Sunday, April 09, 2006
Decisions
Wow. I think that the only thing that I hate more than than having to make decisions is already having made decisions and then having everything all decided. Last week, for the first time in my life, I had an answer when somebody asked me what I was planning to major in. Having an answer- one word, totally stark and decided, totally calm and final- was one of the freakiest experiences of my life. For a long time, I was able to hide behind the shrug of "No clue" and the excuse that I was a first year. For a long time, I was able to keep my options open, pretend that nothing was closed off or decided. For a long time, I delayed and avoided making simple life decisions because I was too afraid to commit to the implications, because once I chose, I would be stuck with that choice. Forever.
Forever. That's what really scared me. The idea that years and years and years from now, when I'm old and summarizing my life, this decision is going to be one of the things that shaped everything else. That, like Frost in The Road Less Traveled, I would be 'telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence', that this would be the decision that 'has made all the difference'. Bluntly speaking, I wimped out. I pretended that I was still deciding and had to consider more factors, but basically it was a question of not being able to muster up the courage to decide, being paralyzed by the myriads of consequences. It was not, I am afraid, a very efficient way of making a decision, but I was trapped.
The impasse was solved by running out of time. Specifically, I recieved a call on the Thursday of winter break from my sister who currently attends Bar Ilan. It seems that, unlike our earlier assumptions, the deadline for applying to the law-school was in February. Yeah. But, she said, Americans could get away with just about anything, so if I decided that I wanted to go, she would go to Zahava, who's in charge of the over-seas stuff, and get me accepted. She said that she was going to go watch a movie now and when it was over, she would call me back and hear what I had decided. "Talia," I squawked, "this is a major life decision! I can't decide in two hours!" My sister, who is pretty darn wise and knows me just a little too well, replied that I had to decide, that she couldn't make this decision for me. So she gave me until the next morning, and we said goodbye. I hung up the phone, shell-shocked and bug-eyed, and sat there staring at it for a while.
Less than thirty seconds later, my mother called. Heh, heh. Poor Mother. When she innocently picked up the phone to see if I wanted to go to a shiur that afternoon, little did she know that she was about to be bombarded by months and months worth of indecision, angst, whining, pacing, handwringing and so on and so forth. We spent about twenty minutes on the phone, during which I must have walked around the house twenty times, and gone through the arguments for and against the decisions about as often. Mother, because she happens to be a saint, was scrupulously careful not to influence my decision, not to prod me in either direction, not to give me any handholds or excuses to foist the decision off to somebody else. I had, in fact, no idea which side she favored until after my decision was reached.
It was not a pleasant twenty minutes for me, either. About halfway through, I realized that the enormity of the decision was paralyzing me. Once identified, the problem could be grappled with. Over the course of those incoherent twenty minutes, I decided that all life decisions are major, that I can't live in fear of what might be, that nothing I decide is going to commit me to anything for life, that I must have the guts to go with what seems right now, that what I decide will shape my life and I should use this opportunity to shape it, that nothing is ever going to be certain, that I'm sick and tired of being indecisive, that I was going to for it- "full speed ahead and darn the torpedoes".
And so that was that. All decided. My major, my profession, the country I would live in. Just like that. I hung up the phone, grabbed some lunch, went to the shiur. I was curiously numb. I sounded confident and intelligent while informing friends and family. I didn't replay the decision. I slept perfectly well Thursday night. The sensation lasted through the weekend and a couple of days into the next quarter, after which it fell apart entirely and I went back to be a nervous wreck, now with the idea of living with the decision that I had made. But at least it was fear that would no longer interfere with getting things done, since it is already decided. Still, it freaks me out every time I casually talk to someone at the Hillel about my plans, every time I explain why I'm not going to be here next year, and, most of all, every time that somebody asks me what I'm majoring in. Because, for the longest time, that was my dike, my defense about the bigness and scariness of the world. Oh sure, said my subconscious, I may be big and grown-up and in college, but it's not like I actually know what I'm doing with my life yet, so it's all cool. But at some point, you have to take your finger out of that dike and let life rush in, have to decide. And so I did.
And now I stand, drenched in implications, treading water in the flood of futures, conflicted and confused and scared and in denial, but finally and absolutely decided. I can't say that it feels good, but it feels right.
Forever. That's what really scared me. The idea that years and years and years from now, when I'm old and summarizing my life, this decision is going to be one of the things that shaped everything else. That, like Frost in The Road Less Traveled, I would be 'telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence', that this would be the decision that 'has made all the difference'. Bluntly speaking, I wimped out. I pretended that I was still deciding and had to consider more factors, but basically it was a question of not being able to muster up the courage to decide, being paralyzed by the myriads of consequences. It was not, I am afraid, a very efficient way of making a decision, but I was trapped.
The impasse was solved by running out of time. Specifically, I recieved a call on the Thursday of winter break from my sister who currently attends Bar Ilan. It seems that, unlike our earlier assumptions, the deadline for applying to the law-school was in February. Yeah. But, she said, Americans could get away with just about anything, so if I decided that I wanted to go, she would go to Zahava, who's in charge of the over-seas stuff, and get me accepted. She said that she was going to go watch a movie now and when it was over, she would call me back and hear what I had decided. "Talia," I squawked, "this is a major life decision! I can't decide in two hours!" My sister, who is pretty darn wise and knows me just a little too well, replied that I had to decide, that she couldn't make this decision for me. So she gave me until the next morning, and we said goodbye. I hung up the phone, shell-shocked and bug-eyed, and sat there staring at it for a while.
Less than thirty seconds later, my mother called. Heh, heh. Poor Mother. When she innocently picked up the phone to see if I wanted to go to a shiur that afternoon, little did she know that she was about to be bombarded by months and months worth of indecision, angst, whining, pacing, handwringing and so on and so forth. We spent about twenty minutes on the phone, during which I must have walked around the house twenty times, and gone through the arguments for and against the decisions about as often. Mother, because she happens to be a saint, was scrupulously careful not to influence my decision, not to prod me in either direction, not to give me any handholds or excuses to foist the decision off to somebody else. I had, in fact, no idea which side she favored until after my decision was reached.
It was not a pleasant twenty minutes for me, either. About halfway through, I realized that the enormity of the decision was paralyzing me. Once identified, the problem could be grappled with. Over the course of those incoherent twenty minutes, I decided that all life decisions are major, that I can't live in fear of what might be, that nothing I decide is going to commit me to anything for life, that I must have the guts to go with what seems right now, that what I decide will shape my life and I should use this opportunity to shape it, that nothing is ever going to be certain, that I'm sick and tired of being indecisive, that I was going to for it- "full speed ahead and darn the torpedoes".
And so that was that. All decided. My major, my profession, the country I would live in. Just like that. I hung up the phone, grabbed some lunch, went to the shiur. I was curiously numb. I sounded confident and intelligent while informing friends and family. I didn't replay the decision. I slept perfectly well Thursday night. The sensation lasted through the weekend and a couple of days into the next quarter, after which it fell apart entirely and I went back to be a nervous wreck, now with the idea of living with the decision that I had made. But at least it was fear that would no longer interfere with getting things done, since it is already decided. Still, it freaks me out every time I casually talk to someone at the Hillel about my plans, every time I explain why I'm not going to be here next year, and, most of all, every time that somebody asks me what I'm majoring in. Because, for the longest time, that was my dike, my defense about the bigness and scariness of the world. Oh sure, said my subconscious, I may be big and grown-up and in college, but it's not like I actually know what I'm doing with my life yet, so it's all cool. But at some point, you have to take your finger out of that dike and let life rush in, have to decide. And so I did.
