right to devote huge amounts of time and energy to an activity simply because I enjoy it, because it excites me in a unique way, because it is a side of myself I don't often get to hone? Or is succumbing to such a SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-62205238507091011832009-01-11T23:45:00.005-05:002009-01-12T01:57:42.491-05:00An Awful EpiphanyWhy do I write? What's the point? Really--what's the point? I'm actually asking.It's a passion that has begun to consume me more and more--the desire to write, to paint scenes, emotions with words. Fiction remains the hardest medium for me. Personal essays (like some of the things I write on this blog) and, more recently, somewhat decent poetry are not as painful to produce. And I'm working on SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-67276418481326833482008-12-24T14:41:00.003-05:002008-12-24T14:56:59.564-05:00Language ImprisonedIf you want to write, if you have an idea, let it build up inside you. Put nothing on paper; let it sit and simmer and reshape itself a hundred times in your head. A vague, wispy notion will be only as thin as the paper that holds it, but an idea full-grown, ripe to overripe, will fall into words with a ruddy glow, bursting with restrained energy. When you are ready to explode with the force of SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-14336288517777562382008-12-12T14:02:00.005-05:002008-12-13T22:08:36.723-05:00On Disappointment and DestinyThis shabbos, I was looking forward to going somewhere, but had to cancel my plans Friday morning due to inclement weather.A friend who was supposed to join me this weekend said to me, “I'm not sure if it’s right for me to be upset, since there is nothing else that I could have done, and apparently I wasn’t meant to go—but I was really looking forward to going.”This comment made me think. My SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35449554.post-38568971419654087562008-11-27T18:17:00.002-05:002008-11-27T18:25:13.769-05:00Where Am I?At first it seems silence reigns, but standing still and patient I soon realize I am not alone. Creaks and rustles betray this place, seductive whispers spill trickling sadness, blending and swirling into echoes of hope.I am surrounded by roads on every side, as different as they are plentiful.Directly before me, short, lush grass, screaming green with the endless promise of spring, lapped with SJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18085726186055340423noreply@blogger.com2