urgings

the story of my death, part 3

2006-10-08T20:20:00.000-04:00

She was a scared little girl, alone and confused in this big bustling hurly burly of a world. Peering out at the boisterous marketplace below her gaze, an eerie and desperate look of bewilderment appeared upon her face, causing her striking and dramatic features to take on character and drama beyond their usual pensive presentation. It was the look of a confused and frustrated student, who reading the work of some great master of antiquity pulls her nose out of the book for air, as she comes face to face with the realization that it seems this esteemed and enlightened leader may not shape up to her fancy after all. It was a look of shock, of disgust, abhorrence and above all else betrayal. This betrayed look seemed to appear so often that it almost took on a life of its own and slowly came to signature her persona.
A poignant awareness perpetually trailed after the girl, sometimes invading her artificially erected barriers and enveloping her completely. It was the awareness of chaos, the chaos that hovered over every electron cloud, chaos that saturated, no, that was the very stuff of existence itself. There were moments when this chaos seemed inescapable, as if the constant linger that she was always passively aware of somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind was in fact unavoidable, ontological perhaps. The gnawing sense of confusion resided permanently within her, some might even say stemmed from her, and it was because it seemed to have truly been born into her very flesh and innards, she could in truth never escape it.
It was the sense that frustrated her so, the simultaneous sense of nothingness and absolute truth; the notion that all the world was truly hevel, including herself, and yet at the same time, the nagging sense that cosmic significance of monumental magnitude lay within her grasp, waiting for her to uncover; lay within her very self.
The self; a dual, visceral sense of terror and ecstasy both surged through and sprung up from the depths of her hollow stomach every time she considered the reality of the self. It was all she had, and yet it was indeed so indefinable, a mere fluctuating combination of fleeting urges and whims that all seemed so undependable, unpredictable, unstable. At times she felt herself lost in the chaos of the black hole deep in the middle of her hollow stomach. The moments of space time slowed infinitely as she crossed over the event horizon and, stretching down into the unknown, broached upon the universe of The Other. And falling endlessly into the pipeline to this yet undiscovered plane of existence, she would lose herself, completely…to the powerful X-rays that would surge through her frail form of flesh, destroying her entirely. This was the expensive price that she was fully aware of, at times even felt herself coerced into paying. For without destruction we will never truly get outside of ourselves, never truly discover the truth that is grander than us, yet paradoxically resides within us at once.

the story of my death poetry interruption: Glassed In

2006-09-18T01:59:00.000-04:00

Endless groping
through the dense hollow vacuum of
nothing where everything lies
but cannot be reached, ceaseless
perpetual ventures into the beyond
just beside us, just outside
our grasp, outside
of the thick
glass boxes that protect
and divide, that instantly,
will shatter into trillions of
infinitesimal splinters and specks at the
slightest breach; a house of cards, yet
a shelter nonetheless.
And all these, the cells of
safety, our very own dainty
glass menagerie, pretty, perfect
and sterile to the untouch
of the human condition, keep us steady,
and stagnant, and stoic, as we
suffocate inside ourselves,
our scrupulously sculpted glass rooms,
less we shatter their sublime structure
and risk exposure
to the breath of
the other.

the story of my death part 2

2006-09-17T03:54:00.000-04:00

The story of my death is a complex one, yet not one without order and structure. There are periods in one’s life that are so impacting and effective that one never truly recovers from their force. Sometimes the blow is so hard and so low that its mark remains permanent and indestructible, its imprint forever lingering. For experiences do affect, and sometimes the penetration is truly real. These experiences cannot be shaken off for they have penetrated too deeply into the very grain of our being and consciousness. That is simply the truth of the matter. I had reached the point of no return. A chord had been struck, a paradigm shift truly achieved and I had been forever changed.