And now I stand, drenched in implications, treading water in the flood of futures, conflicted and confused and scared and in denial, but finally and absolutely decided. I can't say that it feels good, but it feels right.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Ode to the Women with Blue Eyebrows who I saw on the Subway
(well, it would be an ode, except that I'm not really in the mood to write poetry)
I sat in the flaking shelter, bored, scanning faces for a narrative. Nothing- business men in long black trenchcoats, blond children spitting on the windows, women in jeans and cell phones- smooth in their averageness. I'm sure they all have stories, but any that I try to latch onto them slide off, humdrum or cliche in their attempts to avoid the humdrum. A fleet of identical-faced spectres.
And then there is you. You have hair down to your waist, oddly flaxen in color and texture, unkempt and unbeautiful. It looks like a Purim wig, and then I think that the comparison is unkind. You wear black cowboy boots, black leggings, and an off-white suede jacket with buckskin fringes. Are you trying for a co-ordinated style? But then why the light blue bandana headband tangled in your hair?
I think that you are almost too theatrical to be true, and that is even before I see your face- over fifty, sour-looking, and so heavily made-up that you seem to wear a mask of foundation. Your eyebrows are entirely gone, and blue make-up eyebrows have replaced them, drawn in a Cruella Deville shape above your overly made-up eyes. You do not look at anyone. You take out an I-Pod and begin to listen to it, swaying a bit to its music.
Your fingernails are at least an inch long, French manicured and almost talon-like. I wonder if they are real or fake, and how uncomfortable they must be. Later, I see that your thumbs are normal, short and unpainted. A concession to practicality or another fashion choice? Your nails hold the I-POD gingerly.
I try not to stare as you sit beside me on the bench, or as you walk with me onto the train. You have a purse and rolling suitcase, and automatic courtesy almost moves me to offer to help you with one of them. But you seem to manage both fine. You, like I, get off at the last stop, but I lose track of you as I go out to the busses.
I never did make up a narrative for you. You didn't seem to need one. You were just there, anamolous, unreal, unabashed. Not a metaphor or a symbol, although you could be both. Simply yourself, unexplained, woman with the blue eyebrows riding on the subway.
I sat in the flaking shelter, bored, scanning faces for a narrative. Nothing- business men in long black trenchcoats, blond children spitting on the windows, women in jeans and cell phones- smooth in their averageness. I'm sure they all have stories, but any that I try to latch onto them slide off, humdrum or cliche in their attempts to avoid the humdrum. A fleet of identical-faced spectres.
And then there is you. You have hair down to your waist, oddly flaxen in color and texture, unkempt and unbeautiful. It looks like a Purim wig, and then I think that the comparison is unkind. You wear black cowboy boots, black leggings, and an off-white suede jacket with buckskin fringes. Are you trying for a co-ordinated style? But then why the light blue bandana headband tangled in your hair?
I think that you are almost too theatrical to be true, and that is even before I see your face- over fifty, sour-looking, and so heavily made-up that you seem to wear a mask of foundation. Your eyebrows are entirely gone, and blue make-up eyebrows have replaced them, drawn in a Cruella Deville shape above your overly made-up eyes. You do not look at anyone. You take out an I-Pod and begin to listen to it, swaying a bit to its music.
Your fingernails are at least an inch long, French manicured and almost talon-like. I wonder if they are real or fake, and how uncomfortable they must be. Later, I see that your thumbs are normal, short and unpainted. A concession to practicality or another fashion choice? Your nails hold the I-POD gingerly.
I try not to stare as you sit beside me on the bench, or as you walk with me onto the train. You have a purse and rolling suitcase, and automatic courtesy almost moves me to offer to help you with one of them. But you seem to manage both fine. You, like I, get off at the last stop, but I lose track of you as I go out to the busses.
I never did make up a narrative for you. You didn't seem to need one. You were just there, anamolous, unreal, unabashed. Not a metaphor or a symbol, although you could be both. Simply yourself, unexplained, woman with the blue eyebrows riding on the subway.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Tehillim and Music
One of my giantest pet peeves in high school was the communal singing of Hallel on Rosh Chodesh. First of all, this meant that everyone had to reach this point in davening at the same time, which of course was physically impossible and meant that half the school was sitting around whispering and giggling while the other half was still in Pesukei D'Zimra. The other problem, and the one that is actually relevant to my point, is that the singing was probably the most torturous, unmelodious thing I have ever heard.
This is not, I must stress, a reflection on the voices of my peers. As I have mentioned before, my own voice is undeniably awful, and most of my friends had actually quite nice voices. But there is little that even the nicest of voices can do with Hallel tunes. The tunes themselves might have been bearable, had everyone agreed to simply forget trying to match them to the lyrics- perhaps not pretty, or harmonious, or creative, but bearable. But instead, we hacked and stretched the poor words like a chorus of Procusteses (gosh, I love wikipedia)- here crowding three to a note, here making an unstressed syllable last three measures, here inserting imaginary syllables in the form of "oy"s or "la"s. It was bad. It almost made one forget that the words were beautiful and poetic and estatic and so forth.
And for the longest time, I blamed this simply on the tunes that the school chose to use. But over time, I have come to realize that even the best tunes for Tehillim involve a bit of word-mutilation. Tunes fit better when they have less lyrics to adjust to, but anything that tries to fit a melody to an entire psalm is just asking for trouble. Some tunes manage it more melodiously than others, but all struggle.
And just this week, during music, I realized why this is. I had always assumed that Tehillim was set to music at one point, and so it must be the sort of thing that musicalizes (yes, made up word. Shhh) well. And I still think that this is possible. But maybe we are simply trying the wrong kind of music? You see, once upon a time, back when there were basically just Gregorian chants, rhythm and meter really didn't matter much. Inserting and enforcing meter in music is a modern construct. So it's very possible that tehillim, since it really ignores meter within its poetry, is never going to fit very well into a tune that tries to dictate a meter to it. Maybe we should just accept this. I mean, this doesn't mean that we shouldn't continue putting it to music of all genres, but what I want to see is whether it goes better to meterless, Gregorian sorts of melodies. Of course, it is probably a little heretical and possibly non-halachic to suggest that we adopt Church musical styles, but I figure that that's probably closer to the way that it was actually sung in the Temple, which means that we have dibs. Plus, it doesn't have to be so Gregorian. I mean, often those chants are really pretty dull, since they weren't exploring all that many pitches either. What I actually want is something more akin to the antiphons, where they started having these cool soaring harmonies, still without imposing too much of a tune on the words and thus forcing them to be mangled.
This may, in fact, be the reason that I am so fond of Yosef Karduner's Shir Lama'alot- it wanders along with the words instead of deciding on a tune and making the words stay with it. It has that special feel of someone jsut saying the words, only a heck of a lot prettier. There is a beat, but it is fluid enough to allow the words to do the real work. Check it out here. I guess I want to see more of this style...it seems more true to the poetic style of the Tehillim and less like an attempt to make the words perform a function for which they were never really intended.
This is not, I must stress, a reflection on the voices of my peers. As I have mentioned before, my own voice is undeniably awful, and most of my friends had actually quite nice voices. But there is little that even the nicest of voices can do with Hallel tunes. The tunes themselves might have been bearable, had everyone agreed to simply forget trying to match them to the lyrics- perhaps not pretty, or harmonious, or creative, but bearable. But instead, we hacked and stretched the poor words like a chorus of Procusteses (gosh, I love wikipedia)- here crowding three to a note, here making an unstressed syllable last three measures, here inserting imaginary syllables in the form of "oy"s or "la"s. It was bad. It almost made one forget that the words were beautiful and poetic and estatic and so forth.
