The Sailor and the Survivor Go to Washington
Jan 8th, 2010
If you are on anyone's mass e-mail list, by now you’ve probably heard of Harold B. Estes. For those of you who delete anything not work-related before reading, Estes is a very sharp-witted, conservative WWII vet in his mid-90's who wrote a strong letter of criticism to President Obama, virally distributed by e-mail in November.
His opening shot: "…I am amazed, angry, and determined not to see my country die before I do, but you seem hell bent not to grant me that wish. I can't figure out what country you are the president of. You fly around the world telling our friends and enemies despicable lies…"
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Months ago, I e-mailed a friend (let's call him Earl) about who-remembers-what. Earl is also a writer, and in addition, works in photography, film, and music. He is waiting for his Big Break, which actually looks to be fast arriving. Earl is secular, Jewish, American, just a shade older than I am, and currently lives in a large arts-producing city with his significant other, a talented and funny writer / model / actress we'll call Joy. I haven’t seen him in about 8 years but we correspond digitally. Apparently, he's been chewing over part of the contents of that e-mail for a long time. Here's what I got from Earl last week (posted here with his permission): "…I have one question about a statement you wrote: 'Anyway – suburbia is no picnic either sometimes, ditto organized religion, and I am not a tremendous fan of either one.' Why do you stay in Orthodox Judaism then? Do you not yearn to be free? To not be bound by laws and restrictions..." 
Sukkot in Israel is a hiker and camper's festival. God wasn’t kidding when he asked people to walk to Jerusalem in Temple times on this holiday. I'm not sure if He cared about the ten young bulls, two rams, and 12 lambs (well-done). But I'm pretty sure He wanted people to walk the land in what constitutes autumn here, which is this: moderation (as opposed to colorful.)
He made a damn fine Holy Land, too, and I'm guessing He wanted people to enjoy it when the moon was full and hung low in the sky like a huge piece of fruit, when the nights were cool and the sands were walkable barefoot, when the sun was strong but pleasant, when the breeze was always blowing but never hot or cold.
The New Year's wishes fill my inbox (tomorrow, the Jewish Year 5770 begins…) and the apple crumble is cooling, but I'm not that ready, and I'm not that into it.
It's not that the well has been dry; au contraire, my friends. I have simply fallen in.
It's been more than a month (closer to two) since I've blogged. The reason can be distilled into one intense truth:
I will never have more time than I have…right…NOW. (Or, as my brother likes to say, later is later.)
…OK, two intense truths:
Energy is finite (yes, even yours) and what you choose to focus on is itself a powerful statement, with broad implications on the objects of both you attention and your inattention.
Or, if you will, a Carrie Bradshaw question: When you multitask, are you doing everything, or are you doing nothing?
Yesterday my eyes were opened to the fact that I could be a bit less concerned about aethetics and my craft and a lot more concerned about cash, and even getting some sleep...while making said cash.
Yes: an affiliate marketing conference. 
I have always been a fan of the top ten list. I suppose it started with Casey Kasem's American Top 40 (Yes. I was around and not in nursery school at the time. OK?), the cleverest marketing device the pre-digital music world ever came up with. After which I graduated to Letterman, who used (uses?) the top ten list as a cool comedic framing device, which I enjoyed even more. Kids, this was all before Amazon's Listmania was even an executive web dream.
Of course, the top ten format is as old as the hills...actually, one specific hill called Sinai, where, tradition has it, God's Top Ten was revealed amidst much noisy weather, on this, the Shavuot festival. Whether He intended it as marketing or humor will depend, I suppose, on your general outlook.
I have always been troubled by what my mother calls time management. I’m sure other people call it that, too, but I heard it first when I was twelve, trying to get ready for school but repeatedly getting sidetracked for reasons hair-related. “Boy, do you have a problem with managing time,” she would say. I had no idea what she meant, of course, because time, as I knew, could not be managed, only experienced, or – perhaps– tamed and ridden, like a horse, or a wave. One of us was missing the point entirely. My relationship with time has only gotten more intense over the years...
My amazing grandmother, Esther Klein, is turning 91 next month. She was in her mid-twenties when she was liberated by the Swedish Red Cross from an aimless, endless transport, after having spent several nearly lethal winter weeks in Ravensbrueck. Before that, she'd "worked" for several months in Auschwitz, after having lived for a very short time, along with her elderly parents, in a temporary tent city near her hometown of Seredna, constructed right along the railroad tracks, the better for the Jews to wait for their "ride."
Before that, Esther Herskovitz was a bright, active young woman with bad hay fever, living near the Czech border in a small town in a big house with an orchard and a vineyard and a large, warm family, all of which have since vanished, literally, into thin air. Except the allergies… and my grandmother.
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