the story of my death

2006-09-15T00:59:00.000-04:00

It was as if someone had reached out in front of me, out from the vast hullabaloo of nothingness all around me, had entered my intimate space and shattered the fragile bit of hope that lingered; as if a sudden single hand had reached out directly before me, grabbed my fleshy throat and choked all the breath of desire and comfort without my even knowing it; as if an earthquake had thrust the foundations of my innards open and swallowed all sense of passion that had burned within me. The powerful words emanated from his mouth, gliding on a straight and direct line of airy breath like the sharp arrow of death, blowing across my face and bombarding its way into my soul, casting a frozen chill over all that was once warm. The wisp grew large and at once became suffocating, like a tornado that with its forceful wisp swept away the warm love from my heart and left my soul chilled and naked, shamed and embarrassed. I had been robbed of these, my most precious possessions, and left bare and empty, I felt myself begin to shrivel up, like a dried fig, or an autumn leaf that had lost all its vibrancy and pigment to the harsh calling of the seasons. And there on the bustling street corner, I was dead.

There are moments in time that are defining moments, defining of character, of sentiment and of the future. The eras in one’s life are formed by these individual moments and these epochal eras string together to create the dramatic structure of the life of the individual. This moment was particular in the sense that it struck the end note of the epoch, the end note which essentially formed the very epoch itself; for it is only the end which creates and defines the beginning, creates and defines the set, and which is in that sense the single most defining moment of all.

Drastic Poetic Imagery in Barret Browning's Aurora Leigh

2006-07-11T23:50:00.000-04:00

hello all. i sincerely apologize for my lack of writing, but truthfully, i jsut have not been compelled of late. i seem to have lost that urge to regurgitate my thoughts into cyberspace. RR put it best when she said, "girls like Shira are no more". i would add, it is shira who is no more and with her, the rest of her ilk have ceased to exist. it is tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. and a new era has seemingly begun without our even knowing it.

my dear friend and literary companion aliza, who sticks by me during even the most exhausting of disagreements with a certain IJL (true name shall remain hidden for obvious reasons...we'd have to take the J out then wouldn't we?) particularly pertaining to the relationship between mathematics and poetry (see David Berlinski, beginning of A Tour of the Calculus for an eloquent and articulate argument for my side) forwarded this lovely piece from Elizabeth B. B.'s Aurora Leigh, a work that was quite innovative and perhaps one might even venture to say daring, for her time period. I hope you enjoy it!

" I played at art, made thrusts with a toy-sword,
Amused the lads and maidens.
Came a sigh
Deep, hoarse with resolution,ÂI would work
To better ends, or play in earnest. 'Heavens,
I think I should be almost popular
If this went on !'ÂI ripped my verses up,
And found no blood upon the rapier's point:
The heart in them was just an embryo's heart,
Which never yet had beat, that it should die:
Just gasps of make-believe galvanic life;
Mere tones, inorganised to any tune. " (Elizabeth Barret Browning's Aurora Leigh)