And for the longest time, I blamed this simply on the tunes that the school chose to use. But over time, I have come to realize that even the best tunes for Tehillim involve a bit of word-mutilation. Tunes fit better when they have less lyrics to adjust to, but anything that tries to fit a melody to an entire psalm is just asking for trouble. Some tunes manage it more melodiously than others, but all struggle.
And just this week, during music, I realized why this is. I had always assumed that Tehillim was set to music at one point, and so it must be the sort of thing that musicalizes (yes, made up word. Shhh) well. And I still think that this is possible. But maybe we are simply trying the wrong kind of music? You see, once upon a time, back when there were basically just Gregorian chants, rhythm and meter really didn't matter much. Inserting and enforcing meter in music is a modern construct. So it's very possible that tehillim, since it really ignores meter within its poetry, is never going to fit very well into a tune that tries to dictate a meter to it. Maybe we should just accept this. I mean, this doesn't mean that we shouldn't continue putting it to music of all genres, but what I want to see is whether it goes better to meterless, Gregorian sorts of melodies. Of course, it is probably a little heretical and possibly non-halachic to suggest that we adopt Church musical styles, but I figure that that's probably closer to the way that it was actually sung in the Temple, which means that we have dibs. Plus, it doesn't have to be so Gregorian. I mean, often those chants are really pretty dull, since they weren't exploring all that many pitches either. What I actually want is something more akin to the antiphons, where they started having these cool soaring harmonies, still without imposing too much of a tune on the words and thus forcing them to be mangled.
This may, in fact, be the reason that I am so fond of Yosef Karduner's Shir Lama'alot- it wanders along with the words instead of deciding on a tune and making the words stay with it. It has that special feel of someone jsut saying the words, only a heck of a lot prettier. There is a beat, but it is fluid enough to allow the words to do the real work. Check it out here. I guess I want to see more of this style...it seems more true to the poetic style of the Tehillim and less like an attempt to make the words perform a function for which they were never really intended.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Sacrifices
People have a lot of problems with Sefer Vayikra, and I must admit that I do as well. I have, in R' Orlefsky's classic phrase (I think it's him, anyway), a severe case of Mishkanophobia- my eyes glaze over at the first mention of dimensions and all the korbanot start to sound the same after a couple of verses. But there is one objection that people have that I really have never understood- the aversion to sacrifices as an idea. These usually come in two flavors- those who think that anything that involves animal death is primitive and barbaric, and those who think that the whole thing is ritualistic and primitive and barbaric and reflects pagan values, and so forth. For the former, I have little sympathy, being of the firm opinion that animals are here for a reason, and I don't see why we oughtn't use them. They aren't people, after all, and sweet as they may be, one doesn't get the impression that they have souls, and so I have no real qualms about killing them for a good cause. Or for a moderately good cause, which includes my own nourishment. I don't endorse killing animals for fun, but only because I think that it's likely to make someone into a bit of a sick and twisted person. But in general, can't say I have objections to killing animals.
I have a little more sympathy for those who think that the whole sacrifice thing is primitive, mostly because Rambam basically agrees, saying, yeah it's barbaric and pagan, but then, so were Bnei Yisrael when the Torah was given and they had to have something to channel all of those pagan inclinations. But I can't say that this is the view that I've ever held. While I definitely can see the pagan leanings in sacrifices, I think that once something is a mitzva, there's no point explaining away why it is one. It's almost like a discussion we had in English this week, where our teacher argued that it's possible for a poem to have levels or meanings or depths that the author did not know about or intend, because it simply becomes its own artistic entity. I'm not sure if I buy the argument re: poems, but in terms of mitzvot, I think it wise to look at the mitzva qua mitzva instead of the origins or explanations thereof.
And, qua mitzva, korbanot are incredibly powerful. Korbanot aren't really pagan, because they're not really about G-d. They're about you.
This is a korban: buying a sheep in a crowded Jerusalem marketplace that swims with other pilgrims, whose voices meld into a chattering cacophony like a counterpart to the distant Levite chorus. The sheep costs more than you can afford, but you buy it anyway, pull it after you through the alleyways. Climbing up a hill to the shining building that belongs to G-d. A long line that slowly advances, solemn with common purpose. The air smells faintly of roasting meat, and strongly of incense, and the Temple gleams white and gold over your heads. Now the crowd is quiet, in awe of the time and place, so that the choir rings out clearly, and everywhere there are priests, running from place to place. You come forward at last, lean your hands against your sheep's head. You press down with all of your strength, pushing your sins out of you and on to its head. And then you watch it die, in a sudden, brutal slice, and the blood flows out into basins, and then is splashed around the altar. And then your sheep, your guilt, your sacrifice is burnt away, leaving only thick dark smoke that spirals upwards to touch the face of G-d.
The point isn't whether guilt is transferred onto an animal, or whether G-d wants a sheep to mollify Him after you have offended Him. The point is that you take something hard earned and give it to G-d. The point is that you can feel that your sin has been burned away, atoned for, so that you can begin again. That you feel that the animal is you, being slaughtered for your sins, bleeding at your feet. That your sinfulness is displaced so that you can strike against it and destroy it and burn it up to G-d. We think that because we are modern, we can have the feelings without the rituals, but rituals are more powerful than anything in the world.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges" Rituals shape our consciousness, our feelings. "After the actions, the heart is drawn," to quote the Sefer HaChinuch, and, done correctly, a ritual creates a mood. Often, this requires an active suspension of disbelief, an effort on the part of the modern consciousness. We are so distant from sacrifices that kaparot makes no sense to us, so far removed from feudal ceremony that the steps and bows of shemona esreh seem entirely empty. Sometimes, I think it's worthwhile to read fantasy books just so as to be able to have a picture to conjure up in your head when you bow for Modim (a teacher in seminary insisted on translating Modim as 'we pledge fealty' and the mood really works, even if the translation is iffier.) The point is, sacrifices are a ritual, and like all other rituals, the meaning is derived from the pageantry, from the emotion, from the unsophisticated, unintellectual ceremony. And I don't think that this is something that we grow up out of as we become modern, but merely something that we forget.
I have a little more sympathy for those who think that the whole sacrifice thing is primitive, mostly because Rambam basically agrees, saying, yeah it's barbaric and pagan, but then, so were Bnei Yisrael when the Torah was given and they had to have something to channel all of those pagan inclinations. But I can't say that this is the view that I've ever held. While I definitely can see the pagan leanings in sacrifices, I think that once something is a mitzva, there's no point explaining away why it is one. It's almost like a discussion we had in English this week, where our teacher argued that it's possible for a poem to have levels or meanings or depths that the author did not know about or intend, because it simply becomes its own artistic entity. I'm not sure if I buy the argument re: poems, but in terms of mitzvot, I think it wise to look at the mitzva qua mitzva instead of the origins or explanations thereof.
And, qua mitzva, korbanot are incredibly powerful. Korbanot aren't really pagan, because they're not really about G-d. They're about you.
