As one who is historically a wall Myself - steadfast -brave -keeper and giver of confidence -cool yet porous- alive …and so shrapnel-scarred as others expect demand delude over –and- underestimate others and try to take shots over my head, pound me for the sins of themselves… I understand your name: Wailing.
The following mini-rant is not about regaining our senses of privacy in a self-absorbed digital age. It is not even about a spoiled generation taking back responsibility, disappointment, and control. It IS about reinstating our own core instincts, intelligences, and centers of vitality, and the interpersonal boundaries required to separate true creative power from a slow nuclear leak.
What hurt most was the lack of recognition / when I bumped into myself last night; / I surfaced by the river / in no light, / and asked myself my name, / old fool that I am - - / till it hit me, by (of all things) / pulling at my leg.
Beit Shemesh is a centrally located small town that started as a backwater, graduated to developing suburbia, and, having inherited from exorbitantly priced Jerusalem both a strong middle class and a sizeable population of hard-line Ultra-Orthodox, is now figuring out how to keep the extravagant promises we all made to ourselves, and those that successive mayors made to land developers. Nucky Thompson and Arnold Rothstein have nothin’ on Daniel Vaknin and Moshe Abutbol.
It is almost the Jewish New Year, and I almost care. As the year begins, I believe the space of the almost is underrated, because wholeness, certainty, and serenity bore me to tears. I feel almost like this is a lazy approach, and almost like it is brave. I feel like there is a lot of energy in almost, and also a lot to mourn.
Rome and Paris are deeply embarrassing cities for artists and writers who have abandoned their craft. Before I became the manager of creative processes in the service of selling a secure future to the Jewish People, I was elbow deep in the creation itself, often simply in the service of the process.
When a heavy box of old junk that another has packed and stored badly *literally* falls out of the pre-fab suburban ceiling and breaks open on the ONE Day out of *hundreds* that YOU happen to be home, and THE OWNER/ PACKER / STORER happens to not be….What is the symbolism there?