"The Academy": Nursing Home for the Academic-Aged

2006-06-19T22:38:00.000-04:00

Sorry for being so meager in the posting area...I dont' know why but for some reason it jsut hasn't been in me to write of late...That's actually a lie. I do know why. I would like to first make note of the wonderful, albeit anonymous, comment that was left on my last post. I really enjoyed reading it, of course relating to much of it. And it had a nice tone. I only wish I knew who posted it... And you know it's extremely annoying because I can't figure out how to start a new paragraph on this blog. So consider a new parapgraph begun. I often feel like I have been alive forever and at my young age I feel like I have already experienced a multitude of movements in thought and experience. I was sitting in my natural philosophy class today with an eclectic bunch of american college students and it struck me poignantly how old I have gotten. I mockingly chuckled inside silently at the eager student next to me who showed interest in picking the prof.'s brain for knowledge for he has yet to hold his own position and value his own thought more. He still pathetically approaches the educator like a lost sheep, a man possessing a thirst of which only someone who actually knows something could quench. He still views the world in a systematic catalogue of course-categories, his entire perception of knowledge reflected in the courses he has taken that he proudly mentions as a way to provide a sense of stability and validity for his thought and opinion, for himself. He thinks himself intelligent because he can take classes at expensive universities, because he can tell the prof. that he took a class that discussed the relationship between science and art and that the conclusion was that art is ultimately based on perception while science is ultimately based on a clear fact, to which the prof. responded, "well at least that's supposed to be the plan. And how did I appreciate her well-worded response. It was encouraging yet undermining and cynical simultaneously. And I liked her. It was the perfect blend of empathy with the human condition and appreciation and respect for all members of humanity since we are all specks of stardust (as my astronomy prof. likes us to recall often) and the protective and sweet facade of a serious, interested, and engaged thinker who has thought and negated and thoguht many times more all of the thoughts in the head of the 20 yr old standing in front of her. It was perfectly respectful all the while protecting her secrets. And I was struck by her persona. I think she did a good job. She gets an A. You see because I was mocking him. It struck me how uinversity is the time where people begin to think, and some don't start until the end, some never at all. (I don't know why but this was a novel concept to me...again-I do know why, bc that's me, but whatever, you get it.) And at some point later in life, after they have all entertained a multitude of ideas and drawn conclusions and correlations, after Aritstotle, Copernicus, Bruno, Galileo, Newton and Einstein, after the pomp and flair of academica has subsided and having risen themselves, the cloud of glory dissipates, they will get to the point of realization that all serious academics have to get to when they realize the lack of intense significance attached to anything and the pathetic-ness of position and formal academia. That all knowledge is somewhat trite, that thought occurs in patterns and that originality is perhaps nonexistent. And at best they just hopelessly continue, at worst, madly cast themselves into the basement on some arbitrary shelf with the Book of Sand, or escape into the cosmos, mentally or physically into some unknown blackhole. But that is not supposed to happen until later, after one is an accomplished academic. It hit me that my fellow students are in the beginning of the "discovery process", that many of them have not even begun it, and I stand on the other side next to my prof. annoyed by simplicity and simple passion and I feel old. Like this shuldn't be happening for another 20 yrs or something. And I only wonder, what comes next? Is it jsut a grander, richer experience of some previous stage of mine, or is there perhaps, maybe, something somewhere waiting for me that is new? I can't concieve of it, dont' believe it, but hope, just hope it is there, somewhere. In other news, my ankle is hurting in a new place and I'm nervous I injured a different tendon...shhh! Don't tell!! I started choreographing (wiht my coach that is) a new program to "Man in the Iron Mask". It's lovely if I may say so myself. And I want to get a telescope...except my parents are already getting me new blades for my birthday so I don't know how I'm going to work that one out...especially because if I'm going to get one I want to get a good one, otherwise I'll jsut end up getting another one later and that's a waste of money. Alright-over and out.

the proportions of crisis: in reaction to "art school confidential"

2006-06-01T00:37:00.000-04:00

so i just got back from this incredible independent film in this quaint theatre i recently discovered, with my friend. its called art school confidential, the film that is. i would have appreciated it no matter what but it definitely affected my experience, the fact that i just took a class called art and literature last semester, in which we really covered a lot of literature regarding art and watched the interpretation of two of the novels we read into film. so there was an additional cerebral layer added to my viewing of the film...which was both enriching, and yet exhausting, i was forced to see the film analytically, forced to filter it through my previous knowledge of the subject, forced to understand the exact relationship of ideas being portrayed through the characters and events. add to that my own artistic flair and a common sense of desperation with the main character, it was intense. as most things in my life are. i would say that the film essentially is about originality/creativity and the natural self as most films/literature about art are. and i must say it just served to highlight and accentuate my current state of futility...if that makes sense grammatically. as the film opens up and the main character's voice is heard stating that he is the greatest artist of the century...so it turns out he was acting out picasso in a school presentation. but regardless, in truth, this is how the boy feels, and when he grows up he honestly wants to be the greatest artist of the century. but the truth is, so what. so what if i indeed reached that apex of creativity in any of my areas of interest, if i maxed out and tapped into something unique. would it really be unique? its possible that someone else could get to the same point as well. and even if not, what is the point of uniqueness anyway? why is it so qualitatively better than the regular? why do we have this desire to be original? why do i carry this perpetual nagging sense of angst over my need to be significant, unique, a one time occurrence? i know i do, and the cliche-ness and triteness of even the most unique of things drives me mad. but why does it drive me mad? what is so qualitatively better about being a monumental artist? there are inevitably more than one, as each revolution brings on new ideas. and even if i was "the one", why does that matter? why do i need perfection and truth anyway? what would it matter if i produced a piece of writing that achieved literary excellence in a way never done before, or a film that was gripping, emotive and technically brilliant. what would it matter if i tapped into a musical world that was as close to pure thought as humanly conceivable? what would any of it matter? and at this moment the words that keep resonating in my head are the opening lines to Lonely Man: an awareness that often assumes the proportions of crisis. perhaps if i didnt have a bazillion abilities and the stark awareness that i will never ever ever actualize all of my creative capacity even in a single area because i am involved in so many...sometimes i think it is so much healthier when you only have one thing that you are good at. then you can focus and accomplish and live. but when creativity and meaning, when the truth it self, is pulling at you from 18 different directions, each one attempting to win you over to dedicate yourself to it. and maybe none of it is important and all that matters is thought...and maybe thought doesnt matter and all that matters if the sensual experience of the present...and maybe even that is futile and all that matters is love...but is that even achievable?