This is a korban: buying a sheep in a crowded Jerusalem marketplace that swims with other pilgrims, whose voices meld into a chattering cacophony like a counterpart to the distant Levite chorus. The sheep costs more than you can afford, but you buy it anyway, pull it after you through the alleyways. Climbing up a hill to the shining building that belongs to G-d. A long line that slowly advances, solemn with common purpose. The air smells faintly of roasting meat, and strongly of incense, and the Temple gleams white and gold over your heads. Now the crowd is quiet, in awe of the time and place, so that the choir rings out clearly, and everywhere there are priests, running from place to place. You come forward at last, lean your hands against your sheep's head. You press down with all of your strength, pushing your sins out of you and on to its head. And then you watch it die, in a sudden, brutal slice, and the blood flows out into basins, and then is splashed around the altar. And then your sheep, your guilt, your sacrifice is burnt away, leaving only thick dark smoke that spirals upwards to touch the face of G-d.
The point isn't whether guilt is transferred onto an animal, or whether G-d wants a sheep to mollify Him after you have offended Him. The point is that you take something hard earned and give it to G-d. The point is that you can feel that your sin has been burned away, atoned for, so that you can begin again. That you feel that the animal is you, being slaughtered for your sins, bleeding at your feet. That your sinfulness is displaced so that you can strike against it and destroy it and burn it up to G-d. We think that because we are modern, we can have the feelings without the rituals, but rituals are more powerful than anything in the world.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges" Rituals shape our consciousness, our feelings. "After the actions, the heart is drawn," to quote the Sefer HaChinuch, and, done correctly, a ritual creates a mood. Often, this requires an active suspension of disbelief, an effort on the part of the modern consciousness. We are so distant from sacrifices that kaparot makes no sense to us, so far removed from feudal ceremony that the steps and bows of shemona esreh seem entirely empty. Sometimes, I think it's worthwhile to read fantasy books just so as to be able to have a picture to conjure up in your head when you bow for Modim (a teacher in seminary insisted on translating Modim as 'we pledge fealty' and the mood really works, even if the translation is iffier.) The point is, sacrifices are a ritual, and like all other rituals, the meaning is derived from the pageantry, from the emotion, from the unsophisticated, unintellectual ceremony. And I don't think that this is something that we grow up out of as we become modern, but merely something that we forget.
No Topic In Particular
Hello, blog. I haven't posted in a while, have I, and there's not really much of a good reason for that. Just haven't felt like it. Well, that isn't strictly true. Often, in the middle of class, I am seized with the idea for a very fun blog post, but the inspiration has always faded by the time I actually make it to a computer. Ah, well. Still, I suppose that I ought to update this thing on what's generally going on in my life, if only because it increases the chances that later rants will make some vague sort of sense.
The big news of which my blog has yet to be informed is that I have decided to transfer to Bar Ilan University next year. I had been debating the move all year, but never felt much like posting about it. Sorry. Anyways, basically it was a question of deciding whether or not I wanted to go into law. If I did, given that I also wanted eventually to make aliya, then the logical thing to do would be to go to a school in Israel, as law is an undergraduate degree there and a law degree from the US, besides taking an extra three years, would be mostly useless when I made aliya. So I finally decided, that yes, I probably do, so there it is.
The problem with decisions is that once you make them, you have to make a lot of other decisions plus you have to mope and feel conflicted about the ones that you have already made. Bummer. So now I am trying to decide whether to make official aliya during the summer, whether to do an ulpan, etc etc etc, while simultaneously trying to squelch doubts about my decision. Not that I wouldn't have doubts had I made any other decision, or that there was any process by which I could have reached a decision that would not engender doubts. Again, sometimes my mind seems to simply delight in being annoying.
The big news of which my blog has yet to be informed is that I have decided to transfer to Bar Ilan University next year. I had been debating the move all year, but never felt much like posting about it. Sorry. Anyways, basically it was a question of deciding whether or not I wanted to go into law. If I did, given that I also wanted eventually to make aliya, then the logical thing to do would be to go to a school in Israel, as law is an undergraduate degree there and a law degree from the US, besides taking an extra three years, would be mostly useless when I made aliya. So I finally decided, that yes, I probably do, so there it is.
The problem with decisions is that once you make them, you have to make a lot of other decisions plus you have to mope and feel conflicted about the ones that you have already made. Bummer. So now I am trying to decide whether to make official aliya during the summer, whether to do an ulpan, etc etc etc, while simultaneously trying to squelch doubts about my decision. Not that I wouldn't have doubts had I made any other decision, or that there was any process by which I could have reached a decision that would not engender doubts. Again, sometimes my mind seems to simply delight in being annoying.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Random Rant
I got a paper back today, a few corrections, a few inane professorial comments. And for some reason, with every single use of the word 'book' crossed out and replaced with 'novel'. Now, I'll grant that novel is a big, fancy, two-syllable word, second only to "literary work" for pretentiousness of diction, but does that mean that 'book' is automatically incorrect?
Israeli Elections
I admit, I have not been keeping up with Israeli politics too much. Not being an Israeli citizen, I avoid the dilemma of having to figure out who the heck I would support, for which I am profoundly grateful. Still, I was deeply disturbed by the approach I read here. Granted, I think it is unwise to sell one's soul to any political party, but that's as far as I'm willing to go. The notion that all the parties are horrible, let's just ditch the whole mess and wait for Moshiach to sort things out seems to me to an affront not only to the premises of Zionism, but to the very foundations of our responsibilities in this world as Jews and as human beings.
Do I think that any of the parties is perfect? Do I think that there is any solution that will solve all of Israel's problems? Do I even believe that it is likely that we will find a leadership that will not unilaterally give up more land? No, I am afraid I do not. So what? Can we afford to wait on perfect?
Refusal to compromise, to discuss, to accept less than perfect is in itself a decision, and is usually like voting for a third-party candidate (in the American system, that is)- it only ends up lending support to the cause that you fear most. If we refuse to support the lesser of two evils, we often end up supporting the greater, and I think that this decision carries with it full moral culpability for the consequences.
This is the same mentality as the hard-core disengagement protesters. As unmitigated idealists, they could not accept an imperfect reality. There are people who, up to the last minute, simply did not believe that G-d would allow disengagement to occur. There would be lightning, there would be moshiach, there would be whatever it took, but disengagement would not be allowed to happen. But it was.
Moshiach isn't going to come to bail us out of our problems. Because that's our mission in life. We are put on this earth to deal with the darkness and the ugly realities to the best of our abilities, and throwing up our hands and waiting for G-d to swoop in is no more acceptable in the political sphere than it is in any other, no more acceptable than saying that there are some good points on either side of this halachic question, so we ought to wait for a bat kol. Which is not to say that moshiach cannot come tomorrow. Or that he will not. But he is not the answer to these difficult questions, any more than he was the answer to any other problem in Jewish history. Our current conflicts will be answered, as all previous ones have been, by mundane human means. And if we refuse to lend our hands towards directing the course of history, than all that means is that those we most oppose will have more of a say.
Do I trust any leader or party in Israel? No. Do I like the idea of possibly having to cede land and uproot communities? Of course not. Do I hope and pray that moshiach will come tomorrow and finally, finally straighten out all of these problems? Absolutely. Do I cling to this hope, turning my back on the tools and tasks that G-d has laid before us, shunning compromise at the expense of inviting total defeat, tossing my difficult decisions back into G-d's lap? No. I dare not.
Do I think that any of the parties is perfect? Do I think that there is any solution that will solve all of Israel's problems? Do I even believe that it is likely that we will find a leadership that will not unilaterally give up more land? No, I am afraid I do not. So what? Can we afford to wait on perfect?
Refusal to compromise, to discuss, to accept less than perfect is in itself a decision, and is usually like voting for a third-party candidate (in the American system, that is)- it only ends up lending support to the cause that you fear most. If we refuse to support the lesser of two evils, we often end up supporting the greater, and I think that this decision carries with it full moral culpability for the consequences.