SORRY! BATTLING THE RCA

2006-05-31T20:52:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know I haven't been writing. But I have been totally consumed in fighting to get my blog on the RCA's list of "blogs Rabbis should keep an eye on". JK. I just thought it was hysterical that one guy wrote "Welcome RCA Rabbis" on the top of his blog. No, I do not believe that my blog would qualify on that elite listing. Honestly, I think finals is a good enough excuse and I don't have to fabricate any other cool ones. I will be posting something more interesting shortly....

Halakhic Man and the Mentor/Apprentice Model of Ancient Greece

2006-05-15T03:30:00.000-04:00

So I was talking to someone over Shabbos about the Rav in general and Halakhic Man specifically, and both of us noted the same danger in the youth of today reading such works. the problem is that we read Halakhic Man as a mussar sefer instead of what it is, a descriptive work. We are drawn in by the aesthetics and emotion of the Rav's compelling writing and somehow manage to convince ourselves that the experience of a few elite Briskers is the Talmud Torah experience, and is what our Talmud Torah experience should be, and in fact is what it is a few days after we start reading the book, since it has to be, since we convince ourselves that it has to be...and convince ourselves that it is a mere few days later. What the Rav was recording was an experience that grew and grew after years of sitting with his father every day over the gemara. Yet somehow we posit that as mere teenagers or even young adults, who have not learned even a fraction of the amount that the Rav learned, (aside from those of us who have-you are obsolved from this) we too can and must have the same experience. Furthermore, we think this has to be the experience, when as products of modernity and as individuals we will most definately have a different experience. THIS IS EXTREMELY DAMAGING! (But it is also true that it is a good way of convincing modern people that this a-priori system of thought, that ignores many assumptions that we have of the world, is the most worthwhile endeavor.) The same can be true of much of the Rav's descriptive work. It is positive and helpful in terms of bringing someone into his vision and religious experience, it helps to color our religious vision and experience, but as a moreh derech in the beginning. We all reach the point of disconnect when we realize that we can no longer read our Rav precisely because of what drew us to him in the first place! The Rav's descriptive style enables it to grab hold of our religious perspective, to almost shape our religious experience, if we relate to it in the least bit. There comes a point where we realize that is only helpful to open the door and then we crave our own autonomy, we want to create our very own "Lonely Man of Faith". It's the typical parent/child relationship. Some of us may even be upset at the Rav for shaping their religious perspetive, ignoring the help he gave by opening the door and letting in the light. And perhaps such a complaint would be legitimate. But hey! You picked up the book so blame yourself!

In connection to this, I was discussing with the same person (it was a 3 hour conversation) models of education, expressing my hopelessly ideal preference of the ancient Greek model of student and apprentice, which is somewhat similar to the timeless relationship of Rebbe/Talmid (aside from the homosexuality/sexual gratification). On the other hand, in light of what we just said about the Rav, as members of the modern, or shall I say post-modern world, we recognize the need for indivdual autonomy, for diversity, something that would not be available if one had a single teacher alone, and something that even in the world of Torah learning exists today. With the rise of mass education, and a parallel rise in Talmud Torah, more people know stuff. And although the revered Rebbe/Talmid relationship has dwindeled some because of that, because there are just so many people, and things have become less intimate, we have gained in terms of breadth and diversity. (Yes I know R' Akiva had 24,000 students. I know it wasn't always intimate.) But still, I continue to feel that there is a better balance that can be struck and that the personal and intimate relaitonship between a student and a teacher must be maintained if we value real knowledge and the process of its aqcuisition; if we value people and the discovery of some sort of "truth". The lack of intimacy defiles the knowledge and the people, making them both just like another i-pod or blackberry.

Ellie's Reaction to Shira's War against Brisk

2006-05-12T00:17:00.000-04:00

"It is not enough to merely "perform well", and specifically when reffering to Judaism, it is not enough to be the perfect Brisker and be "mekayem all of the shitos" and all of their technicality to the hair. Not that I necissarily think that that is even part of the equation. But for those that that happens to resonate within their religious spirit. "
-Shira

Ellie's Reaction:
"Oh Shira, stop lying. You're just talking to the Brisker in you.
'Not that I necissarily think that that is even part of the equation. But for those that that happens to resonate within their religious spirit'-nice save. likely excuse."
Is that what you are thinking Ellie???
Hehehehe. :)

Figure Skating Stories

2006-05-11T23:40:00.000-04:00

So I tried to post something on literature and art and me and Van Gogh and the public vs. the private/personal etc. etc. etc. but it deleted!
SO-
I don't feel like writing about that again. Maybe another time. Jess and Sa-we can talk about it at Starbucks with Ms. Milton this summer;) hehe-but Shira prob. won't be able to make it...oh well.
Anyhooo-
So having skated twice today(once in the a.m. and once in the p.m.), once on monday and getting ready to hit the ice tomorrow again in the a.m., skating is one my mind. (Shut up Jess and Flubs-stop laughing!!)
So I've been thinking a lot lately about the different elements of the sport. It's hard, trying to figure out (hehe-"figure") what to focus on, how to divide your time. And the question arises: is the purpose the program, or the elements themselves? Is the accomplished figure skater one who's jumps, spins and edge quality is superb, or is there an additionaly element involved that deems one "good".
Many may recall my frustration with the recent Olympic results. The men were fantabulous for the most part (aside from the beautiful Evan Lysacek's disasterous short) but the women left much to be desired. So much so that the practically unheard of Shizuka Arakawa snatched the gold medal with a very technically easy program compared to what should be expected of the gold medalist. But what bothered me most about her performance was not the lack of difficulty, although that is quite furstrating, but what I said was "she didn't tell a story".
Skaters are not just trained machines that are meant to land solid jumps and spin blalanced and quickly when called to. If that were the case skating would be just like any other sport: immense athletic strength. But a skater is more than that. They must combine all of the above and use it all to create a story on the ice. Sasha Cohen IS Juliet and Michelle Kwan IS Salomi, on the ice. These passionate interpretive performances require nothing short of pure artistry.
And I think in a sense I see this theme in life in general. It is not enough to merely "perform well", and specifically when reffering to Judaism, it is not enough to be the perfect Brisker and be "mekayem all of the shitos" and all of their technicality to the hair. Not that I necissarily think that that is even part of the equation. But for those that that happens to resonate within their religious spirit. We have to tell stories. Our lives need to be compelling, engaging. At the risk of the technicality sometimes. And to quote Krak/Shana and myself-since we both blurted this line out simultaneously one late Shavuos night in a little apt. on Rechov Amram Gaon-sometimes that's a risk you just have to take.
So the big question is: what do I skate to? The classic Romeo & Juliet, the theoretical "Man in the Iron Mask", which I still refuse to see (the movie) bc I want the music to have abstract and personal significance to me, not tied down by the actual story, or some grand piece of truly abstract classical music...perhaps tchaikovsky...?
Sorry this post isn't so cerebral. I'm just spewing about what's running through my head lately in the more active realm of my life...