This is the same mentality as the hard-core disengagement protesters. As unmitigated idealists, they could not accept an imperfect reality. There are people who, up to the last minute, simply did not believe that G-d would allow disengagement to occur. There would be lightning, there would be moshiach, there would be whatever it took, but disengagement would not be allowed to happen. But it was.
Moshiach isn't going to come to bail us out of our problems. Because that's our mission in life. We are put on this earth to deal with the darkness and the ugly realities to the best of our abilities, and throwing up our hands and waiting for G-d to swoop in is no more acceptable in the political sphere than it is in any other, no more acceptable than saying that there are some good points on either side of this halachic question, so we ought to wait for a bat kol. Which is not to say that moshiach cannot come tomorrow. Or that he will not. But he is not the answer to these difficult questions, any more than he was the answer to any other problem in Jewish history. Our current conflicts will be answered, as all previous ones have been, by mundane human means. And if we refuse to lend our hands towards directing the course of history, than all that means is that those we most oppose will have more of a say.
Do I trust any leader or party in Israel? No. Do I like the idea of possibly having to cede land and uproot communities? Of course not. Do I hope and pray that moshiach will come tomorrow and finally, finally straighten out all of these problems? Absolutely. Do I cling to this hope, turning my back on the tools and tasks that G-d has laid before us, shunning compromise at the expense of inviting total defeat, tossing my difficult decisions back into G-d's lap? No. I dare not.
Biology Class
Just finished my first biology class of the quarter. It was actually pretty entertaining. Today, of course, was only an introduction, talking about biology and so forth. The teacher kept saying that evolution is the basis of biology, the golden thread that runs through it, without which nothing at all can make any sense, discovered by Darwin based on observation, totally proven, etc, etc, etc. It could just have been my filtering, but I got the distinct impression that she was being just a little defensive. I was enormously entertained; I felt like I, as a representative of backwards religious-right extremism, ought to have been jumping up and shouting "Heresy! Heresy! Burn her!" or something, just so as to fulfill her apparent expectations. Which is funny, since I actually don't find evolution problematic at all, religiously. Based on my understanding of the whole Bereishit thing, especially as read by Dr. Schroeder (sp?) in Bereishit and the Big Bang, etc, it really isn't a problem. And even if it was, I doubt that I would be so horribly offended by even hearing it suggested. Nor, most likely, is there anyone trying to force intelligent design into private university curriculums. But, nonetheless, she was most adamant about the whole subject.
A more interesting point raised was the question of "What is life?" In the scientific sense, not the metaphysical. We came up with no definition that didn't apply to computers, except for "possessing a genetic blue-print", which applies to dead people. I suppose some combination of factors might be necessary- possessing genetic blue-print and responding to stimuli. I think that discussions like this are fascinating because it seems like a question of trying to put words to a vague concept that everyone has, but then you get the most fascinating nafka minot on those edge cases- viruses, AI, point of death questions. The process has a rhythm of its own- definition, counter-example, re-definition, edge case, and so forth. Very legalistic, very gemara actually. Fun stuff. But not really the sort of thing you're going to come to conclusions about in a biology class. Still, for an introduction, it's at least as interesting as reminding us all why evolution rocks.
A more interesting point raised was the question of "What is life?" In the scientific sense, not the metaphysical. We came up with no definition that didn't apply to computers, except for "possessing a genetic blue-print", which applies to dead people. I suppose some combination of factors might be necessary- possessing genetic blue-print and responding to stimuli. I think that discussions like this are fascinating because it seems like a question of trying to put words to a vague concept that everyone has, but then you get the most fascinating nafka minot on those edge cases- viruses, AI, point of death questions. The process has a rhythm of its own- definition, counter-example, re-definition, edge case, and so forth. Very legalistic, very gemara actually. Fun stuff. But not really the sort of thing you're going to come to conclusions about in a biology class. Still, for an introduction, it's at least as interesting as reminding us all why evolution rocks.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Lord of the Rings
This post is dedicated to Chana. She knows why
For the longest time, I refused to watch any of the Lord of the Rings movies for fear that I might like them, thus creating a conflict with my extreme dislike of the books. Or rather, of the first book, since I was incapable of mustering up the energy to read any of the others. In fact, I only finished the first one since people told me that I couldn't appreciate or insult it until the end. And after putting myself through one afternoon of pure agony, they went and told me that I had to read the entire trilogy to be able to have a say in these things. Grrrrr.
Anyway, I need not have worried about watching the movies. Last night, I saw Return of the King with a couple of friends from high school. It was, and I say this without hesitation, unmitigatedly awful. Now, admittedly, I was predisposed to mock it, given the fact that I was a little crazy with seeing old friends, sugar, and the lateness of the hour, as well as the fact that I always mock movies as I watch them. It's part of the viewing experience. Or rather, not always mock, if they happen to be good, but engage in a steady stream of comments, predictions, critiques, anything that pops into my head. For some reason, this occasionally annoys people, but last night, everyone else was also mocking at full speed. The movie just made it so darn easy.
To be fair to Tolkein, it is possible that his ideas did not seem so worn-out, humdrum, predictable, pathetic, stereotypical and all around ridiculous when they were new and pioneering. But it is impossible that they ever sounded clever. I mean, I know that the book is fantasy and that this entails some things, but did he really need to have all of the characters converse only in vague, pretentious epic last words at one another? While they gaze, tormented or noble-looking off into the distance? I mean, if I were in a battle and about to die, I don't think that I would comfort others with speeches about a land of white beaches with swift sunrises (What the heck is a swift sunrise, anyway?) More likely the conversation would go like this: "So." "Yeah." "Well. It was..." "Yeah. Let's do this." "Goodbye." "You too." I mean, probably not, probably I have no idea what I would say, but that's more the way that I would write the scene. Probably in real life, no conversation of the kind would go on at all. But certainly not long-winded speeches about honor and courage and love. Read Killer Angels or All Quiet on the Western Front, my friends, if you want to know how people about to die really talk. Or any decent book in the world to learn how people in normal situations act. Not Tolkeinesque, that's for darn sure.
Anyway, the movie, I suppose, had the virtue of cutting out Tolkein's twenty page descriptions of trees, but at the cost of leaving his plot and characters intact. They tried to make up for this by cool action and long, long actions sequences, but you got the impression that they were pouring pepper into concrete- just because you make it spicier doesn't make it edible. Plus the fact that the action sequences all started to look very much alike. Plus the fact that every single twist of the plot, down to the "I am no man" was painfully predictable. Plus the fact that I never felt a scrap of emotion for any of the characters, except for some vague amusement at that crazy one who set himself on fire. I liked Aragon's final rallying speech, but mostly because one of the radio talk show hosts uses it as his opening montage.
All in all, it was a thoroughly ridiculous movie. I suppose that I should be grateful that it did not force me to re-evaluate my opinion of the series, nor concede that the movies were actually good. And it was awfully fun to watch, with a similarly scornful co-audience and plenty of sugar in the blood stream.
For the longest time, I refused to watch any of the Lord of the Rings movies for fear that I might like them, thus creating a conflict with my extreme dislike of the books. Or rather, of the first book, since I was incapable of mustering up the energy to read any of the others. In fact, I only finished the first one since people told me that I couldn't appreciate or insult it until the end. And after putting myself through one afternoon of pure agony, they went and told me that I had to read the entire trilogy to be able to have a say in these things. Grrrrr.
Anyway, I need not have worried about watching the movies. Last night, I saw Return of the King with a couple of friends from high school. It was, and I say this without hesitation, unmitigatedly awful. Now, admittedly, I was predisposed to mock it, given the fact that I was a little crazy with seeing old friends, sugar, and the lateness of the hour, as well as the fact that I always mock movies as I watch them. It's part of the viewing experience. Or rather, not always mock, if they happen to be good, but engage in a steady stream of comments, predictions, critiques, anything that pops into my head. For some reason, this occasionally annoys people, but last night, everyone else was also mocking at full speed. The movie just made it so darn easy.
To be fair to Tolkein, it is possible that his ideas did not seem so worn-out, humdrum, predictable, pathetic, stereotypical and all around ridiculous when they were new and pioneering. But it is impossible that they ever sounded clever. I mean, I know that the book is fantasy and that this entails some things, but did he really need to have all of the characters converse only in vague, pretentious epic last words at one another? While they gaze, tormented or noble-looking off into the distance? I mean, if I were in a battle and about to die, I don't think that I would comfort others with speeches about a land of white beaches with swift sunrises (What the heck is a swift sunrise, anyway?) More likely the conversation would go like this: "So." "Yeah." "Well. It was..." "Yeah. Let's do this." "Goodbye." "You too." I mean, probably not, probably I have no idea what I would say, but that's more the way that I would write the scene. Probably in real life, no conversation of the kind would go on at all. But certainly not long-winded speeches about honor and courage and love. Read Killer Angels or All Quiet on the Western Front, my friends, if you want to know how people about to die really talk. Or any decent book in the world to learn how people in normal situations act. Not Tolkeinesque, that's for darn sure.
Anyway, the movie, I suppose, had the virtue of cutting out Tolkein's twenty page descriptions of trees, but at the cost of leaving his plot and characters intact. They tried to make up for this by cool action and long, long actions sequences, but you got the impression that they were pouring pepper into concrete- just because you make it spicier doesn't make it edible. Plus the fact that the action sequences all started to look very much alike. Plus the fact that every single twist of the plot, down to the "I am no man" was painfully predictable. Plus the fact that I never felt a scrap of emotion for any of the characters, except for some vague amusement at that crazy one who set himself on fire. I liked Aragon's final rallying speech, but mostly because one of the radio talk show hosts uses it as his opening montage.
All in all, it was a thoroughly ridiculous movie. I suppose that I should be grateful that it did not force me to re-evaluate my opinion of the series, nor concede that the movies were actually good. And it was awfully fun to watch, with a similarly scornful co-audience and plenty of sugar in the blood stream.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The Orange Marker
My eldest nephew, telling me what he had been for Purim, informed me that he had been an orange marker for the night (the boy is obsessed with orange) and a "good enemy" (a good soldier, apparently. When we told him that enemy means bad, he said that his teacher had said that good enemies were just very rare. I wonder what that's about). Immediate image...A superhero!
Mild-mannered Good Enemy by day...The Orange Marker by night! He swoops through the air, blotting out evilness with his bold orange strokes! His orange cap signifying a force of freedom and goodness. Faster than spilling ink! More powerful than a highlighter! Can draw on the thickest paper in a single stroke! And then he fades away into that paradoxical alter-ego, the enemy of so many, but good at its heart.
Sorry...I think that the sickness has done something to my head...which isn't really an excuse for the rest of the time, but I suppose all the more reason to take advantage while I may.
Mild-mannered Good Enemy by day...The Orange Marker by night! He swoops through the air, blotting out evilness with his bold orange strokes! His orange cap signifying a force of freedom and goodness. Faster than spilling ink! More powerful than a highlighter! Can draw on the thickest paper in a single stroke! And then he fades away into that paradoxical alter-ego, the enemy of so many, but good at its heart.
Sorry...I think that the sickness has done something to my head...which isn't really an excuse for the rest of the time, but I suppose all the more reason to take advantage while I may.
Grading Exams
Well, a brief summary of my vacation so far, for those of you who rely on this for details of my life and/or care thereabout. On Shabbat, I hung out with nephews and niece and read. On Motzei Shabbat, we cleaned the living room. On Sunday, I went to a puppet show with nephews and mother early in the afternoon(I may actually post about some aspects of that at some point...there's a point that niggles at me), and spent the rest of Sunday and Monday being extremely sick. It was exceptionally good timing, really. Somehow, my body had kept me going, ignoring those first hints of illness that in hindsight I realize began early into finals, carrying through that stress until it got me to a place where it knew that there was a mother. There are few things nicer than being sick at home. Actually, that's absolutely false. It is still nasty to be sick. But if one must be sick, then it is very good that it should be by a mother who will bring you tea and toast, and a father who will ask how you are feeling, and a brother who will let you steal his library books. Being sick alone is depressing and lonely and altogether icky and I am quite grateful to the old body for having had the sense to take me home before succumbing.
Which has, of course, absolutely nothing to do with grading exams. Shhh. Anyway, so today I went to enter exam grades for my sister, who is TAing for a couple of classes and willing to pay somebody to do the very, very dull work of typing the exam grades into the computer after she grades them.
I was firstly struck by the singular impressiveness of the human mind. Here was my brain, faced with the exceptional, superlative boredom of my task, and it nontheless managed to find things to be interested. And this is even after my nephews, who had been wrestling and jumping on one another in adorable fraternal manner, were chased out of the room. For a while, I entertained myself by rooting for various people as I went through their exams. Based usually on hand-writing, I would decide how well I wanted the person to do and then see if they did. Then I rooted for the females, just to have a change of pace. Then I simply felt bad for those who did awfully, especially a couple of people who seemed to have missed the questions written on the back of the papers and so lost themselves some 10%. And then, the last stage, I stopped caring about the students at all, except to be glad when they got no points at all because then I would have less to add.
At this point, I turned my musings to the general grading process. Here, of a sudden, I became privy to the deliberations that go into grading final exams. My sister says that she was given nearly no guidance, and while not arbitrary, there was necessarily quite a bit of subjectivity. What about my exams, I wondered? The ones that I slaved over, stressed for, worried about, am going to let determine so much of my mood and future? Are they being graded by a stressed grad student somewhere as she tries to keep her children from spilling orange juice on her laptop? Are questions being clarified by a wave of her magic red pen and two points off? Flipping through the exams, I got a sobering awareness that these were people I held. This person here, who got a 40 out of 200- is that because he was goofing off? Is this going to make him reconsider graduate school? Ruin his chances of getting a job? Destroy his GPA?
I am glad that I was simply entering the grades, because had I been the grader, I might have let these considerations affect my grading and that would not have been right. But as it was, I was simply doing busy, mindless work, that left my mind open to wander and ponder and type people's futures into neat little columns into my sister's laptop.
Which has, of course, absolutely nothing to do with grading exams. Shhh. Anyway, so today I went to enter exam grades for my sister, who is TAing for a couple of classes and willing to pay somebody to do the very, very dull work of typing the exam grades into the computer after she grades them.
I was firstly struck by the singular impressiveness of the human mind. Here was my brain, faced with the exceptional, superlative boredom of my task, and it nontheless managed to find things to be interested. And this is even after my nephews, who had been wrestling and jumping on one another in adorable fraternal manner, were chased out of the room. For a while, I entertained myself by rooting for various people as I went through their exams. Based usually on hand-writing, I would decide how well I wanted the person to do and then see if they did. Then I rooted for the females, just to have a change of pace. Then I simply felt bad for those who did awfully, especially a couple of people who seemed to have missed the questions written on the back of the papers and so lost themselves some 10%. And then, the last stage, I stopped caring about the students at all, except to be glad when they got no points at all because then I would have less to add.