university, america, and Yom Ha'atzmaut

2006-05-04T03:19:00.000-04:00

It's 3:15 in the morning, my posterior tibial tendan is sending shooting pains throughout my ankle and up my leg and I can't sleep. So I figure I may as well post something new, despite my oodles of stuff to read for class.
So today was Yom Ha'atzmaut. I went to the tekes of sorts at YU last night which was interesting. So much could be said in terms of analyzing the science behind organizing a Yom HaZikaron/Yom Ha'atzmaut "tekes" for American Jews in America. But I'm not really so interested in picking that apart right now. What I did find most interesting however was the chagigah that took place after. And I mean aside from the fact that probably for the first time I didn't even notice or pay attention to how high the mechitzah was until much later...which is probably also due to the fact that everyone was focused on just dancing that it didn't really matter.
What I found so interesting about the chagigah is that I think I enjoyed it more than the chagigot I attended during my two years in Israel. So I was talking to a friend about this who agreed. And I think that this reality is probably true for a lot of people, although many may not want to admit it, and it speaks volumes on our favorite topic: The Year in Israel. Now of course I could choose many things to critisize about the year during which you leave your personal life and world, your family and people who know you, and travel half way across the world, albeit to Israel, and entrust your life and soul to adult individuals who you meet for the first time and then proceed to rarely speak to ever again after its over. Aside from the unhealthiness of that sort of experience. Additionally, the focus on change and growth, which can be seen as a positive thing, creates this certain environment that permeates and seems to lead the chagigah like a conductor. The pressure to have a spiritual experience while dancing, or to be really "leibedig" and convince everyone else around you that that is what the real spiritual experience in fact is, is tangible. Even to the best of us I believe. It is extremely difficult to really enter your own inner world while sorrounded by fast moving people and loud music. Possible, but difficult. And in reality some of us probably tap in and out of that "place", depending on the nature of the song being played, and the moment, throughout the duration of the chagigah, and some of us maybe tap in once, and some of us not at all. And some people might think that this is all nonsense and the extreme focus on avodat HaShem puts one in the right mode to be genuine on the dance floor, which theoretically it should. But something tells me that is not the whole picture.
What is ironic, yet typical, is that it took a college Yom Ha'atzmaut chagigah for me to really feel pressure free. And I don't mean just from the pressure around me, but from my own internal pressure, to "get there", to that internal place where I am with G-d intensely and constantly. Assuming that you want to actually participate, just genuinely, the university focus on individuality and pluralism promotes this type of naturaleness in all areas of life and it somehow seeps onto the chagigah dance floor as well.
I don't beleive that I had a significantly more spiritual experience this year, whatever that even means. I think that it was a very natural experience, the sort that stems from an appreciation of the natural self. This type of appreciation is not one which is engendered in a yeshiva environment, a place which has the focus of self-improvement, of harnessing the natural self, and in some places of actually negating the natural self. And many may argue that it is not even engendered at YU, an Orthodox university. However, you must admit that it is much more so than at a regular yeshiva.
Additionally, it took an American environment, on American soil, to engender that experience as well. A country that stands for diversity and free from the tensions of a single-religion state. Yet...what is a Yom Ha'atzmaut chagigah outside of Israel? Despite the pressures of an envrionment like Israel, they are what make it unique, they are what give the day significance, they are what contribute to the very nature and essence of the celebration.
My experience this year was very enjoyable and part of that enjoyment was the fact that I wasn't trying to "get there", to that place where everyone thinks everyone else is getting to, even in the most litvish of atmospheres, of clinging to G-d through fervent dancing, again whatever that means. The university agenda and the American philosophy create an environment that is conducive to individuality and the genuine experience. It is because of that that I think I was able to have a smoother experience. Finally permitting myself to "just be" in terms of lifestyle in general because of university, the result was an experience that perhaps got farther than others, and perhaps didnt. I don't really know bc experiences are hard to compare like that, being in a different "place" after each one. I do know that it sure was just more pleasant. But for all the pleasantness, was it significant?