At this point, I turned my musings to the general grading process. Here, of a sudden, I became privy to the deliberations that go into grading final exams. My sister says that she was given nearly no guidance, and while not arbitrary, there was necessarily quite a bit of subjectivity. What about my exams, I wondered? The ones that I slaved over, stressed for, worried about, am going to let determine so much of my mood and future? Are they being graded by a stressed grad student somewhere as she tries to keep her children from spilling orange juice on her laptop? Are questions being clarified by a wave of her magic red pen and two points off? Flipping through the exams, I got a sobering awareness that these were people I held. This person here, who got a 40 out of 200- is that because he was goofing off? Is this going to make him reconsider graduate school? Ruin his chances of getting a job? Destroy his GPA?
I am glad that I was simply entering the grades, because had I been the grader, I might have let these considerations affect my grading and that would not have been right. But as it was, I was simply doing busy, mindless work, that left my mind open to wander and ponder and type people's futures into neat little columns into my sister's laptop.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Fear
(Inspired by Irina, but I'm not doing the actual survey, because my opinions are a bit too weird to fit into the framework.)
I cannot recall ever having had a nightmare. Not even in the phase of my childhood (around 5) when I had watched And Then There Were None and was freaked out to walk under open windows. The closest thing that I can think of is waking up and thinking, rather reflectively, "Huh. I think that must have been one of those scary-dream things that everybody talks about. What d'ya know?" but I do not recall the dream. Oh, and last shabbat, I dreamt that the person who was supposed to be layning had accidentally learnt the wrong parsha. But even then, there was at most one moment of panic and then everybody was doing what was necessary to cope, taking out tikkunim and teaching themselves aliyot and nobody was yelling at me, so it's hardly nightmarish.
I don't really feel much fear either. Fear of danger or pain, that is. Not that I'm an optimist, but I just never really see the point. Bad stuff may, indeed, happen. So? If it happens, it happens, and if it doesn't, it doesn't. Nothing I do can really affect that one way or the other. Bad things like that are so...finite that they are easily manageable. Take, for example, shots. I hate them, but I can't say I fear them. I'm going to sit down, there is going to be pain, I am going to not enjoy it, and then it is going to be over. There's nothing to be afraid of, since it's just a fact. I guess I feel the same way about most fears, like terrorism or disease. If it happens, then there it is, and now we have to cope with it. It won't be pleasant, it will be awful, but moping about it now does very little good. Do what you can about it and don't worry about what you can't.
Which is not to say that I don't get nervous when I'm walking down a dark street alone at night. But I don't really harp on the fear, since it isn't going to do any good, except maybe teaching me that I oughtn't wander around alone at night. Or when I'm driving, sometimes I'm hit with an awareness of my own vulnerability- if I jerked this wheel suddenly sideways, I could die. And I just...accept the fear, say "yes, good point" and move on.
But I am not fearless. Above anything else, I fear failure, I fear looking stupid, I fear disappointing others. This is fear over which I know I have a direct control, and it's the sort of thing that won't just be over, whatever, but is going to affect other people, and the future, and my self-image, and all that sort of rot. I guess that's why my 'nightmares' involve layning crises- it's a question of my having failed in my responsibility, not having done what I promised to do. Or I get anxiety-ridden over bad grades, because I know that I could have done better, because I know that I have failed others and myself. And I fear some social interactions, when I know that I will feel stupid and awkward, because the pain there is not quantifiable and finite, not easily handled or easily forgotten.
But even these fears don't really control me. I am not really riddled by anxiety or fear of social interaction. I know that I have these fears, and... then they also just become a fact. I say to myself, "Yes, dear, you're scared. I know. I'm scared too. So what? C'mon, we have stuff to do now. Oh, you're scared you're going to look stupid, are you? Sorry to hear that. Now move." Or else "You know what? Yes, that does sound like it's going to be unpleasant. You may be right, that it is simply not worth it, from a cost-benefit point of view. So let's not." I think that, in a way, the worst thing about fear is the fear of fear, because people think that once you're afraid it's some huge calamity or actually matters or something. Fear does not decide us, because it's just something there, just sitting there. We can take it into consideration, but there's no real reason to pretend that it doesn't exist, or to worry if it does. So I guess my phrase would be "We have a whole bunch of things to fear, including fear, but frankly, this should not unduly affect our actions." Not quite so catchy, but pragmatic.
I cannot recall ever having had a nightmare. Not even in the phase of my childhood (around 5) when I had watched And Then There Were None and was freaked out to walk under open windows. The closest thing that I can think of is waking up and thinking, rather reflectively, "Huh. I think that must have been one of those scary-dream things that everybody talks about. What d'ya know?" but I do not recall the dream. Oh, and last shabbat, I dreamt that the person who was supposed to be layning had accidentally learnt the wrong parsha. But even then, there was at most one moment of panic and then everybody was doing what was necessary to cope, taking out tikkunim and teaching themselves aliyot and nobody was yelling at me, so it's hardly nightmarish.
I don't really feel much fear either. Fear of danger or pain, that is. Not that I'm an optimist, but I just never really see the point. Bad stuff may, indeed, happen. So? If it happens, it happens, and if it doesn't, it doesn't. Nothing I do can really affect that one way or the other. Bad things like that are so...finite that they are easily manageable. Take, for example, shots. I hate them, but I can't say I fear them. I'm going to sit down, there is going to be pain, I am going to not enjoy it, and then it is going to be over. There's nothing to be afraid of, since it's just a fact. I guess I feel the same way about most fears, like terrorism or disease. If it happens, then there it is, and now we have to cope with it. It won't be pleasant, it will be awful, but moping about it now does very little good. Do what you can about it and don't worry about what you can't.
Which is not to say that I don't get nervous when I'm walking down a dark street alone at night. But I don't really harp on the fear, since it isn't going to do any good, except maybe teaching me that I oughtn't wander around alone at night. Or when I'm driving, sometimes I'm hit with an awareness of my own vulnerability- if I jerked this wheel suddenly sideways, I could die. And I just...accept the fear, say "yes, good point" and move on.
But I am not fearless. Above anything else, I fear failure, I fear looking stupid, I fear disappointing others. This is fear over which I know I have a direct control, and it's the sort of thing that won't just be over, whatever, but is going to affect other people, and the future, and my self-image, and all that sort of rot. I guess that's why my 'nightmares' involve layning crises- it's a question of my having failed in my responsibility, not having done what I promised to do. Or I get anxiety-ridden over bad grades, because I know that I could have done better, because I know that I have failed others and myself. And I fear some social interactions, when I know that I will feel stupid and awkward, because the pain there is not quantifiable and finite, not easily handled or easily forgotten.
But even these fears don't really control me. I am not really riddled by anxiety or fear of social interaction. I know that I have these fears, and... then they also just become a fact. I say to myself, "Yes, dear, you're scared. I know. I'm scared too. So what? C'mon, we have stuff to do now. Oh, you're scared you're going to look stupid, are you? Sorry to hear that. Now move." Or else "You know what? Yes, that does sound like it's going to be unpleasant. You may be right, that it is simply not worth it, from a cost-benefit point of view. So let's not." I think that, in a way, the worst thing about fear is the fear of fear, because people think that once you're afraid it's some huge calamity or actually matters or something. Fear does not decide us, because it's just something there, just sitting there. We can take it into consideration, but there's no real reason to pretend that it doesn't exist, or to worry if it does. So I guess my phrase would be "We have a whole bunch of things to fear, including fear, but frankly, this should not unduly affect our actions." Not quite so catchy, but pragmatic.