Language and The Written Word

2006-04-29T21:54:00.000-04:00

First of all, this blog is really more of a convenient way for me to keep a journal on my computer which I wanted to do anyway. And it's really working.
So over Shabbos I was talking with someone about the power of the written word and language...which is one of the more overwhelming conversations that one can have when one thinks about it for too long. R' Moshe, in his intro. to his shutim quotes the Gemara about when the Torah was given over to earth and people, how the letters themselves now possess the authority. His point is that his answers are only his understanding of the halakha but if anyone wants to disagree with him they are open to. Which is just testimony to the honesty and genuine-ness of R' Moshe. But in general it raises an important idea about the nature of the written word. Ideas are expressed into language, articulated through words. Each person interprets another's words through ones own filter of experience and thought and derives a unique meaning. How much more is this true of the written word that remains present for one to ponder and look at for longer.
Oftentimes I am around people that are...how shall I say, not literature people. The types that cast away literature as a meaningful endeavor the first time they hear their high school English teacher derive something meaningful form the text, using his/her literary intuition. "where does it say that?! as if the author actually intended any of that. you think he sat there thinking about every word?" they scoff mockingly. Lacking the understanding and imagination of the literary mind, they cast the whole field into the garbage can on their way out of the classroom. The answer to their objection is two fold: firstly, obviously authors are not mindless blobs that spend their time orchestrating words on paper to fill up their meaningless lives with. Anyone semi-familiar with writing understands what it is all about. What's embarrassing is that people continue to think this way into their adult years, never questioning their premise, stating their position pompously. But this is a moot point and I won't even exert energy discussing it further. But on another level, authors do not necessarily intend every idea that every person will ever derive from their work. And it doesn't really matter. As the writers of the screenplay for Brokeback Mountain said, once they put the film out for the world to see, it goes from being their baby, their work, to the world's property, free to be understood and treated however. Intellectual property although possesses an author, is in a certain sense ownerless and open for interpretation.
I was made most aware of this point last semester in a Creative Writing class. I was workshopping my short story and a friend of mine commented on it and brought out a point that I had never intended, but nevertheless was legitimate and added layers to the story of richness and depth. The bottom line is that the way we express ideas in language, our linguistic associations, how we phrase or describe something and how we arrange certain objects next to others, says something about our psyche and worldview. And we cannot help but say more than we are conscious of saying. The words themselves have the authority and they when written, become a sort of tangible but almost playdough like object that can be understood legitimately in many ways.
So it doesn't matter what the author intended. And even if it did, it isn't possible to ever understand an idea the exact same way as someone intends it since our understanding of one's words is based on our own associations, experience, psyche and intellect.
What this means in terms of Torah, the written word of G-d, is huge. It means that even if there is such a thing as one pristine and ideal conceptual "Torah", G-d's ideas, truth itself, 1) we could not actually get to it in its original form because we are not G-d, and 2) it doesn't really matter what the original intention was because the text itself has power, and our understanding of it matters and is legitimate, as long as it is logical and makes sense. What is interesting to ponder in this literary context is the other gemaras that talk about that every possible interpretation was given over to Moshe...
What this means in terms of literature, the written word of man, is that we can never fully get inside of another person, we are forced to interpret ideas through ourselves. And the text is authoritative. What we can glean from it is infinite.
We are a world of people constantly trying to understand eachother and failing at it. Lack of communication and miscommunication is the source of so many problems. There is a scene in Kafka's The Castle where he describes K's encounter with Frieda like two animals clawing at each other, trying but unable to get in. This depiction describes the experience and frustration of humanity in general. We try and we try but we can't fully escape ourselves, we can't fully enter someone else. If we could only internalize this and realize our limited understanding and ability, we would learn to view all people around us as equals, to care and empathize with them. We would realize that we are all in the same suffocating situation and would with humility and self-understanding, release ourselves from the shackles of our inhibitions and with care and concern reach out to the individual.

some poetry

2006-04-28T17:35:00.000-04:00

some poetry-why not.
ive changed the spacing on this a bazillion times and now i can't think about it anymore so im just leaving it as is.

Battle-scars

Clad for battle
she charged upon the luring night
adorned with weapons
determined to serve her victoriously.
A blade of boldness,
a dagger of desperation,
a rapier of resolve,
all so finely sharpened they
frightened even her.

And coerced by a will more powerful than
she, now decked with tools of a corrupted
craving, she began to descend,
one gym shoe at a time
the seemingly infinite
stacks of stairs leading
to the intended and
illustrious court
below.