Memed
Hey blogworld, long time no see, but between finals and Purim, I had neither time nor energy to spare. Nothing personal.
So anyway, I have been memed (how the heck is that conjugated?) by the ever-sharing E-Kvetcher about my thoughts during megillah reading. Fun topic, I suppose, and I think that I am once again going to be crushingly honest.
1)Watching the joy of the Haman-sneaking game, in which the reader tries to say Haman too quickly for the crowd to catch on and boo, usually resulting in one heart-stopping second when you think that you missed a word when the crowd catches up half a pasuk later, but the reader always goes back anyway. I think our reader succeeded exactly three times, which was a bit of a disappointment, since the Haman thing sort of annoys me. I mean, why does the man gets a standing ovation every time he's mentioned? It's such a random and silly-feeling minhag.
2) Wondering who the heck I'm going to find to layn megilla for the morning reading. For reasons best understood to G-d, I am the official layning co-ordinator for our Hillel, which means that I spend much time a week calling people and nagging them to please layn. (If they didn't want to be called and bothered, they could actually respond to the weekly e-mails, but I guess they enjoy the human contact of: "Hi, this is Tobie." "Hi, Tobie" "Calling about layning" "Right...what parsha is this?" every Thursday) In the end, I did get a layner for the morning, but it was probably cutting it close to have confirmed the night before.
3)Trying not to touch my hair, which is spray-painted blue (temporary dye) and feels like steel wool.
4) And yes, there were actual megilla-related thoughts too. In fact, those others were mostly during the long and annoying noise makings. Let's see...I remember thinking how darn funny the whole story was. You miss that sometimes, that it is an actual comedic story, with crazy bits like Achashverosh issuing a decree that men should rule their households, or his playing around with Haman with the whole "What should a king do for someone he likes?" thing. The megilla, I decided, really ought to make you laugh, or else you're not paying enough attention.
5) The weirdness of so much of the story. No matter how many times I learn this, there are always narrative things that just don't make sense, or that I never have noticed before. This year, the thing that popped out was the fact that the whole mess really was Mordechai's fault. I mean, looking at the story, you always read Mordechai as the hero, and I'm sure that morally he was, but in the literal sense, he was simply undoing the harm that he had done for being so silly.
6) One question that I had always had which was finally answered last year, so I was paying attention to see how well it fit into the narrative, really. I had asked one of my seminary teachers, "What is it with the whole "Mi Hu Zeh" thing? I mean, okay, he didn't know she was Jewish, but how many nations did he condemn to extinction in an average week? I mean, he couldn't make the connection there?" The answer I got was that he hadn't been aware that extermination was involved. According to this teacher, "L'Abdam" can mean to cause them pain or expel them or something like that, and it wasn't until Haman had lurked off on him own that he snuck in the parts about killing everyone. So that the whole genocide thing came as a total shock to Achashverosh. Interesting idea, and it works, I suppose, if you buy the "L'Abdam" thing. Which I don't entirely, but I still like the answer.
7)And the last thing that I was thinking is A) being neurotic about hearing every word, which is hard because not only are there babies crying, but the women in front of me are actually talking to each other! During megilla! Right in front of me! And about three feet from the layner, since it's a pretty small shul! Grrrr... and B) How funny it is that I am so very neurotic...it's interesting the way that halacha turns out. Here is this d'rabbanan mitzva (well, basically d'rabbanan..I think it's actually some more complicated category) that gives me so very much anxiety, while I get a lot less worried about a lot of others, simply because it's a difficult and exact one. Vague mitzvot are so much easier to ignore, but the second you give me some "Must hear EVERY word", I go absolutely anxiety-ridden crazy. Halacha is a funny thing.
Okay, an eclectic list, I know, and not nearly as elevated or intellectual as a lot of other people's, but then again, neither am I. I should tag someone now, right? I think...well...the only real reader left is Mike, so I reckon it'll be him. Enjoy!
So anyway, I have been memed (how the heck is that conjugated?) by the ever-sharing E-Kvetcher about my thoughts during megillah reading. Fun topic, I suppose, and I think that I am once again going to be crushingly honest.
1)Watching the joy of the Haman-sneaking game, in which the reader tries to say Haman too quickly for the crowd to catch on and boo, usually resulting in one heart-stopping second when you think that you missed a word when the crowd catches up half a pasuk later, but the reader always goes back anyway. I think our reader succeeded exactly three times, which was a bit of a disappointment, since the Haman thing sort of annoys me. I mean, why does the man gets a standing ovation every time he's mentioned? It's such a random and silly-feeling minhag.
2) Wondering who the heck I'm going to find to layn megilla for the morning reading. For reasons best understood to G-d, I am the official layning co-ordinator for our Hillel, which means that I spend much time a week calling people and nagging them to please layn. (If they didn't want to be called and bothered, they could actually respond to the weekly e-mails, but I guess they enjoy the human contact of: "Hi, this is Tobie." "Hi, Tobie" "Calling about layning" "Right...what parsha is this?" every Thursday) In the end, I did get a layner for the morning, but it was probably cutting it close to have confirmed the night before.
3)Trying not to touch my hair, which is spray-painted blue (temporary dye) and feels like steel wool.
4) And yes, there were actual megilla-related thoughts too. In fact, those others were mostly during the long and annoying noise makings. Let's see...I remember thinking how darn funny the whole story was. You miss that sometimes, that it is an actual comedic story, with crazy bits like Achashverosh issuing a decree that men should rule their households, or his playing around with Haman with the whole "What should a king do for someone he likes?" thing. The megilla, I decided, really ought to make you laugh, or else you're not paying enough attention.
5) The weirdness of so much of the story. No matter how many times I learn this, there are always narrative things that just don't make sense, or that I never have noticed before. This year, the thing that popped out was the fact that the whole mess really was Mordechai's fault. I mean, looking at the story, you always read Mordechai as the hero, and I'm sure that morally he was, but in the literal sense, he was simply undoing the harm that he had done for being so silly.
6) One question that I had always had which was finally answered last year, so I was paying attention to see how well it fit into the narrative, really. I had asked one of my seminary teachers, "What is it with the whole "Mi Hu Zeh" thing? I mean, okay, he didn't know she was Jewish, but how many nations did he condemn to extinction in an average week? I mean, he couldn't make the connection there?" The answer I got was that he hadn't been aware that extermination was involved. According to this teacher, "L'Abdam" can mean to cause them pain or expel them or something like that, and it wasn't until Haman had lurked off on him own that he snuck in the parts about killing everyone. So that the whole genocide thing came as a total shock to Achashverosh. Interesting idea, and it works, I suppose, if you buy the "L'Abdam" thing. Which I don't entirely, but I still like the answer.
7)And the last thing that I was thinking is A) being neurotic about hearing every word, which is hard because not only are there babies crying, but the women in front of me are actually talking to each other! During megilla! Right in front of me! And about three feet from the layner, since it's a pretty small shul! Grrrr... and B) How funny it is that I am so very neurotic...it's interesting the way that halacha turns out. Here is this d'rabbanan mitzva (well, basically d'rabbanan..I think it's actually some more complicated category) that gives me so very much anxiety, while I get a lot less worried about a lot of others, simply because it's a difficult and exact one. Vague mitzvot are so much easier to ignore, but the second you give me some "Must hear EVERY word", I go absolutely anxiety-ridden crazy. Halacha is a funny thing.
Okay, an eclectic list, I know, and not nearly as elevated or intellectual as a lot of other people's, but then again, neither am I. I should tag someone now, right? I think...well...the only real reader left is Mike, so I reckon it'll be him. Enjoy!
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