Now compelled by a rushing
sense of insurgency
she thrust herself urgently
upon the game, attacking it
intensely, seeking
to conquer
its provoking jest, evoking
all the stamina she could
to prove to the eager spectators
simply that she would.

But caught up intensely
rushing and urging
the dexterous gym shoe clumsily
clashed with the shiny waxed floor;
the clickity-snap sound of her ankle echoed
accusingly against the vastness of the arena.
The confident limb cowardly collapsed
beneath the shattered façade of
her stalwart body, and
the majestic bounce of the big
black striped ball of orange
sheepishly faded into a rapid
and repetitive pitter-pattery tap
surrendering finally to
a morosely meek and silent roll
way off, escaping
all possibility of indictment.
Aching,
burning, swelling, wincing from
pain, the performance was
halted, as she fell
defeated.

And as she sits
age seventy-three,
the crowd evaded long ago,
plagued,
by the poignant
linger of the incessant and
incriminating aching and swelling that
devotedly pursues the culprit, trailing
behind quietly with suspicion, the
vehement warrior sits
rebuked, for needing to
prove so essentially that
she was legitimate.

And all through her life it has
served her well, the ever revisiting swell
and ache, to help contract her
pressing urge, and to
remind her to
just be.

blogging the real

2006-04-28T16:58:00.000-04:00

So the truth is, when blogs first came out I thought they were ridiculous. It was tough competition between facebook and blogs for the first place prize of "pathetic". But as time has gone by, blogs have quickly become one of the signature marks and forms of communication of our era. Although it seems to me that all respectable human beings should be able to derive solace and companionship from real-life relationships in the real world, instead of searching over the vast, mysterious and artificial cyberspace, blogs do provide unlimited contact with the world in a very unique sort of way. Additionally, blogs have developed into much more than a social crutch and have become real forms of academic dialogue. They provide a network of people so large and diverse which opens the doors of intellectual discussion to far more than official members of the revered "Academy" (although not excluding them either). Which is something that I am a big fan of. Ideas on blogs are much more of the honest, unique and personal thoughts of real people, freed from the shackles of formal academia. You no longer have to attend university x to be engaged in the same endeavor. The little people have become more intelligent. And for those of us actually involved in formal academia, it provides a place to probe much farther and deeper into the essence of everything than our prof.'s are interested in, their inquisitive souls having been marred long ago by the pompous goals of the formal world; it provides a forum for expressing the urgent urges of the concerned soul who experiences life desperately.
So I have concluded at this point that there is worth in this activity called blogging

"He did his best at a venture."

2006-04-27T21:44:00.000-04:00

"He did his best at a venture."
Henry James, The Madonna of the Future

Human Becomings-I know, I know, in a word: trite.
But I couldn't quite figure out how to refer to myself. I could have just tried to sound perhaps even more clever with homo sapien and been satisfied with it....because it sounds scientific and is much more neutral than big, significant terms such as "human being" or "human becoming". But it's precisely the biotic nature of the term that deterred me from employing it. And although the cute term "human becoming" may seem trite and sappy to some, and although I would have to agree with them, I kind of believe in it at the same time as not believing in it.
What is the self? Are we becomings or beings? Are we complex indefinable creatures, dynamic and constantly creative, never at rest, "always to be blessed", but never experiencing self understanding and actualization at any single point in one's personal historical evolution? Or indeed is there meaning to the momentary, fleeting self experience, with all its finitude and grandeur? Is the me of here and now genuine, impacting, significant, real.
And the truth is we are both beings and becomings, and either term alone would seem trite as well as incomplete. And any sceintific term would not capture the essence of this tension, of this lack of order and objectivity. We are creatures of experience, of many layers that are made up of more than just cells (although we are those as well :) ).
So I guess that is the point of this dialogue. A discussion of the tensions, complexities and pleasures of being human. A mixed expression of both the spontaneous and the pensive, of the settled and the unsettled self, of questions and clarity, of small points and monumental ideas, of negation and redemption, of ourselves as probing, seeking, thinking individuals, and lazy, hellinistic, selfish beings, and of course, just as ourselves.
The worth and futility of life co-exist as a dual reality. Most importantly and perhaps most significantly, we must aim as members of the human race to do our own best at a venture.